Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-05-25


feeble, being racked with paralysis, and
only on great occasions goes out of his house
or sees visitors.
The poet lives at No. 1928 Mickle street, in
little old house far from the noise of street
cars and wagon traffic. A ring at the door
bell brought q young man, hatless and coat
less, to answer our summons. He politely
asked us in, but shade of doubt gathered
over his face when we said we had come on
a pilgrimage to the old poet, but he soon re-
turned with the announcement that Mr..
Whitman would be glad to see us in his
room upstairs. "You may have just two
minutes with him." he said, "for he is very
feeble"
We walked up two half flights Of narrow,
wooden stairs, and were at the chamber of
the poet In response to our knock, there
was a pleasant "Come in." The room
seemed at the first glance to be almost
square, with a low ceiling and two windows
looking into the street. There sat the ven
erable, "good gray poet'' in a large arm
chair. wearing light-blue blanket overcoat
or dressing gown. He made a splendid
picture as be sat there with the morning
sunlight dancing in and out of the room,
and making grotesque figures on the wall.
A PICTURE OF THE POET.
He had leonine look. His long white
hair fell partly over his face. And such a
face! Strong, manly and full of human
nature. His gray beard, thick and fluffy,
seemed TO be scattered all over his huge
chest. His shirt was wide open at the
throat, exposing his large neck and part of
his bosom. His steel gray eyes snapped
with pleasure as he extended his large arm
and big right hand. He did not look
decrepit. Ifhe could have stood up straight,
he would have measured nearly six feet in
height, and exhibited the frame of man
who, even now, at 70 years of age, weighs
200 pounds.
Racked with pain and rheumatic gout
The aged poet. gray and stout,
Alone within his modest room
satweaving thoughts from fancy'sloom.
He saw the years of youth and dreams
Gliding away like summer streams
And in his soul vision came
Or honor, friends and lasting fame
The little room was almost covered with
papers, magazines and periodicals. They
lay around in heaps, and evidently had not
been moved for many months. In fact,
there was nothing to admire about the dis
order of the room. The poets bed was on
one side of the room. Right In front of the
poets chair was large table, with pyra-
mlQ OF Olu papers on IL.
At the base Of the pyramid there was
enough clear space left on the table for the
bard to lean over and write his name. His
hands are not paralyzed and he can write
his signature in bold, legible hand, which
often he kindly does for autograph collec-
tors. There was no attempt'at bric-a-brac,
pictures or fairy lamp ornamentation in the
room.
81 am glad to see you, sit down." said Mr..
Whitman, after cordial handShake. Lean
ing back, he said he was unable to get to
his bed, few feet away, without assist
ance.
A MEMENTO OF THE WAR.
81 would like to talk to you at length and
ask many questions. but cannot," he said.
''Say to the boys that my heart is in the
highlands with them. You see, I am
whacked and banged up SO with paralysis
that am not fit for anything. 1t is the d.
rect result ofmy war experience many years
ago. My brother was wounded and went
to him. I exposed myself, and from that
time have never been the hale and hearty
man that was previously. 1t is a great
trial for me to get away from my room. I
do not write any now and have nothing un-
published"
The poet paused, put his hand to his head
a brief moment, and in answer to questions
said: "Yes. have many visitors, and it
warns the cookies of my heart to have M
friends drop in and shake me by the hand
Sir Edwin Arnold called upon me and we
had friendly time OF il. l have never
read his Light of Asia, but I have heard
others speak highly of its merits. The
apostle, or rather the former apostle of
esthetlcism, Oscar Wilde, is friend of mine.
Outside of his long hair-he has it cut now
and his Bunthorne attitudinizing. 1 found
him whole-souled and natural fellow."
SOME "REMINISCENCES.
Mr.. Whitman then spoke of being in New
York over two years ago, and speaking at
Madison Square Theater one afternoon on
the anniversary OF the ASA ssination Of
Abraham Lincoln, when he stirred every
body by reciting Captain, My Captainl"
James Russell Lowell and Edmund Clar-
ence Stedman, the poets, were there to hear
him and chatted with him after his dis
course.
''You ask me about eotemporaryl literature,
and ii l think literature in America is de-
teriorating. Well, must confess that do
not keep up as should. Things are moving
with ra pid pace. Since I published my
Leaves OF Grass in 1855, nearly 80 years
ago, many, many volumes of poems and
literary works have been published. 1t
would not be fair to criticise works that 1
have not read. ] am not a pessimist see
that the march OF progress cannot be stayed,
and but tor these pains that keep me in
active, would be, hope, in the SWIM"
The old poet moved about uneasily in his
chair as he spoke, and seemed like a great
wounded animal eager and anxious to arise
in his majesty and do something. But the
paralysis of which he spoke chained him to
his chair.
FATHER OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.
''This is the golden age for literary work.
ers," he went on. "They are better paid for
their productions now than ever before. The
publishers get up their books in better style
than ever before. Americans are busy,
rushing people, but have time to pause and
listen TO the Muses., and II they sing in tune
our people are ready to applaud. Our liter
ary workers have done wonderfully good
work and will do better. There are scores of
promising young men and women in this
country, and the banner OF American liter
ature will never trail in the dust"
We had conversed longer than his Wis
itors are usually allowed to converse. We
arose to go and he bent forward, shook us
cordially by the hands, and said: II am
glad you came. I wish could talk longer.
Remember me TO all my friends, and above
all do not forget to say to them that my
heart is in the highlands with them. Good
BY" FOSTER COATES.
HOMER FORT.