Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1918-09-26
Walt Whitman Shrines


L I hope-that whenever I see any one read
Ing a book in public I am agog to find out
what 1t is. Crossing over to Camden this
morning a young woman on the ferry was alb
sorbed in a volume, and I couldn't resist
peeping over her shoulder. 1t was Hans
Brinker." On the same boat were several
schoolboys carrying copies of Myers His
tory of Greece" Quaint. isn't it. how our
schools keep up the same old bunk What
earthly use will a smattering of Greek his
tory be to those boys? Surely to our citi-
zens of the coming generation the battles
of the Marine will be more important than
the scufie at Salamis.
MY ERRAND in Camden was to visit the
AV1 house on Mickle street where Walt
whitman lived his last years. 1t is now oc-
cupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer, a friendly
Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer
| graciously allowed me to go through the
downstairs rooms.
r DON'T suppose any literary shrine on
L earth Is of more humble and disre-
garded aspect than Mickle street. 1t is a
little cobbled byway, grimed with drifting
| 5lllohC thS Ne''Ss S"
wind blown papers and lined with small
wooden and brick houses sooted almost to
blackness. 1t is curious to think, as one
walks along that bumpy brick pavement,
that many pilgrims from afar have looked
forward to visiting Mickle street as one of
the worlds most significant affairs. AS Ches-
terton wrote once, I'VE have not yet begun
to get to the beginning OF Whitman" But
the wayfarer, of today will find Mickle street
far from impressive.
The little house, a two-story frame cottage,
painted dark brown. is numbered $50. Gn
Whitman's day 1t was $3.50 On the pave
ment in front stands a white marble stepping
block with the carved initials w. w. -
given to the poet. l dare say, by the same
friends who bought him a horse and car
rage. A small sign, in English and Italian,
saws Thomas A. Skymer, Automobiles to Hire
on Occasions. 1t was with something of a
thrill that l entered the little front parlor
where Walt used to sit, surrounded by his
litter of papers and holding forth to faithful
listeners. One may safely say that his was
a happy old age, for there were those who
never jibbed at protracted audience.
A DESCRIPTION of that room as it was in
"A the last days of Whitman's life may not
be embarrassing. I quote from the article
published by the Philadelphia Press of March
27, 1892, the day after the poets death:
Below the windowsill a four-inch pine
shelf is swung, on which rests a bottle of
ink, two or three pens and a much-rubbed
spectacle case.
(The shelf. l am sorry to say, is no longer
there.)
The table-between which and the wall
ia the poets rocker covered with a worsted
afghan. presented to him one Christmas by
a bevy of college girls who admired his
works. so thickly piled with hooks and
magazines, letters and the rattle or a
literary desk that there Is scarcely an inch
of room upon which he may rest his paper
as he writes. A volume of Shakespeare
lies on top of a heaping full wastebasket
that was once used to bring peaches to
market, and an ancient copy of Worces-
ter's Dictionary shares places in an ada
cent chair with the poets old and familiar
soft gray hat, a newly darned blue wooden
sock and a shoe-blacking brush. There is
a paste bottle and brush on the table and
a pair of scissors, much used by the poet,
who writes, for the most part, on small
bits of paper and parts of old envelopes
and pastes them together in patchwork
fashion.
In spite of a careful examination / could
find nothing in the parlor at all reminiscent
of whitman's tenancy, except the hole fol
the stovepipe under the mantel. One of Mrs
Skymer's small boys told me that He" died
In that room. Evidently small Louis Skymel
didn't In the least know who He was, blu