"He (Mr. Wilkins) left Mr. Whitman in October, 1889, and was succeeded as nurse by Warren Fritzinger, a young man of twenty-five, and a son of Mary O. Davis, his housekeeper and friend. Mr. Fritzinger (Warry) remained with Mr. Whitman until his death, a faithful, earnest man."—Thomas Donaldson.

"I get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite, and keep a good oak fire."—Walt Whitman.

WHILE the question of getting another nurse was pending, Harry and Warren Fritzinger returned to Camden. It was a mutual surprise, for the brothers had lost trace of each other and came from different parts of the world. It was indeed a joyful reunion, and though seven years had elapsed since they had seen their foster-mother, their love had not abated and each brought her a substantial gift in money. Coming from California, Warren's gift was in gold—double eagles.

They remembered Walt Whitman as a man, but neither of them had read his poetry, and although their mother had mentioned the change at the time it was made, they knew nothing of the way in which she was living, and both were much alarmed at her altered appearance. Not at all satisfied, they urged her to resign her position; to move into a more fitting place, and let them take care of her.

But believing, as did others, that Mr. Whitman's life was drawing to a close, she pleaded that she could not reconcile her mind to deserting him in his helplessness. She enlightened them in regard to financial matters, saying that she thought it wiser to wait quietly where she was until things were adjusted. Again, the house practically contained her possessions only, and these she could not think of moving at a time like the present; the sick man could not abide the confusion. She furthermore said that the house had become homelike to her, that all of Mr. Whitman's friends were kind to her, especially his sister-in-law, who made weekly visits, always bringing something with her; that she had implicit confidence in Mrs. Whitman, and knew that should any controversy arise in the settling of affairs, this upright and capable woman would be on her side. Again, she had pledged her word to stay; it was expected of her; and yet the strongest argument came from her own kind heart—the old man needed her.

In her many talks with Warren she told him how she dreaded the coming of another strange nurse, even though his term of service was likely to be so short; and as she could not see how a few months, at most, could make any material difference to him, she did wish that he would make up his mind to apply for the position. Mr. Whitman's friends and literary executors at once caught at this, and all brought their influence to bear, pressing the place upon him and promising that, should he remain until Mr. Whitman's demise, they would stand by him and see him placed in some good way of earning a livelihood.

The situation had no inducements for him; it was in fact decidedly distasteful; but feeling assured that it couldn't really affect his worldly career, he consented. He was not one to do things by halves, and from the day he undertook this work until the last hour of his patient's life, he performed his manifold duties in a cheerful, willing and most capable manner.

He loved the sea, with its broad spaces, and soon the narrow limits of the little house became intolerable to him. This he did not betray, and being naturally light-hearted and always appearing happy, few who met him realized the trial he was undergoing. He was honest and straightforward, and believed everyone to be the same.

Mr. Whitman, who had taken to him at once, was delighted when he was told that this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next attendant. Warren was indeed a blessing, not only to the patient, but to his mother, for he was always ready to assist her and to help out in times of need. But, better than all, he soon acquired a way of quietly managing the "good gray poet" that no other living mortal ever attained. When it was decided that massage would benefit Mr. Whitman, he took a course in a Philadelphia hospital and became a professional masseur, as well as wood-sawyer and amateur carpenter.

Good places were offered him, but he was bound, and could accept none of them. One excellent position was kept open for months and he was advised by his friends not to let so good an opportunity go by, but Mr. Whitman lingered on, and the place was filled. In going to sea as a boy, Warren was at a disadvantage on land. This he realized, and in the situation thus surrendered he had seen a way in which he could retrieve his lost time.

Walt's literary attainments and associations were pleasant enough to encounter, but they were of no material benefit to him, and the remuneration was much smaller than he had ever before received. This was a great drawback, for having met a young lady whom he hoped to marry, he felt inclined and perfectly able to better himself.

As his predecessor's prediction, that Mr. Whitman would not outlive the year, was not verified, and New Year's Day, 1890, not only found him alive but in a much improved condition, with no indications of immediate danger, it came home to Warren that he had unfortunately tied himself to an uncertainty, and that his term of service might be years instead of weeks. There seemed no present help, however, so he philosophically accepted the conditions and stuck to his work with manly courage.

Warren's engagement commenced so late in the season that Mr. Whitman had but a few outings before another winter shut him in. He had however two or three trips to the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly; all the more because they led to conversations on ships and ocean life. Warren was a fluent and interesting talker, which made him an enviable companion for anyone who, like the poet, was an ardent lover of freedom and the boundless deep. He often referred to Warren as his "sailor boy," and said that he was of much service to him when he was at a loss about the names of different parts of a ship. The young "sailor boy" had a vein of poetry in his own composition, and although he might not be qualified to weigh the bard's words and their import in the same scale with some others, he got a clear insight into their meaning.

The sick man had his ups and downs during this winter, but was seldom confined to his bed more than a week at a time. When he was at all able, he was helped downstairs to sit by the window. He spent more time in the kitchen with Mrs. Davis, and took a lively interest in anything she might be doing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate of the cat, had fellowship with the dog—in short his home life resembled that of any old man in his own home and with his own kin. He would read and write a little at a time, or glance over his papers, but there was a perceptible falling off in all ways, and his domestic life became more and more dear to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along, and was to him his world.

