"There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891. Whitman was seventy-two. That privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was one of the kinds of happiness which he didn't experience."—Bliss Perry.

"Munching a little bread dipped in champagne and talking about Death. He had never been more picturesque."—Bliss Perry.

ON May 31, when Mr. Whitman had reached the age of seventy-two, his last birthday (as it proved) was celebrated by a dinner given in his own home. This arrangement was adopted as the only means of ensuring his presence, and the gathering was the final social event in that little house.

The managing committee was composed of young men, most of whom knew nothing of the limited dimensions of the place, and had not reflected upon the incongruity of their undertaking; nor, until the plans were all made, arrangements nearly completed and the invitations issued, was Mrs. Davis told what was to take place. When the youngest of the three literary executors, who had devised and was at the head of the scheme, finally informed her, she said she feared that such a thing as seating thirty-six people in the parlors was impracticable; however, she would do her best in helping them to carry out their wishes.

It was by good luck that the arrangements were in the hands of inexperienced, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged older and more experienced folk at the outset. It was better still for them that they found a well-balanced mind, willing hands and managing skill in their home agent, as this alone saved them from ignoble failure. First the parlor doors, double and single, together with the hall and kitchen doors, secured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges, were removed and carried into the yard; the spare bed put up since Mr. Whitman's last stroke was taken down, together with the stove, and with the entire furniture likewise removed. This was literally turning the parlors inside out.

Mrs. Davis, as usual, succeeded in making a place for everything. Warren did most of the hard work and lifting, while his mother swept the rooms, cleaned the windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient coÖperation. On the morning of the birthday she was of equal service to the waiters who, when the tables, chairs and dishes arrived, discovered many drawbacks in such an unlooked-for banquet hall.

The head table was placed across the front parlor, in a line with the windows, the other, the length of the back parlor, forming a T with it; and these, with the small chairs, so completely filled the rooms that only just sufficient space was left for the waiters to serve the guests through the two doorways. Most of the viands came ready cooked, and the caterer had done full justice to them; the coffee was made on the kitchen stove, which, with the little one in the shed, was brought into requisition for heating purposes. Mrs. Davis was usefulness itself in getting things in readiness, advising with the caterer and helping him out of quandaries. When the dinner had been decided upon she had been told that it should put her to no extra work; and when she made the matter really possible she was told that she had done her part, which should end there, as the committee would attend to putting things to rights afterwards.

Getting Mr. Whitman ready, and seeing that he was in no way overtaxed, was of much importance, and it was carefully looked after. At the appointed hour, seven P. M., the guests assembled, and there being no reception room, each took his or her assigned place at the table; then, when all were seated, the venerable host was brought down. He was met with congratulations, and led to the head of the table. There were twenty-seven men and five women present, and not until the greetings were over did he and his old friends observe that Mrs. Davis had been left out. Room at the table was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant through the non-arrival of the expected occupants; besides, two of the ladies were strangers to the poet. Mrs. Davis felt the slight, although she could not very well have formed one of the company in any event, her presence being indispensable elsewhere.

It was a good dinner and well served, all things considered. The day was insufferably hot, and the windows and the front door were left wide open. Many noticed and remarked that during the dinner no loungers were about the front of the house, "no boys looking in, yelling or throwing stones or mud—no curiosity gazers. Respect for Mr. Whitman possibly prevented this." (Thomas Donaldson.) Respect for Mr. Whitman in part, no doubt, but a greater respect for a contract made beforehand; Mrs. Davis had bought them off; something good for each one of them for good conduct. She was not so successful in securing the same considerate behavior from Watch, her coach dog, for to her great mortification, just as one gentleman commenced to read "O Captain! my Captain!" he came into the parlor doorway, "put his nose up in the air and uttered a series of the most ungodly howls ever listened to." (Thomas Donaldson.) He continued to howl until the reading ceased, then abruptly left the room.

The dinner lasted until ten o'clock—three hours. A stenographer took down the toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc. But while these were at their height, one compliment, one little speech, was not recorded. Mr. Whitman looked around the table as if seeking something, and on being asked, "Is there anything you want, Walt?" replied, "Yes, I want a piece of Mary's bread." It was brought to him. Mr. Whitman, no doubt, feeling that Mary had been slighted, took this peculiar way of his own to show his regard for her.

The next day the tables and chairs were taken away, but the committee's promises of assistance were probably forgotten, for regardless of the poor days Mr. Whitman passed in consequence of the dinner, and his need of extra care, no help whatever was proffered and Mrs. Davis and Warren were left to right the house by degrees, working as they could.

The summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room. The heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. Part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more than this. His outings were few in number, the reading fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. However, this did not prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies.

His world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four walls of his own room enclosed it. He had relinquished his hold upon outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished to be left alone, left to himself. He was his own best company, apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one of his long reveries. At intervals he would seem to be the old-time man, would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of depression or dreaded indigestion. In the latter case, day would succeed day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small glass of iced buttermilk.

The fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady decline until December 17, when after a number of miserable days he was seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. For a week his life hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best medical advice was procured. Each hour the final call seemed at hand; then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight improvement.

The burden of all this fell mainly upon Warren, who was only relieved temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. Believing that each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the 28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance. As the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia to engage a professional nurse.