Visits to Walt Whitman in 1890–1891: In Camden

 med_sm.00638_large.jpg MICKLE STREET, CAMDEN, N.J. (1890). Photograph of Mickle Street in 1890, with Whitman's house marked by an "x."  med_sm.00064_large.jpg

NOTES OF VISIT TO WALT WHITMAN 
 AND HIS FRIENDS IN 1890

IN CAMDEN

ON Tuesday, July 15, 1890, I landed at Philadelphia—"the city of brotherly love"—and after getting through the troublesome Customs I called at the post-office, where I found a letter from Mr. Andrew H. Rome, of Brooklyn, inviting me to go and stay with him, and enclosing a letter of introduction to Walt Whitman.

Crossing the ferry by the ferry-boat Delaware, I arrived at Camden, putting up at the "West Jersey" Hotel, and about noon I walked down to Mickle Street, which I found to be a quiet and retired side street, grass-grown on the roadway and side walks and ornamented with two rows of large and graceful, leafy trees, which give it quite a pleasant, breezy, semi-rural appearance. The houses are, for the most part, timbered structures, painted different, low-toned colours, and of various heights and outlines.

Number 328—which, by the way, is duplicated next door—is an unpretentious, two-storied building, with four wooden steps to the front door, on which is a small brass plate engraved "W. Whitman." I rang the bell, and the vestibule door was opened by a fine young man, of whom I inquired if Walt Whitman was at home. On his answering "Yes," I gave him my card, and was shown into a room med_sm.00161_large.jpg on the left side of the lobby—a sort of parlour—with the blinds three-parts closed against the heat.

The young man informed me that "Mr. Whitman was pretty well, but had been rather sick." He "Would see if he would receive me." He returned almost immediately, and asked me to "go right upstairs, turn to the left and go straight in."

I did so, and before I got to the room I heard a voice from within, calling, "Come in, Doctor! Come right in!" and in another moment I was in, and saw Walt Whitman seated. Stretching forth his right hand as far as he could reach he grasped mine with a firm, affectionate grip, saying, "Glad to see you. I've been expecting you. Sit down."

I did so, and his next words were, "And how are you?" To which I replied, and he continued, "You find it very warm in these parts, don't you? Strangers often find it uncomfortably so; but I just resign myself to it and take things quite easy; and I get along pretty well during the hot spell. So you've been travelling about our States, have you?"

"No," I said, "I only landed in Philadelphia this morning."

"Ah, I am confounding you with another friend of mine."

He talked on in the most genial, natural and affable manner for a few minutes, until I said, "But I'm forgetting my letter of introduction, and my commission."

This gave me the opportunity of changing my seat from facing the light to a place by the window, where I could see him better. I then med_sm.00162_large.jpg handed him Mr. Rome's letter, and while he was reading it I took a look at him and his surroundings.

The first thing about him that struck me was the physical immensity and magnificent proportions of the man, and, next, the picturesque majesty of his presence as a whole.

He sat quite erect in a great cane-runged chair, cross-legged, with slippers on his feet, and clad in rough, grey clothes and a shirt of pure white linen with a great wide collar edged with white lace—the shirt buttoned about midway down his breast, the big lapels of the collar thrown open, the points touching his shoulders and exposing the upper portion of his hirsute chest. He wore a vest of grey homespun, but it was unbuttoned almost to the bottom. He had no coat on, and his shirt sleeves were turned up above the elbows, exposing most beautifully shaped arms and flesh of the most delicate whiteness.

Although it was very hot he was not visibly perspiring, while I had to keep mopping my face.

His hands are large and massive, but in perfect proportion to the arms; the fingers long, strong, and tapering to a blunt end. His nails are square, showing about an eighth of an inch separate from the flesh. But his majesty is concentrated in his head, which is set with leonine grace and dignity upon his broad, square shoulders; and it is almost entirely covered with long, fine, straggling hair, silvery and glistening, pure and white as sunlit snow, rather thin on the top of his high, rounded crown, streaming over and around his large but delicately shaped ears, down med_sm.00163_large.jpg the back of his big neck, and from his pinky-white cheeks and top lip over the lower part of his face, right down to the middle of his chest—like a cataract of materialized, white, glistening vapour, giving him a most venerable and patriarchal appearance. His high massive forehead is seamed with wrinkles. His nose is large, strong, broad and prominent, but beautifully chiseled and proportioned, almost straight, very slightly depressed at the tip, and with deep furrows on each side running down to the angles of the mouth. The eyebrows are thick and shaggy with strong white hair, very highly arched and standing a long way above the eyes, which are of a light blue with a tinge of grey, small, rather deeply set, calm, clear, penetrating, and revealing unfathomable depths of tenderness, kindness and sympathy. The upper eyelids droop considerably over the eyeballs, the left rather more than the right. The full lips are partly hidden by the thick, white moustache. The whole face impresses one with a sense of resoluteness, strength and intellectual power, and yet withal, it evinces a winning sweetness, unconquerable radiance, and hopeful joyousness. His voice is highly pitched and musical, with a timbre which is astonishing in an old man. There is none of the usual senile tremor, quaver, or shrillness, his utterance being clear, ringing, and most sweetly musical.

