[692] MSS. Berenson (_a_). [693] _In re_, 137, etc. [694] _Conversations with W. W._, by "Sadakichi," 1895. [695] Johnston, 92, 93. [696] _Comp. Prose_, 151; _cf._ Camden, xxxiii. [697] _In re_, 367. [698] _In re_, 374. [699] _Ib._, 375, 376. [700] _In re_, 376, 377. [701] _Ib._, 379. [702] MSS. Johnston. [703] See _supra_, 109. [704] _In re_, 390. CHAPTER XXI "GOOD-BYE, MY FANCY" During the first years of his sojourn among them, some of the young men of Camden had founded a Walt Whitman Club;[705] and year by year a group of intimate friends was springing up about his own door. Chief of these was Mr. Horace Traubel, whose life became so inextricably interwoven with Whitman's last years that he has rightly been called the old poet's spiritual son. He was one of the first of Walt's Camden acquaintances. How or when they met, neither could remember; looking back to the summer evenings when the lame, white-haired man and the fair lad sat together on the steps of the Stevens Street house, it seemed as though they had always been friends.[706] Another of the group was Mr. T. B. Harned,[707] Traubel's brother-in-law, an able lawyer and lover of books, whose house became a second home for Whitman after the removal from Philadelphia of his friends the Pearsall Smiths. These two gentlemen, with Dr. Bucke, eventually became Whitman's executors; better than anything else, this shows the confidence which their old friend reposed in them. On his sixty-ninth birthday--Friday, 31st May, 1888--his Camden friends and others met him at dinner at Mr. Harned's.[708] Two days later he was there again, and Dr. Bucke, arriving unexpectedly, was of the party. Walt had come in his carriage, and afterwards drove the doctor to the ferry. Thence he made his way to a point where, urging his horse into the river, he had nothing but water and sky before him, all filled with the sunset glory. He sat for an hour absorbing it in a sort of ecstasy.[709] Returning home, he felt that he had been chilled, and recognised intimations of a paralytic attack--the seventh--[710] as he went to bed. He quietly resisted this alone. In the morning he had two more slight strokes, and for the first time temporarily lost the power of speech. This was Monday, and all through the week he lay close to death. Dr. Bucke had returned, his friends entertaining no hopes of his recovery. But the end was not yet. Even in the midst of the uncertainty he was determined to complete the work he had in hand. Every day he contrived to get downstairs, and every evening he turned over the proof-sheets of a new volume, which Horace Traubel brought with him from the printer's on his way back from the city. From this time on, Traubel was his daily visitor, his faithful and assiduous aid.[711]