Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked to read his Lincoln lecture at the Art Club rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He was just recovering from a bad spell, and Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his resolution once more and had his own way. With the assistance of Warren and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared for the last time in public as a speaker. But the effort was too great, and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged to remain. However, on May 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia. When the guests were assembled--some fifty or sixty in number--Warren wheeled him into the room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of the occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this, nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him there. During the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and appreciation. When feeling particularly well he would make up for lost time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it passed through the streets of Camden and adjacent suburbs. This chair stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs. Davis appeared with Warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a good-sized and extremely attentive audience. No doubt they had long since ceased to look upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious personage, but they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new connected with him still excited their curiosity. Warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing to his mother. Now she could count upon her time and arrange for her work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have the kitchen to herself when she wished. The heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art. For days the old man would now be too overcome for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in the shade of his cherished tree. He spent some evenings with friends, and occasionally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet certain people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too serious. The chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late in the fall.