But it was not in any one of these features that his charm lay so much as in his tout ensemble and the irresistible magnetism of his sweet, aromatic presence which seemed to exhale sanity, purity and naturalness, and exercised over me an attraction med_sm.00164_large.jpg WALT WHITMAN'S ROOM (1890). Photograph of Whitman's bedroom, showing piles of books, papers, etc.  med_sm.00165_large.jpg which positively astonished me, producing an exaltation of mind and soul which no man's presence ever did before. I felt that I was here face to face with the living embodiment of all that was good, noble and lovable in humanity.

Before I refer to his talk with me, I may say a word about his surroundings, which were unique. All around him were books, manuscripts, letters, papers, magazines, parcels tied up with string, photographs and literary matériel, which were piled on the table a yard high, filled two or three waste-paper baskets, flowed over them on to the floor, beneath the table, on to and under the chairs, bed, washstand, etc., so that whenever he moved from his chair he had literally to wade through this sea of chaotic disorder and confusion. And yet it was no disorder to him, for he knew where to lay his hands upon whatever he wanted, in a few moments.

His apartment is roomy, almost square, with three windows—one blinded up—facing the north. The boarded floor is partly carpeted, and on the east side stands an iron stove with stove-pipe partly in the room. On the top of the stove is a little tin mug. Opposite the stove is a large wooden bedstead, over the head of which hang portraits of his father and mother. Near the bed, under the blinded-up window, is the washstand—a plain wooden one, with a white wash-jug and basin. There are two large tables in the room, one between the stove and one of the windows, and another between that and the washstand. Both of these are piled up with all sorts of papers, scissorings, magazines, proof-sheets, books, etc. Some med_sm.00166_large.jpg big boxes and a few chairs complete the furniture. On the walls and on the mantel-piece are pinned or tacked various pictures and photographs—Osceola, Dr. Bucke, Professor Rudolph Schmidt, etc.

He himself sits between the two unblinded windows, with his back to the stove, in the huge cane chair,¹ which was a Christmas present from the children of Mr. Donaldson, of Philadelphia.

Raising his head from Mr. Rome's letter, which he read with the air of a folding vulcanite-rimmed pince-nez, he said:—

"Oh, Doctor, you did not need an introduction to me; but I am very glad to hear from my old friend Andrew Rome. You know he was my first printer, with his other brothers, and I have a deep regard for them."

He talked so freely, and so unconstrainedly to me for over an hour, that I cannot possibly note down all that he said; and the following are mere scraps of his intensely interesting talk:—

"That must be a very nice little circle of friends you have at Bolton." I assented; and he went on: "I hope you will tell them how deeply sensible I am of their appreciation and regard for me; and I should like you to tell all my friends in England whom you come across how grateful I am, not only for their appreciation, but for their more substantial tokens of goodwill. I have sometimes thought of putting my acknowledgements in print in some form or other. I have already alluded to it, but I feel it deserves more. ¹—since described by himself in a letter to me as "the big, rattan, heavy-timbered, old yellow chair"—  med_sm.00167_large.jpg I have a great many friends in England, Scotland and Ireland, but most in England. I hope I acknowledged your and Mr. Wallace's communications—some of my correspondents are rather remiss, and I do not wish to be on the list of defaulters at all."

This gave me an opportunity of presenting him with the book and letter which my friend J. W. Wallace had kindly commissioned me to give him. The book was Symonds's "Introduction to the Study of Dante," and while reading the letter he exclaimed:—

"How wonderfully distinctly Mr. Wallace writes!"

"Ah, that is one of his characteristics, then. It is a pleasure to see such beautiful writing. Sometimes one has to wrestle with handwriting."

Reading on, he exclaimed, "Have you met Symonds?"

"No," I replied.

