He was not an orator, and his audiences were at all times made up of people more curious perhaps to see than to hear him. This second lecture—his last appearance but one as a speaker in the "Quaker City"—was a greater strain than he had calculated upon, although the arrangements had been made for him by his friends, and he was conveyed from his own house direct to the back door of the theatre.
He always remained in his carriage while crossing the river.
Few people attended this lecture, and out of the $692 it netted him, only $78.25 was received at the door. The rest was made up by appreciative admirers. Two gentlemen gave each $100, four gave $50 each, eight gave $10, two $5, and a society—The Acharon—gave $45. The money was handed to Mr. Whitman in a large white envelope as he left the stage. It was not removed from the envelope until the next forenoon, when it was deposited unbroken in the bank.
During the summer Mr. Whitman sustained a sunstroke, fortunately not a serious one, but while suffering from the effects of it he was obliged to give up his jaunts and remain indoors. However, on pleasant evenings he could sit in a chair on the sidewalk, under his one cherished shade tree, into the bark of which he soon wore a hole with the restless movement of his right foot. Of the passers-by there were few who did not know him; many would pause for a moment's speech, others would occasionally get a chair and remain for an hour's chat. He soon recovered, but if the similar stroke he had suffered a few years before had served "to lower his fund of strength, weaken the springs of his constitution and almost wholly destroy his walking powers," (Thomas Donaldson), there was certainly little encouragement in store for him.
His housekeeper, too, had her physical troubles. She had visibly changed; how could it be otherwise? The back part of the house was gloomy, at times damp and unwholesome, and she had grappled with so many difficulties that she had lost strength and flesh, felt run down and nervous, while the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever.
This sickness not only made Mr. Whitman even more dependent upon her than usual, but it caused her great anxiety in another way. She realized the great risk she had taken and was taking, for on coming into the house she had relied upon verbal promises alone; no written contract or agreement had been entered into.
Now month had followed month and she had waited in vain for the old man to allude to living expenses or inquire as to her ability to meet them longer. Strange as it may seem, since being settled in his own house Walt had never mentioned money, or in any way broached the subject of his financial standing.
During the first year she had not been at all disturbed in mind; she had confidence in his integrity, and believed he had no means of meeting present embarrassments. The next summer she saw that money was coming in from a number of sources, but had no way of learning the amounts received or in what way they were disbursed. This sunstroke and the consequences that might have resulted from it were enough to arouse her thoroughly. Not that she had lost confidence in Mr. Whitman, but it came home to her that should he die she would be in no way secured. Before long the bequest left her by Captain Fritzinger would be following her own savings, which were rapidly dwindling away.
After thinking the matter over seriously, she resolved that as soon as the sick man had somewhat recuperated she would make an effort to have things put on a new and safer basis. She knew that from private donations, sale of books, government pension, receipts from lectures and so on, he had opened a bank account. She also knew he was paying one-half the expenses of Edward at a sanitarium and was sending a weekly remittance to his sister in Vermont,—and knowing all this, she felt that she was being treated with injustice. She had already spoken to Mrs. Whitman and to one or two others, and they had assured her that Walt was abundantly able to meet all household expenses, and would without doubt do so in his own good time.
She had never solicited his confidence, and yet while they were strangers, or comparative strangers,—long before she had entertained the slightest thought that she should one day exchange her home for his,—he had talked freely, even confidentially, to her; had voluntarily spoken of his money matters, his past disappointments and future expectations. But since she had come into the Mickle Street house he had never renewed these subjects, and his way of passing them over was inexplicable to her.