Whitman was the heart of good-fellowship; he was the oldest of them in years, but in years only. One wonders sometimes whether he himself realised that all these men were so much his juniors. There was no comrade, either man or woman, who had grown up beside him, learning with him the lessons of life. His mother was the great link with his own boyhood, and the letters which he wrote to her from Washington[491] show how strong was his attachment to her, and how great his capacity for home-love. It is, then, not a little tragic that he had no home to call his own. In a sense he was a solitary man; in the midst of his all-embracing love and his self-revealing poems, Walt Whitman lived his life apart and kept many secrets. In spirit he was as solitary as Thoreau, nay, even more than he, for, though his fellowship was with the life Universal, his consciousness of it seemed unique. His self-reliant, masculine nature was attractive to women, with whom he had, as one of his friends phrased it, "a good way". With them and with children he was natural and happy. Vague and anonymous figures of women move from time to time across his story. In 1863 it is with "a lady" that he first remarks the President's sadness.[492] In 1868 he has great talks and jolly times with the girls he meets on a trip in New England,[493] and he writes of his "particular women friends in New York". In 1869 he declares laughingly, he is quite a lady's man again as in the old days.[494] Women trusted him instinctively, and he repayed their trust by a remarkable silence as to his relations with them. He understood the hearts of women, for there was in him much of the maternal. This quality often finds quaint expression in his letters to Pete, who is "dear baby"[495] sometimes, and who found more than one kiss sent him upon the paper. As he became famous, Whitman had his queue of visitors. Now it is a spiritualistic woman, who breaks off her interview in order to converse with the spirit of Abraham Lincoln; and now a Mrs. McKnight,[496] who would paint his portrait. Later, when he fell ill, "Mary Cole" came and ministered to him.[497] Mrs. O'Connor, with Mrs. Burroughs and Mrs. Ashton, belonged to the circle of his friends. With women, as with men, he had his own frank way of expressing affection, and many a time he greeted them with a kiss, knowing it would not be misinterpreted. * * * * * From 1868 to 1870 he was engaged upon a brief political treatise, apparently suggested to him by Carlyle's vehement assault upon Democracy and all its ways, in _Shooting Niagara_.[498]