"He is a great friend of mine," he continued, "never seen, but often heard from; and he has given me a good many of his books, from time to time. He writes a good deal, and writes well; and he reads my books."

Reading the letter further on, he said, "What a wonderful eye Mr. Wallace has for the beauties of external nature—the light, the sky, the earth." (This was in reference to a sentence in the letter beginning, "I draft this in the open fields.") "That used to be a kink of mine. 'Leaves of Grass' was mainly gestated by the sea shore, on med_sm.00168_large.jpg the west coast of Long Island, where I was born and brought up. There is a great deal of sea there."

I here mentioned that I purposed visiting Long Island and Huntington. "You do!" he exclaimed, evidently pleased; "then you must go to West Hills. It is a very picturesque place, and is still occupied by the same family, named Jarvis, that succeeded my father and mother in the farm. It is rather a common name there, and I think it must be a corruption of some old English name."

"Do you know Gilchrist?" he then asked.

"No," I said, "but I have an introduction to him, from Captain Nowell, of the British Prince. I believe he is staying on Long Island."

"Yes," he answered, "quite close to Huntington. He is located there, and you must go and see him."

Here I handed him J. W. Wallace's beautiful letter to me the day before my departure. As he read it, he exclaimed, "The dear fellow!" At one part of it he was visibly affected—tears standing in his eyes—and for a few moments he did not attempt to speak.

Upon my saying that I intended going to Timber Creek, he said, "That is a place I am very fond of. You must, while there, go and see Mrs. Susan Stafford, at Glendale, three miles from Timber Creek. She is a great friend of mine. Tell her that you have seen me, and that I am still, as I say, holding the fort."

On my saying that I might call on John Burroughs, he took up his big pen and wrote out the med_sm.00169_large.jpg address on one of his envelopes, as well as that of Dr. Bucke, whom he suggested I should visit, if possible.

"Do you know Robert Ingersoll?" he asked me.

"Only by repute," I replied. "He was at your banquet, according to the report in the paper you sent me."

"Yes," he said, "and made a good speech of over and hour long. He lately sent me a copy of one of his books, most beautifully got up. Here it is," handing it to me, and showing me the inscription on the fly-leaf. "He is a wonderful man—one of those men who remind me of the ancient Peripatetics, who used to deliver long orations in a manner which few nowadays can. In Ingersoll there are none of the stock tricks of oratory, but it flows from him as freely as water, pure and clear from a hidden spring which eludes all the investigations of chemistry. It has spontaneity, naturalness, and yet behind it everything."

But he checked himself, saying, "I'm talking too much, and infringing on the doctor's orders; and I may have to pay for it by some little prostration."

This led him again to refer to his physical condition, which we had spoken of at the beginning of the interview.

"I am fairly well, for me, at present, though I have been sick lately. I live very simply. I had breakfast of bread and honey—there's some of the honey up there," pointing to a butter-cooler half-buried in the pile of papers on the table.

On my tasting it, he remarked, "It is in the comb, just as the good friend who lives where the med_sm.00170_large.jpg bees make it sends it to me. Isn't it delicious? You can almost taste the bees, can't you? Then I'm very fond of blackberries and fruits generally. I have two meals a day; breakfast at half-past nine, and dinner at four o'clock. I get out into the open air every day, if possible; my nurse [the young man I had seen downstairs] wheels me out in the cool of the evening, and I get along wonderfully well. My physical functions are fairly regular, and my mental faculties are unaffected, except that they are slower than they used to be. The brain has been somehow wounded—I don't know the exact physical condition—I doubt if even the doctors know—but my mentality is still as good as ever, with the exception of its being slower than formerly."

I here referred to his paralysis.

"Yes," he said, "my right arm is my best, but I have a good deal of power in my left."

He then held it out for me to feel, which I did, and I was surprised at the wonderful softness and pliancy of the skin, and the firmness and fulness of the muscles beneath.

As I thought I had stayed long enough I rose to go, when he said: "I wish I could give you something. Have I given you my picture? I suppose so."

I replied that he had not, and, glancing around, I saw a torn scrap photograph of himself among the pile of papers and held it towards him.

"Ah," he said, "that's torn, but if you care to have it you may. I'll write my name on it."

And taking up his huge pen, he wrote on it, "Walt Whitman, July 1890."

 med_sm.00171_large.jpg FRONT PARLOR ON GROUND FLOOR OF WHITMAN'S HOUSE (1890). Photograph of Whitman's bedroom, showing piles of books, papers, etc.  med_sm.00172_large.jpg

Before leaving him I happened to mention my copy of "Leaves of Grass," whereupon he expressed a desire to see it, and asked me to "come again to-morrow" and show it to him, which I gladly agreed to do.

