A Visit to Walt Whitman

AVisittoWaltWhitmanByEdmundGooseIntheearlyandmiddleyearsofhislife,Whitmanwasobscureandrarelyvisited.Whenhegrewold,pilgrimsnotunfrequentlytookscripandstaff,andsetouttoworshiphim.Severalaccountsofhisappearanceandmodeofaddressontheseoccasionshavebeenpublished,andifIaddonemoreitmustbemyexcusethatthevisittobedescribedwasnotundertakeninthecustomaryspirit.Allotheraccounts,sofarasIknow,ofinterviewswithWhitmanhavebeenwrittenbydiscipleswhoapproachedtheshrineadoringandreadytobedazzled.Thevisitorwhoseexperience–anditwasaverydelightfulone–isnowtobechronicled,startedunderwhatwas,perhaps,thedisadvantageofbeingveryunwillingtogo;atleast,itwillbeadmittedthatthetribute–fortributeithastobe–isallthemoresincere.WhenIwasinBoston,inthewinterof1884,IreceivedanotefromWhitmanaskingmenottoleaveAmericawithoutcomingtoseehim.Myfirstinstinctwaspromptlytodeclinetheinvitation.Camden,NewJersey,wasaverylongwayoff.Butbettercounselsprevailed,curiosityandcivilitycombinedtodrawme,andIwrotetohimthatIwouldcome.Itwouldbefatuoustomentionallthis,ifitwerenotthatIparticularlywishtobringoutthepeculiarmagicoftheoldman,actingnotonadisciple,butonastiff-neckedandforwardunbeliever.ToreachCamden,onemustarriveatPhiladelphia,whereIputuponthe2ndofJanuary,1885,readytopassoverintoNewJerseynextmorning.Itookthehall-porterofthehotelintomyconfidence,andaskedifhehadeverheardofMr.Whitman.Oh,yes,theyallknew“Walt,”hesaid;onfinedaysheusedtocrossoverontheferryandtakethetramintoPhiladelphia.HelikedtostrollaboutinChestnutStreetandlookatthepeople,andifyousmiledathimhewouldsmilebackagain;everybodyknew“Walt”.IntheNorth,Ihadbeentoldthathewasalmostbedridden,inconsequenceoaanattackofparalysis.ThisseemedinconsistentwithwanderingroundPhiladephia.Thedistancebeingconsiderable,Istartedearlyonthe3rd,crossedthebroadDelawareRiver,whereblocksoficebumpedandcrackledaroundus,andsawtheflatshoresofNewJerseyexpandinginfront,rakedbythebroadmorninglight.Iwasputashoreinacrudeandapparentlyuninhabitedvillage,grimwiththatconcentrateduglinessthatonlyanAmericantownshipinthedepthofwintercandisplay.Nobodytoasktheway,ornexttonobody.Iwanderedaimlesslyabout,andwasjustreadytogiveallIpossessedtobebackagaininNewYork,whenIdiscoveredthatIwasoppositeNo.328MickleStreet,andthatonaminutebrassplatewasengraved“W.Whitman”.Iknockedatthisdrearylittletwo-storeytenementhouse,andwonderedwhatwasgoingtohappen.Amelancholywomanopenedthedoor;itwastoolatenowtogoaway.ButbeforeIcouldspeak,alargefigure,hobblingdownthestairs,calledoutinacheeryvoice,“Isthatmyfriend?”Suddenly,byIknownotwhatmagneticcharm,allwire-drawnliteraryreservationsfadedoutofbeing,andOne’sonlysensationwasofgratifiedsatisfactionasbeingthe“friend”ofthisveryniceoldgentleman.Therewasagooddealofgreetingonthestairs,andthenthehost,movingactively,thoughclumsily,andwithastick,advancedtohisowndwelling-roomonthefirststorey.Theopeningimpressionwas,astheclosingonewouldbe,ofextremesimplicity.Alargeroom,withoutcarpetonthescrubbedplanks,asmallbedstead.Alittleroundstovewithastackpipeinthemiddleoftheroom,onechair–thatwasalthefurniture.Onthewallsandinthefireplacesuchamiserablewall-paper-tinted,withaspot–asoneseesinthebedroomsoflabourers’cottages;nopictureshungintheroom,butpegsandshelvesloadedwithobjects.Variousboxeslayabout,andonehugeclampedtrunk,andheaps,mountainsofpapersinawildconfusion,sweptuphereandthereintostacksandpeaks;butalltheroom,andtheoldmanhimself,cleaninthehighestdegree,raisedtothenthepowerofstainlessness,scouredandscrubbedtosuchapitchthatdirtseemeddefiedforallremainingtime.Whitman,inparticular,inhissuitofhoddengreyandshirtthrownwideopenatthethroat,hisgreyhairandwhiterbeardvoluminouslyflowing,seemedpositivelyblanchedwithcleanliness;thewholemansandwhitewithspotlessness,likeadealtablethathasgrownoldunderthescrubbing-brush.Whitmansatdownintheonechairwithasmallpokerinhishandandspentmuchofhisleisureinfeedingandirritatingthestove.Iclearedsomepapersawayfromoffaboxandsatoppositetohim.Whenhewasnotactivelyengageduponthestovehissteadyattentionwasfixeduponhisvisitors,andIhadaperfectopportunityofformingamentalpictureofhim.Hesatwithaverycuriousposeoftheheadthrownbackward,asifrestingitonevertebralowerdownthespinalcolumnthanotherpeopledo,andthustiltinghisfacealittleupwards.Withhisheadsopoisedandthewholemanfixedincontemplationoftheinterlocutorheseemedtopassintoastateofabsolutepassivity,waitingforremarksorincidents,theglassyeyeshalfclosed,thelargeknottedhandsspreadoutbeforehim.Sohewouldremain,immovableforaquarterofanhouratatime;eventheactionofspeechbetrayingnomovement,thelipshiddenunderacascadeofbeard.Ifitbetruethatallremarkablehumanbeingsresembleanimals,thenWaltWhitmanwaslikeacat–agreatoldgreyAngoraTom,alertinrepose,serenelyblinkingunderhiscombedwavesofhair,witheyesinscrutablydreaming.Histalkwaselemental,likehiswritings.Ithadnoneoftheusualornamentsorirritantsofconversation.Itwelledoutnaturally,orstopped;itwasinnocentofeveryspeciesofrhetoricorepigram.Itwastheperfectlysimpleutteranceofunaffectedurbanity.So,Iimagine,anOrientalsagewouldtalk,inalowuniformtone,withoutanyexcitementorhaste,withoute