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Cornell University Library
PS 3231.A56 Walt Whitman at
home
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3 1924 022 222 479
TABLE OF CONTENTS Photograph of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman
in
Camden
A Visit to Whitman's
Frontispiece -
" Shanty"
Page
7
"
11
"
15
"
21
Facsimile of First Page of Manuscript
...
Facsimile of Manuscript of " Spirit
that Form'd this Scene"
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Pamphlet No. 2
York:
The Critic Co.
<A <A (£ <A
***********************
Copyright 1885 BY J.
L.
&
J.
B.
Gilder.
Copyright 1898 BY
The Critic
Co.
Cornell University Library
The
original of this
book
is in
the Cornell University Library.
There are no known copyright
restrictions in
the United States on the use of the
text.
http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022222479
Walt Whitman (From The It
is
not a
Camden
in
Critic,
28 February 1885.)
little
difficult
to write
about Walt Whitman's home,
article
for
an it
was humorously said by himself, not long ago, that he had
home only
his
all
life
possessed a
in the sense that a ship pos-
Hardly, indeed,
sesses one.
the year
till
1884 could he be called the occupant of
such a definite place, even the kind of one I
shall
his
presently describe.
own
half-jocular
To
illustrate
remark as just given,
jot down a few facts about the poet Camden during the last sixteen years,
and to in
and about purpose in
his present this article.
steer clear of
home, I
is
my
only
have decided to
any criticism of "Leaves of
Grass," and confine myself to his condition
and a I
brief outline of his personal history.
should also like to dwell a
moment on
what may be called the peculiar schooling he has chosen, to fulfill sion as poet, according to his
own
outfit or
his misideal.
In the observation of the drama of hu-
man
stage "
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
tages as
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
" all the world's a Walt Whitman has had rare advanauditor, from the beginning. Sev-
nature
if,
indeed,
eral of his earlier years,
embracing the age
of
twenty-one, were spent in
to
fifteen
teaching country schools in Queens and Suffolk counties,
New
York, following the
quaint old fashion of "boarding round," that
moving from house to house and among high and low, living
is,
farm to farm, a few
days alternately at each, until the
was up, and then commencing His occupation, for a long
quarter
over again.
period, as printer, with frequent traveling, is
to be remembered; also
Quite a good deal of his
as life
carpenter.
has been
The
passed in boarding-houses and hotels. three years in the Secession
He
play a marked part.
long sea-voyages,
War of
never
course
made any
but for years
at
one
period (1846—60) went out in their boats,
sometimes
week
for a
at a time, with the
New York Bay pilots, among whom a great favorite.
was in
New
journs in
Orleans, with occasional so-
the
other
Gulf States besides
From 1865
Louisiana.
he was
In 1848-9 his location
to '73 he lived in
Washington. Born in 1819, his life through childhood and as a young and middle-aged man that is, up to 1862 was mainly
—
—
spent,
with
a
few intervals
and Southern jaunts, on
of Western
his native
Long
At that
date,
aged forty-two, he went down to the
field
Island, mostly in Brooklyn.
of war in Virginia, and for the three sub-
sequent years he was actively engaged as volunteer
attendant
and
nurse
on
the
battlefields, to the
Southern soldiers equally
with the Northern, and
among the wounded
He was prostrated by hospital malaria and "inflammation of in the
army
hospitals.
the veins" in
worked "on
1864, but
his
able strength, health,
the
move night and
official
recovered.
own hook," had and
He
indomit-
activity,
day, not only
was on till
the
close of the Secession struggle, but
time afterward, for there was a vast
for a long
legacy of suffering soldiers contest was
over.
under
appointed
He
left
when
the
was permanently
President
Lincoln,
in
1865, to a respectable office in the Attor-
ney-General's department. his
(This followed
removal from a temporary clerkship in
the Indian Bureau of the Interior Depart-
ment.
Secretary
from that post author of
*'
Harlan dismissed him
specifically for
Leaves of Grass.")
being the
He worked
some time in the Attorney-General's and was promoted, but the seeds of the hospital malaria seem never to have been fully eradicated. He was at last struck down, quite suddenly, by a severe paralytic shock (left hemiplegia), from which after some weeks he was slowly recovering, when he lost by death his mother and a sister. Soon followed two additional shocks of paralysis, though slighter than Summer had now commenced the first. at Washington, and his doctor imperatively ordered the sick man an entire change of on
for
office,
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;the
mountains or the sea-shore. left Washington, des-
scene
Whitman
accordingly
tined for the coast, ill
New
Jersey or
Long
Island
but at Philadelphia found himself too
to proceed any further.
He was
brought
over to Camden, and has been living there *
ever since. I
*
*
must forbear expanding on the
poet's
career these fifteen years, only noting that
during them (1880) occurs the
com-
final
pletion of "Leaves of Grass," the object
of his
His present domicile
life.
a
is
little
old-fashioned frame house, situated about
gun-shot from the Delaware River, on a clean,
quiet,
" shanty," the poet
democratic
five
it,
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
thirds being paid in cash. pies the second
likening his
This
street.
was purchased by years ago for $2000 two-
as he calls
floor.
home
In
it
he occu-
commenced by
I
to that of a ship, and
the comparison might go farther.