I also mentioned that I had seen a copy of the first edition of "Leaves of Grass" (the thin, quarto copy which Mr. Cuthbertson, of Annan, has), and that we were anxious to possess it.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because," I replied, "we know that the type had been partly set up by your own hand, and the book showed the first inception of your ideas."

"As to the printing," he said, "that edition was on very little different footing from the others. I always superintended, and sometimes undertook part of the work myself, as I am a printer and can use the 'stick,' you know."

Shaking hands with him, I came downstairs and was invited by Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper, to sit down in the front room, which is less than the one upstairs and is evidently the visitors' reception-room. The most striking thing about it is the large collection of photographs and portraits that adorn it. Among these I noticed oil paintings of Whitman's father, his mother, and himself. The mantel-piece is covered with photographs, among which are those of Dr. Bucke, the late Mrs. Gilchrist, Mr. Herbert Gilchrist, and others. Curiously enough, I found a portrait of J. W. Wallace, and a copy of my photograph of Ecclefechan, as well as one of myself, which we sent to him three years ago. His med_sm.00173_large.jpg wheeled chair occupies one corner, and his big house-chair the other. Two statuettes of ex-president Cleveland and a huge head of Elias Hicks stand in separate corners.

In the room I found a little coloured girl, Annie Dent, "cleaning Mr. Whitman's wheeled chair," as she said. The young man who wheels him out and attends upon him, and whose name is Frederick Warren Fritzinger—"Warry," Whitman calls him—is a fine-looking young fellow with beautifully symmetrical features, coal black eyes and hair, and a quiet, unobtrusive, gentle manner. He is a genuine "sailor boy," as Whitman says. His father was a sea-captain, and he was spent a good deal of time at sea, having been round the world three times.

Mrs. Davis—Warry's foster-mother and the widow of a sailor who was drowned at sea—is an extremely pleasant and comely young "ma'am," almost typically American in face and speech, in striking contrast to Warry, who speaks without the least American accent. She has been with Whitman for six year, and Warry about three. They are both evidently very fond of him. During my stay they gave me a good deal of detailed information respecting his habits and mode of life, and were very kind to me in many ways. After chatting awhile I bade them good-day and left the house.

In the evening I had another long talk with Whitman—an unexpected treat. At 7 p.m. he was wheeled by Warry right past my hotel, according to his custom, down to the wharf, close to the river. I was waiting about with my camera in med_sm.00174_large.jpg WALT WHITMAN AND WARREN FRITZINGER ON CAMDEN WHARF (1890). Photograph of Whitman, sitting in a wheelchair, with Warren Fritzinger standing behind him.  med_sm.00175_large.jpg the hope of meeting him, when he accosted me, and invited me to accompany them down to the river's edge. As we approached the wharf he exclaimed: "How delicious the air is!"

On the wharf he allowed me to photograph himself and Warry (it was almost dusk and the light unfavourable), after which I sat down on a log of wood beside him, and he talked in the most free and friendly manner for a full hour, facing the golden sunset, in the cool evening breeze, with the summer lightning playing around us, and the ferry-boats crossing and re-crossing the Delaware.

Soon a small crowd of boys collected on the wharf edge to fish and talk, which elicited the remark from him that—

"That miserable wretch, the mayor of this town, has forbidden the boys to bathe in the river. He thinks there is something objectionable in their stripping off their clothes and jumping into the water!"

In reference to these same boys he afterwards remarked:—

"Have you noticed what fine boys the American boys are? Their distinguishing feature is their good-naturedness and good temper with each other. You never hear them quarrel, nor even get to high words. Given a chance, they would develop the heroic and manly; but they will be spoiled by civilization, religion and the damnable conventions. Their parents will want them to grow up genteel—everybody wants to be genteel in America—and thus their heroic qualities will be simply crushed out of them."

During the talk which followed, and referring med_sm.00176_large.jpg to his services during the War, he said that the memories of the American people were "very evanescent." "I daresay you find the same thing in England"—this without the slightest tinge of resentment or ill-feeling in his words; in fact, I never heard him express an angry feeling except when he referred to the mayor's action in reference to the boys, and to the influences which he knew would spoil them for men.

