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قراءة كتاب Walt Whitman in Mickle Street
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WALT WHITMAN
IN MICKLE STREET
I write this book
in loving memory of
three of the most kind-hearted,
unselfish and capable people I ever knew
I Dedicate It
to
ALEX. McALISTER, M.D.
HALCYON DAYS
| Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honored middle-age, Nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame like fresher, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, And the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all, The brooding and blissful halcyon days! |
| Walt Whitman |
WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET
I
MARY OAKES DAVIS
"She hath wrought a good work on me.... This also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her."—St. Mark XIV: 6, 9.
"Whitman with the pen was one man—Whitman in private life was another man."—Thomas Donaldson.
SOMEONE has said: "A veil of silence, even mystery, seems to have shut out from view the later home life of Walt Whitman."
There is no reason for this, but if it be really so, the veil cannot be lifted without revealing in a true light the good woman—Mary Oakes Davis—so closely connected with the poet's later years, and of whom he often spoke as "my housekeeper, nurse and friend."
Mrs. Davis's life from the cradle to the grave was one of self-sacrifice and devotion to others. Her first clear recollection was of a blind old woman to whom her parents had given a home. In speaking of this she said: "I never had a childhood, nor did I realize that I had the right to play like other children, for at six years of age 'Blind Auntie' was my especial charge. On waking in the morning my first thought was of her, and then I felt I must not lie in bed another minute. I arose quickly, made my own toilet and hastened to her." She continued with a detailed account of the attention daily given to "Auntie," how she put on her stockings and shoes, and handed her each article of clothing as it was needed; how she brought fresh water for her ablutions, combed her hair and made her presentable for the table; how at all meals she sat by her side to wait upon her, and how, after helping her mother with the dishes, she walked up and down the sidewalk until schooltime to give "Auntie" her exercise, the walks being repeated when school was over.
It seems strange that parents could permit such sacrifice for an outsider, however helpless, unmindful of their injustice toward the little daughter who so willingly and unconsciously yielded up her young life. No wonder this lesson of utter devotion to another, so early implanted in the tender heart of the child, should in after years become part and parcel of the woman.
When Mary was twelve years of age "Blind Auntie" died. Then came two more years of