Though
Walt Whitman's room, at 328 Mickle Street, Camden, has all the rudeness, simplicity, and free-and-easy character of the quarters of some old sailor. In the goodsized, three- windowed apartment, 20 by 20 larger
feet
a
or
than
over,
bare board
any
vessel's
cabin,
wood
there
are
floor
of narrow planks, a
a
stove,
bed, divers big and little good gas lamp, two big tables, a few old uncushioned seats, and lots of Hung or pegs and hooks and shelves.
comfortable boxes, a
— tacked on the walls are pictures, those of his father,
mother and
sisters
holding the
places of honor, a portrait of a sweetheart
of long ago, a large print of Osceola the
Seminole chief (given to Whitman many years since
by Catlin the
some
artist),
rare
old engravings by Strange, and "Banditti
Regaling,"
Heaps of
by Mortimer.
books, manuscripts, memoranda, ings, proof-sheets,
scissor-
pamphlets, newspapers,
old and
new magazines, mysterious-looking
literary
bundles tied up with stout
lie
about the
floor here
and
strings,
there.
Off
against a back wall looms a mighty trunk
having double locks and bands of iron such a receptacle as comes over sea with emigrants, and you in New York may have seen hoisted by powerful tackle from the hold of some Hamburg
the foreign
ship. ,
of
On
the main
them
table
evidently
more books, some
old-timers,
—a
a
Bible,
nook devoted to translations of Homer and ^Eschylus and the other Greek poets and tragedians, with Felton's and Symonds's books on Greece, a collection of the works of Fauriel and a well-thumbed Ellis on mediaeval poetry, volume, (his companion, off and on, for fifty years) of Walter Scott's "Border Minseveral Shakespeares,
—
strelsy,''
—
—Tennyson, Ossian, Burns,
Khayyam,
all
miscellaneously
Whitman's stalwart form
Omar
together.
itself luxuriates in
a curious, great cane-seat chair, with posts
and rungs like ship's spars; altogether the most imposing, heavy-timbered, broadarmed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind possible. It was the Christmas gift of the young son and daughter of Thomas Donaldson, of Philadelphia, and was specially
made
(If
down
for the poet.
slightly
I
*
infringe
*
*
the
rule
laid
no hope the reader will excuse it.) Both Walt Whitman's book and personal character need to be studied the beginning,
at
criticism,
literary
to
attempt
I
a long time and in the mass, and are not
gauged by custom. I never knew a for all he takes an absorbing interest in politics, literature, and what is called the world " seems to be so poised on himself alone. Dr. Drinkard, the Washto be
man who
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
'
'
ington physician paralysis,
into
who
attended him in his
wrote to the Philadelphia doctor
whose hands the case passed, saying other things: " In his bodily organ-
among ism, its,
and in
his constitution, tastes
Whitman
ever met. "
is
and hab-
the most natural man I have
The primary foundation of the
same time, is cerHelen Price, who knew him for fifteen years, pronounces him (in Dr. Bucke's book) the most essentially religious person she ever knew. On this foundation has been built up, layer by poet's character, at the tainly spiritual.
layer, the rich,
diversified,
concrete expe-
of his
rience
Then
his
life,
aim and
from
its
His strong indi-
technical literary ones. viduality,
earliest years.
have not been the
ideal
with
audacity,
willfulness,
his
scorn of convention and rote, have unquestionably carried
him
far
outside the regu-
metes and bounds.
lar
No wonder
some who refuse to "Leaves "as "literature."
there
consider
are
It
his
perhaps
is
only because he was brought up a printer,
and worked during
his early years as
news-
paper and magazine writer, that he has put his expression
in typographical form,
made
book of it, with lines,
a regular
and
leaves
and binding.
Of late
years the poet,
six years old
who
will
be sixty-
on the last day of May ensuing,
has been in a state of half-paralysis.
He
gets out of doors regularly in fair weather,
much enjoys
the Delaware River,
frequenter of the Ferry,
Camden and
is
a great
Philadelphia
and may occasionally be seen saunMarket Street in
tering along Chestnut or
the latter
city.
He
has a curious sort of
public sociability, talking with black and white, high and low, male and female, old and young, of all grades. He gives a word or two of friendly recognition, or a nod or smile, to each. Yet he is by no means a marked talker or logician anywhere. I know an old book-stand man who always But in one speaks of him as Socrates.
respect
the likeness 13
is
entirely deficient.
Whitman
never argues, disputes, or holds
or invites
a cross-questioning bout with
any human being.