The great hope of the America of the future, he said, lies in the fact that fully four-fifths of her territory is agricultural, and must be so; and while in towns and cities there is a great deal of pretentious show, sham and scum, the whole country shows a splendid average, which is an absolute justification for his fondest hopes—and nothing could ever destroy. All his experiences of the War confirmed him in it, and it was yet destined to find its full fruition in the future.

He quoted the saying of the Northern Farmer of "Lord Tennyson" as he called him: "Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad"; which he took exception to, saying that the poor in a lump were not bad. "And not so poor either; for no man can become truly heroic who is really poor. He must have food, clothing and shelter, and," he added significantly, "a little money in the bank too, I think."

"America's present duty," he continued, "was to develop her material sources for a good many years to come, and to trust that the spirit of the men who fought as those soldiers did [in the War of Secession] would yet prove itself and justify our most sanguine hopes." He repeated, almost med_sm.00177_large.jpg verbatim, the "Interviewer's Item" in "Specimen Days," the gist of which is that it is the business of the Americans "to lay the foundations of a great nation in products, in agriculture, in commerce," etc., and "when these have their results and get settled, then a literature worthy of us will be defined." Unlike other lands, the "superiority and vitality" of the nation lie not in a class—a few, the gentry—but in the bulk of the people. "Our leading men," he says, "are not of much account, and never have been, but the average of the people is immense, beyond all history." In the future, he thinks, "we shall not have great individuals or great leaders, but a great average bulk, unprecedentedly great."

Speaking again of the War, he said that the surgeons, with whom he mixed a good deal, proved themselves heroic in their struggles to save the lives of the soldiers of both sides. "My sympathies," he said, "were aroused to their utmost pitch, and I found that mine were equaled by the doctors'. Oh, how they did work and wrestle with death! There is an impression that the medical profession in war time is a bit of a fraud, but my experience contradicts this; and nothing can ever diminish my admiration for our heroic doctors." I remarked that he had not put this in his book so emphatically, to which he said that he knew he had not, but felt that he ought to do, and if opportunity offered he intended doing so.

O'Connor and he, with a few others "who," he said, "must have been something like your little band in Bolton," were among the few in Washington who supported Lincoln in his policy. "We med_sm.00178_large.jpg are ready enough to shout hurrah for him now; but I tell you that up to his death he had some very bitter enemies."

"There were times, too, when the fate of the States trembled in the balance—when many of us feared that our Constitution was about to be smashed like a china plate. But it survived the conflict. We won, and it was wonderful how we did win."

Referring to Warren as his "sailor boy," he said that he had been of great service to him when he was at a loss about the names, etc., of parts of a ship. It had always been his custom, when writing or describing anything, to seek information directly from the men themselves; and he gave me two illustrations of this.

1. In one edition of "Leaves of Grass" he wrote, "Where the sea-whale swims with her calves," because he had often heard sailors say that the calves did swim with the mother; but on reading it to an old whaler he was told that it was a very exceptional thing for a whale to have more than one calf; so he altered it to—"Where the sea-whale swims with her calf." (See "Leaves of Grass," p. 56.)

2. He was under the impression that the Canadian raftsmen used a bugle, and he referred to it in one of his lines; but when he went to Canada he found his mistake and struck it out in the next edition.

Speaking of Walter Scott's edition of "Leaves of Grass," he said he did not like it. "It was like cutting a leg, or a shoulder, or the head off a man, and saying that was the man." He pre med_sm.00179_large.jpg WALT WHITMAN'S HOUSE (1890). Photograph of Whitman's house, taken from the street.  med_sm.00180_large.jpg ferred that people who wished to read him should have the whole critter, and those parts of his book to which so many took exception were the very ones that he regarded as most indispensable.

"Voltaire," he said, "thought that a man-of-war and the grand opera were the crowning triumphs of civilization; but if he were living now he would find others more striking—in the modern development of engineering, etc."

"A ship in full sail is the grandest sight in the world, and it has never yet been put into a poem. The man who does it will achieve a wonderful work." "I once cherished the desire," he continued, "of going to sea, so that I might learn all about a ship. At another I wished to go on the railway to learn the modern locomotive. The latter I did to some extent, but the former I did not."

I asked him where I could get a copy of Dr. Bucke's "Man's Moral Nature." He told me at Mackay's, Philadelphia; and on my asking whether I could get a copy of John Burrough's "Notes" there also, he said, "Oh, I will give you a copy of that, if you like. I think I have one I can spare."

