destined for the New Jersey or Long Island coast, but at Philadelphia found himself too ill to proceed any farther. He was taken over to Camden, and lived there until his death in 1892. It is from this point that I knew him intimately, and to my household, wife and family, he was an honored and most cherished guest. I must forbear expanding on the poet’s career these years, only noting that during them (1880) occurred the final completion of “Leaves of Grass,” the object of his life. The house in which he lived is a little old-fashioned frame structure, situated about gun-shot from the Delaware River, on a clean, quiet, democratic street. This “shanty,” as he called it, was purchased by the poet for $2000--two-thirds being paid in cash. In it he occupied the second floor. I commenced by likening his home to that of a ship, and the comparison might go further. Though larger than any vessel’s cabin, Walt Whitman’s room, at 328 Mickle Street, Camden, had all the rudeness, simplicity, and free-and-easy character of the quarters of some old sailor. In the good-sized, three-windowed apartment, 20 by 20 feet, or over, there were a wood stove, a bare board floor of narrow planks, a comfortable bed, divers big and little boxes, a good gas lamp, two big tables, a few old uncushioned seats, and lots of pegs and hooks and shelves. Hung or tacked on the walls were pictures, those of his father, mother and sisters holding the places of honor, a portrait of a sweetheart of long ago, a large print of Osceola the Seminole chief (given to Whitman many years since by Catlin the artist), some rare old engravings by Strange, and “Banditti Regaling,” by Mortimer. Heaps of books, manuscripts, memoranda, scissorings, proof-sheets, pamphlets, newspapers, old and new magazines, mysterious-looking literary bundles tied up with stout strings, lay about the floor here and there. Off against a back wall loomed a mighty trunk having double locks and bands of iron--such a receptacle as comes over sea with the foreign emigrants, and you in New York may have seen hoisted by powerful tackle from the hold of some Hamburg ship. On the main table more books, some of them evidently old-timers, a Bible, several Shakspeares,--a nook devoted to translations of Homer and Æschylus and the other Greek poets and tragedians, with Felton’s and Symonds’s books on Greece,--a collection of the works of Fauriel and Ellis on mediæval poetry,--a well-thumbed volume (his companion, off and on, for fifty years) of Walter Scott’s “Border Minstrelsy,”--Tennyson, Ossian, Burns, Omar Khayyám, all miscellaneously together. Whitman’s stalwart form itself luxuriated in a curious, great cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like ship’s spars; altogether the most imposing, heavy-timbered, broad-armed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind possible. It was the Christmas gift of the young son and daughter of Thomas Donaldson, of Philadelphia, and was specially made for the poet.