Of such, certainly, Ingersoll was not one. He saw in the book much of what Whitman had put there; and especially he understood how it had been written under the stress of an emotion which finds its symbol in that banner of the blue and stars, which he so happily described as "the flag of Nature".[740] Other men have given themselves out to be a Christ, or a John the Baptist, or an Elijah; Whitman, without their fanaticism, but with a profound knowledge of himself, recognised in a peasant-born son of Mannahatta, an average American artisan, the incarnation of America herself. "He is Democracy," quoth Thoreau;[741] and when he sat with a pleased indifference under the eloquent stream of Ingersoll's panegyric, he was only testifying anew to his whole-hearted, glad willingness to give himself, body and mind, for the interpretation of America to her children. But none the less, it was a singular situation; and, doubtless, Whitman, who was not by any means obtuse, felt it to be such. * * * * * His last birthday dinner was held in the lower room at Mickle Street after a winter of illness--"the main abutments and dykes shattered and threatening to give out"[742]--broken by an occasional saunter in his wheelchair with the welcome sight of some four-masted schooner on the river, and by the visits of his friends. He was still himself, however. An English admirer had recently been astounded to find the irrepressible attractive power of the old man.[743] He was brought downstairs, weak, after a bad day, to meet some thirty of his friends. Walt himself started the proceedings with a toast to the memory of Bryant, Emerson and Longfellow, and to Tennyson and Whittier, living yet;[744] for the fact that Whittier strongly disapproved of the _Leaves_ in no way separated him from Whitman's affectionate esteem. Rejoicing over his big family gathering, he wistfully remembered the absent. Doyle had not been to the house for many months.[745] Perhaps he was a little jealous of new friends, and resented even being thought of as a stranger by Mrs. Davis. O'Connor was dead, and so was Mrs. Gilchrist, and there were many others not less dear. Some who were far away sent their greetings, Tennyson and Symonds among the rest; and there were the usual warm congratulatory speeches. The host was sometimes absent-minded, and sometimes, according to the record, oddly garrulous. But the talk about the table was often of the deepest interest. Dr. Bucke was present, and Whitman and he had a friendly bout over _Leaves of Grass_. The poet would not accept the doctor's interpretation, or indeed, any other's, saying that the book must have its own way with its readers. It was simply the revelation of the man himself, "the personal critter," as he would phrase it.