Through
his paralysis, poverty, the
em-
bezzlement of book-agents (1874-1876), the incredible slanders and misconstructions that have followed
him through
life,
and the quite complete failure of his book from a worldly and financial point of view, his splendid fund of personal equanimity and good spirits has remained inexhaustiand is to-day, amid bodily helplessness and a most meagre income, more vigorous and radiant than ever.
ble,
14
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A
Whitman's
Visit to
"Shanty." (
I
The
Critic,
28
November
1891.)
lived within thirty miles of Walt Whit-
man
all summer, but it was not until the week before I returned to town that I de-
termined to make a
Camden
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;two
pilgrimage.
There were four pilgrims
little
a young lady and myself.
The day was
girls,
a
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
and clear just the day for a visit to a poet. There is that about Camden which dissipates any poetic preconceptions one may have in visiting that Jersey town. One would as soon exbeautiful one, cold, crisp
pect to find a bard in
Even the
Long
poet's house has
Island City.
no outward ap-
pearance of sheltering any but an ordinary tenant beneath
its roof.
A
two-story-and-
a-half frame building, painted a dark brown,
with the upper shutters closed and the
edges of the loose-fitting lower windowsashes stuffed with newspapers to keep out
the
wind beating down from the north
greets
the searcher after No. 328 Mickle
Street.
At the curbstone
white marble with the cut into
it,
is
a block
initials
of
"W. W."
and the door-plate imparts the
further information that
' '
W. Whitman "
can be found by pulling the bell-handle. 17
and a young man
in
I pulled
it,
sleeves,
with a short pipe in his mouth,
opened the door.
' '
Walt " was not down-
we would wait he would be told that we were stairs yet,
but
his shirt-
if
in the parlor there.
The room in which we found ourselves was comfortable enough, but suggestive of anything rather than poetry. things that relieved
The only
prosaic aspect were
its
and a music-stand with a few on it. After a while the young man returned and said that "He" was not able to come down-stairs, but that we might go up if we would. The first door at the end of the hall, front, a violin
sheets of music lying
was the one we were to pass through. We climbed a narrow stairway and knocked " Come in," said a feeble for admittance. but familiar voice. stood for a
I
opened the door, and
moment on
fore I could find
the threshold be-
my voice
to speak. Seated
in a big rocking-chair with a grey fur
rug
thrown over the back, wrapped in a gown
made of
a grey blanket, sat the
"good
had not seen him for three or four years, and he was very much changed. His body was thinner than I had ever seen it, but the fine head crowned with its white hair was unaltered.
grey poet."
I
What had startled, not to say shocked, me upon opening the door was the appear18
ance of the room as
ance of
its
much as The
the appear-
blinds were
occupant.
closed and there were no curtains at the
windows, and
it
was no easy matter to
pick one's way across the sea of old news-
The
papers that surrounded the poet. office ly
of the exchange reader on a
paper was never so
pers were the
littered.
dai-
These pa-
accumulation of years, to
judge by their dates; and so was the dust
upon them,
to judge
by
its
thickness.
A
opposite Mr. Whitman,
and this too was stacked, as high as it would hold, with newspapers. A little space had been left, just big enough to hold an inkstand but not big enough to use as a desk, table stood
for
when
for
me, he had to hold
hot ' '
the poet wrote his
wood
fire
air-tight "
it
name
on
in a
book
A
his knee.
burned in an old-fashioned stove,
guiltless
of blacking,
and on the opposite side of the room stood a big double-bed that had not yet been
made
up.
Any one with
the
bump
of
order even half developed would have been driven wild by the appearance of the place;
but the poet did not seem to mind
it
at
and what surprised me greatly was, that amid all this confusion he seemed to know just where to lay his hand upon anything he wanted. He would dive into the enormous pile of newspapers at any angle, and always fish out the book or the picture or the manuscript that he wanted. He all;
19
spoke quite feelingly of the comfort of his surroundings and of the good care that
was taken of him, but spoke very despondently of his health. His mind, he said, was generally very
clear,
then his head would
but every
feel
now and
"like an apple-
dumpling," and he would have to reading or writing and
stop
rest.
I had a small camera with me, which I had brought with intention," and I asked Mr. Whitman if I might take a picture of him. He was good enough to say that I might, so I opened one of the blinds and '
'
asked him to it
sit
quietly for a
would take some
picture, the
said
I,
and
I
little
room being
moment
so dark.
"sit just as you are
took off the cap.
as
time to get a
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;don't
"Now," move,"
What was my
horror when, right in the midst of the ex-
waved his hand maand turning towards the window " exclaimed, "The sun is coming out now Luckily, I had another plate, with which I got a fairly good picture one that will at posure, the old bard
jestically,
!
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
least serve as a
amid first
memorandum
of the poet
unique surroundings. * But the one was nothing but chaos with a his
ghostly shape in the foreground that bore little
resemblance to anything human. J.
â&#x20AC;˘See frontispiece.
L. G.
(From The
Critic.)
fryt*&^ *A <t&tt_
«/^&<»ofc-
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S-f^A.
6s*£a
<?<****<.
&&* £>*
eth>ueiy4 Jot. •%e<i^ <nkt#
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"
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