When Walt Whitman Was Dying, It Was Front-Page News — for Months

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/18/books/walt-whitman-final-death-illness-archives.html

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Germany had Goethe. India had Tagore. For France, it was Victor Hugo. When nationalism swept the world in the 19th century, country after country, along with flag and anthem, demanded a guiding literary voice to stand as an avatar for the country as a whole — a national poet. In America, no one embodied this role like Walt Whitman.

“I think Walt Whitman went to the help-wanted section and found a squib that said, ‘Wanted: National Poet’,” the novelist Allan Gurganus once said in a PBS interview. “And he was innocent enough to believe that if he could just write a poem that incorporated everything he felt and suspected and hoped for from America, that he would have the position. And you know, by God, he did it.”

Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” his landmark collection of verse, did the trick. First published in 1855 and revised extensively during his lifetime (The Times reviewed it in its second edition in 1856), it aspired to speak for the collective, for the nation as a whole.

By the 1890s, Whitman was so cherished a cultural figure that newspapers constantly reported on many aspects of his life: birthday parties, literary friendships, his health (one story from 1890 was headlined “Walt Whitman Has a Bad Cold”). In those days, of course, people — particularly elderly people — often died from minor illnesses, so such a story was not unusual.

Neither was the one which appeared on Dec. 18, 1891, called “The Sick Among Us,” a roundup of ailing elder statesmen. The paper noted that the 72-year-old Whitman had “taken a chill” and was “quite feeble.” From that point on, no detail about his final illness was too small to cover: how many sips of milk punch he drank or pieces of toast he managed to consume, whether he had the strength to sit up in bed, what he said to his doctor.

The next article appeared on Dec. 21, 1891, and sounded quite foreboding: “The days of the ‘Good Gray Poet’ are numbered. He may die within 48 hours.”

The day after that, the news was no better. “Not even his brother, who called at the house today, was allowed to see him. His presence at the house was announced to ‘Walt,’ who sent down his love.”

On Dec. 23, Whitman’s physician told The Times that his patient “might possibly last for several days” more.

Christmas Eve came, and the poet was still alive, according to a front-page story. He had tired of milk punch, and “the only nourishment he took in the last 36 hours was two oysters, one yesterday morning and the other in the afternoon.”

On Christmas Day, The Times reported that Whitman’s condition was dire: “The only nourishment that passed his lips during the day was a small quantity of clam juice.”

Another front-page piece appeared on Dec. 26. “His physicians … said that there was the possibility that he might pass away at any moment.” Still, he consumed “a cup of warm milk, two slices of toast, and some orange juice.”

On Dec. 27, the paper reported that Whitman was expected to live only a few more hours. “No nourishment was taken by the poet today, and the only thing that passed his lips being an occasional sip of water.”

There was a brief front-page update — “Walt Whitman Still Lingering” — on Dec. 28: “The nourishment that he took today consisted of a portion of an egg and a small piece of toast.” The poet’s doctor “expressed the opinion that Mr. Whitman would live for at least three or four days yet.”

Big front-page news on Dec. 29: Whitman, “about the same,” ate a small mutton chop.

By Dec. 31, news of Whitman had been relegated to page 4, even though “his features are getting blue and his face appears pinched.”

On New Year’s Day 1892, Whitman was back on page 1. As always, his food intake was noted: “some toast and poached eggs.”

Whitman remained on the front page on Jan. 3, when the paper reported he “ate two small pieces of squab and drank a little champagne.”

On Jan. 4, Whitman was still front-page news, but the story was a brief one, noting that the poet had only eaten a “small quantity of calves’-foot jelly” that day.

The next day saw another short front-page update: “A small piece of toast was all he ate during the day.”

On Jan. 6, Whitman, “absolutely helpless,” managed a glass of milk and a piece of toasted bran bread.

By Jan. 8, Whitman appeared to be better — he consumed toast, a poached egg and some milk punch — and The Times moved him back to page 4.

Three days later, the poet was holding his own, and apparently eating too much for the paper to list.

The next day Whitman was much weaker, and he suffered from “several attacks of hiccoughs.”

On Jan. 13, the paper’s headline was “Walt Whitman No Better,” but the last line in the story noted that the poet had eaten mutton broth and bread and drunk three milk punches.

By Jan. 16, the paper decided Whitman’s condition was serious enough to move him back to the front page. “He is so weak that he only turns over in bed once or twice a day.”

The next day, Whitman was well enough to sit up and read the paper, so he was relegated to page 5: “His nourishment still consists of mutton broth and milk punch, and occasionally he drinks a little champagne.”

On Jan. 18, the paper deemed Whitman almost healthy.

Things were looking even better on Jan. 19, despite a “slight attack of dysentery.” By Jan. 20, the poet was still front-page news, but the report was terser than ever.

After that, satisfied that Whitman was on the mend, the paper published no more articles until his death on March 26, 1892. The Times reported that the poet’s last words were “Warry, shift,” meaning that he wanted his attendant, Warren Fritzinger, to turn him over.

On March 28, the paper printed Whitman’s home address in Camden, N.J. — so that “all persons desirous of seeing the body of the dead poet can do so at his late residence” — and revealed the results of his autopsy: “His brain was found to be abnormally large.”

In the final article, which appeared on March 30, The Times reported from Whitman’s interment at Camden’s Harleigh Cemetery: “The casket of plain quartered oak was almost hidden beneath the floral tributes which were showered upon it by Whitman’s numerous admirers.”