He was still just as inflexible about having his own way. However, it had so long been a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to this, that he seldom had to insist upon anything. He would usually retire early now, though this was not a stated rule. He might be in bed by eight o'clock, or up until midnight, and he was as ingenious as ever in making work for other people. As his massage was to be the last thing before sleep, Warren could not calculate upon his own doings for a single evening. He might go out before dark, make a call or do an errand, then hasten home to wait up two or three hours or even longer; or on going out and remaining but a little beyond eight, would on his return find his patient in bed groaning, and saying that he had been suffering severely for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he called it. Suffice it to say he was as exacting with his willing nurse as he had always been with his faithful housekeeper. During the two and a half years that Warren was with him, he had but a single untrammelled evening, for Mr. Whitman wanted him always near, even when no service was required. And so things jogged on satisfactorily to friends and admirers, but tediously indeed to the young marine.

Horace Traubel writes: "Warren Fritzinger, who attends upon Mr. Whitman and is provided for through a fund steadily replenished by a group of Walt's lovers—and who finds his services a delight—attests that whatsoever the hour or necessity, Whitman's most intimate humor is to the last degree composed and hopeful." ("In Re Walt Whitman.") Others have written of this period as one of grave neglect; a time when the aged man was deprived of the care and comfort so essential to one in his condition. They underrated both his means and the attention lavished upon him.

"He is old and poor," says one, "and were it not for small contributions from time to time from friends who sympathize with him in his poverty, age and helplessness, would actually suffer for the bare necessaries of life. For many years his income from all sources has not exceeded an average of two hundred dollars, which to a person in his helpless condition goes but a little way even in supplying the roughest and commonest of food and care." And again: "His wants are not many, for he lives simply from necessity and choice; but in his old age and constantly failing health, he needs that comfort and attendance which he has not the means to procure."

The poet himself was neither discontented nor dull. As his infirmities brought new privations, he bowed to the inevitable. He missed the outdoor life keenly, but was grateful for such trips as he could get under Warren's care. As for indoors, conversations if protracted wore upon him, and he could no longer take part in them with anything of his old enthusiasm and vim. But there was no fundamental infirmity of mind, no childishness of senility; he was essentially young in his habits, thought and manner, and remained so until his death. Sometimes, indeed, the flame of mental energy rose high again; and it was never extinguished.

"The body was fading; the vital parts seemed reluctant to die even in their own exhaustion. The soul, the mind, the man were there, and at times in full vigor, while the case was wrecked. Grandly and clearly his mentality stood above the slowly straining and wasting body." (Thomas Donaldson.)

But others suffered with and through him. Warren had relinquished hope after hope, had on several occasions abandoned his resolve to better himself and get married; his mother's entreaties and the reiterated promises and solicitations of Mr. Whitman's friends, especially his literary executors, were more than he could combat. But with all outward signs of contentment, the confinement soon left visible marks upon him; a second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from handling the icy wood in the cellar a lasting cold was contracted.

He purchased a writing desk—one that fitted the niche between the chimney and the window in the anteroom—and here he wrote, studied and read when not actively employed; always busy, always within call. When the monotony and confinement became too pressing, he purchased a violin and took music lessons. He declared that this saved him from fits of desperation.

Mr. Whitman himself was not the only old person dependent for comfort upon Mrs. Davis and her sons, for the maternal grandparents of the latter, living in Beardstown, Pennsylvania, octogenarians and both amazingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited, looked after and consoled.

One great annoyance to Warren was Mr. Whitman's aversion to prompt payment. The old man had signified his willingness to purchase his own wood, but he was so delinquent about settling for it that the proprietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart had never been warmed by the poet's effusions, saw no reason why he should warm his body gratis, and so sent him bill after bill, until at length he refused to deliver a load until the previous one was paid for. Be it understood, Mr. Whitman intended to pay for his wood, but he intended to pay in his own time, and not be dictated to; consequently there was a controversy when each load was delivered. "His pride was adamant to anything that seemed concession." (John T. Trowbridge.)

Warren knew that the old man had money, that right was on the wood-dealer's side, and he would not follow his mother's way of putting people off—telling them that Mr. Whitman was too miserable to be troubled, asking for an extension of time, etc., then paying the bill herself and lacking the courage to present the receipt. No, "Warry" would approach the subject in such an original fashion and hand the bill to his patient in such an offhand way that it would appeal to him directly, and as a rule the money was counted out with a quiet chuckle. Eddie Wilkins wrote: "Mr. Whitman is stubborn and self-willed. You can only get along with him by letting him have his own way." Warren would meet the stubbornness and self-will with just as persistent good-nature, and would usually gain his point. He was the only person Walt Whitman never chloroformed with one of his "Ahs!"

Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked to read his Lincoln lecture at the Art Club rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He was just recovering from a bad spell, and Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his resolution once more and had his own way. With the assistance of Warren and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared for the last time in public as a speaker. But the effort was too great, and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged to remain. However, on May 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia. When the guests were assembled—some fifty or sixty in number—Warren wheeled him into the room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of the occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this, nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him there.

During the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and appreciation. When feeling particularly well he would make up for lost time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it passed through the streets of Camden and adjacent suburbs. This chair stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs. Davis appeared with Warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a good-sized and extremely attentive audience. No doubt they had long since ceased to look upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious personage, but they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new connected with him still excited their curiosity.

Warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing to his mother. Now she could count upon her time and arrange for her work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have the kitchen to herself when she wished.

The heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art. For days the old man would now be too overcome for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in the shade of his cherished tree. He spent some evenings with friends, and occasionally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet certain people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too serious.

The chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late in the fall.

"Was out in wheel-chair yesterday, November 8, from twelve to two-thirty."

He made a few visits to the river, and seated in his chair took his last boat rides across it. In October he visited Philadelphia for the last time.