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"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.

In speaking of this time she said: "When the poor old man was not in sight, he was so much upon my mind I could not pass one peaceful hour." Suffice it to say, Walt Whitman had become the next object of her solicitude.

He has been called a prophet. Was it prophetical when, some years before, he wrote: "Though poor now even to penury, I have not been deprived of any physical thing I need or wish for whatever, and I feel confident I shall not in the future"?

Some have considered him a cunning man; all agree that he was a remarkable judge of character. Understanding this woman as he did—as he must have done—had he resolved to have her devote herself to him? This question can never be truthfully answered, but whether with premeditation or not, he certainly had gained a great influence over her.

Although comparatively comfortable in his new home now, he did not discontinue his accustomed morning visits, and as he persisted in his old delinquencies he completely upset the routine of Mrs. Davis's daily life and work.

Things ran on in this way until one morning late in February, while he was sipping his coffee, he told her he had a proposition to make. He said: "I have a house while you pay rent; you have furniture while my rooms are bare; I propose that you come and live with me, bringing your furniture for the use of both." A suggestion of this kind was so unlooked for that she refused to give it a moment's consideration. He said no more at the time, but a few days later again broached the subject. And this he continued to do daily until Mrs. Davis, who remained firm for awhile, at last began to waver.

The young orphan girl strongly opposed such a step, but Mr. Whitman's persistence prevailed, for Mrs. Davis at last gave a reluctant consent. The advantage was all on the poet's side, as he must have seen, but recent events had raised his hopes and he made promises of adequate and more than adequate returns for all that had been done or might be done for him.

As his money was "only in sight," to use his own words, the expenses of moving were paid by Mrs. Davis; as he was disabled, the work and worry were hers as well; but finally all was accomplished, her goods were transferred to his house and put in their new places, and the seven years of their domestic life together commenced. In this way did the "good gray poet" retire with his "single attendant" to the little frame cottage, No. 328 Mickle Street, Camden, New Jersey.