After listening to his delightful talk—(oh, that I could reproduce his words, and, more than all, the sweetness of his voice, the loving sympathy, the touches of humour, the smile that played round the lips and in his merry twinkling eyes, the laughter that shook his stalwart frame, and the intense magnetism of his personal presence!)—we returned, I accompanying him right to his own door in Mickle Street. He talked the whole time, seemed med_sm.00181_large.jpg pleased with everything and everybody; and everyone—man, woman and child—seemed to like him. He saluted nearly every person he passed—the car drivers he accosted by name; to the young men, he said "How do, boys?"; to the women sitting on the door steps, with babies in their arms, he said, "How do, friends, how do? Hillo, baby!" The labourers loafing at the corners saluted him with: "Good evening, Mr. Whitman!" and some took off their hats to him, though most simply bowed respectfully.

As he went along he told me that he had "sent off a card to Wallace"; and continued, "When you see him tell him what a pleasure it is for me to see his beautiful caligraphy. I get so many letters that I can only read with a struggle, that I cannot help stopping to admire one which is well written. I am very fond of a well-printed book. Your William Black & Sons, of Edinburgh, produce some splendidly printed works. I think I was intended for an artist; I cannot help stopping to look at the 'how it's done' of any piece of work, be it a picture, speech, music, or what not."

"Ingersoll is a good illustration of what I mean. From my point of view the main question about his matter is 'What does it amount to?' But I cannot but admire his manner of giving it utterance—it is so thoroughly natural and spontaneous—just like a stream of pure water, issuing we know not whence, and flowing along we care not how, only conscious of the fact that it is beautiful all the time."

Soon we reached his house, where Warren med_sm.00182_large.jpg "scotched" his chair in the angle between the steps and the wall. He invited me to take a seat beside him, on the steps, which I did, and he talked off and on for half-an-hour longer, mostly about his health and physical condition. He allowed me to feel his pulse, which I was pleased to note was fairly full and strong, and quite regular—no intermission, as I half expected. Upon my expressing the hope that he would not feel any ill after-effects from to-day, he said—

"No, Doctor, I don't think so—though I have had a quite a number of visitors. A dear niece (my brother's daughter) came to see me, after a considerable interval, and I have had several others as well as yourself, Doctor. It has been quite a 'field day' with me. My doctor is very strict, but I am always fearful of being too good, you know, and I am often tempted to trespass." He then told me the following story:—

An old gentleman, named Gore, lived opposite to him (in Mickle Street), who was so strictly proper in all his ways that once, when ill, he asked the doctor so many questions about what he must eat, drink, and avoid, that the doctor told him the best thing for him would be to go on a "devil of a drunk"! "By which," said Whitman, "I guess he meant that he lived so strictly by rules that it would be best for him to break through and away from them all for once. And," he added, with a chuckle, "I sometimes feel that way myself!"

"I suppose after this I shall have what Oliver Wendell Holmes calls 'a large poultice of silence.' Holmes is a clever fellow, but he is med_sm.00183_large.jpg too smart, too cute, too epigrammatic, to be a true poet."

"Emerson came nigh being our greatest man; in fact, I think he is our greatest man."

Some people passing and saluting him, I said, "You seem to have lots of friends about you, Mr. Whitman."

"Yes," he replied, "and I have some very bitter enemies. The old Devil has not gone from the earth without leaving some of his emissaries behind him."

He then referred to the lines he wrote—at the request of an editor—upon the death of the old German Emperor, and said that his Democratic and Liberal friends were incensed at him for venturing to say a word in his favour.¹¹

"You know, I include Kings, Queens, Emperors, Nobles, Barons and the aristocracy generally, in my net—excluding nobody and nothing human—and this does not seem to be relished by these narrow-minded folks."

"I had a visit last year from a young English earl, who, in the course of conversation, said:—

"'I have an impression that you regard lords and nobles as akin to fools.'

¹ The following are the lines referred to—

THE DEAD EMPEROR

To-day, with bending head and eyes, thou, too, Columbia, Less for the mighty crown laid low in sorry—less for 
  the Emperor; Thy true condolence breathest, sendest out o'er man a 
  salt sea mile, Mourning a good old man—a faithful shepherd patriot.  med_sm.00184_large.jpg

"'Well,' I replied, 'there is an impression of that kind abroad.'

"'But,' said the earl, 'I venture to hope that you may be willing to admit that there may be exceptions—that they are not all alike!'

"Which I thought," said Whitman, "a remarkably good answer."

As it was not 9 p.m. (his bedtime), I bade him good-night and went to my hotel, pondering deeply on many things, and marveling at the wondrous magnetic attraction this man had for me—for I felt I could stay with him for ever.