Philly Had Signers and Singers--The Poets!

Except for The Wasteland, I can’t think of more important or more popular American poems than those written in Philadelphia and Camden. The National Historical Sites, where their writers lived, offer visitors colorful literary alternatives to history-only attractions. David and I want to see the homes of Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whitman, and we set aside a morning away from the historic district for that purpose. Because of all the information the rangers at these sites can impart, and because of the time required to travel between them on Riverlink ferry, a morning is barely enough.

From 1838-1844, Poe was the most exciting literary figure in Philadelphia. Before he came here, he established somewhat a reputation as critic, theorist, and trendsetter during his editorship of Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. That fame blossomed in Philadelphia, where he edited Graham’s literary magazine. Most school children learn something of his life in Richmond: his estrangement from foster father Allan, his grueling poverty, and his struggle for only sporadic success. Most folks know about his death in Baltimore. I’m not sure why his happier, more successful years in Philadelphia aren’t remembered as well--perhaps misery has more mass appeal.

His rental house, 7th and Spring Garden Streets, is situated on what was a quiet lane at the northern edge (then) of the city.

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His mother-in-law (and aunt), Maria Clemm, and wife (and cousin), Virginia, provided him with the only stability he ever enjoyed, and he loved them both. I find the home surprisingly large and pleasant, especially after seeing the scanty Richmond residence, a
one-room house right on the sidewalk of a busy street. I feel some relief at finding this evidence that Poe wasn’t always miserable and destitute, but Virginia was diagnosed with tuberculosis before they moved here. The bedroom where Maria cared for her is here. Virginia died after they moved to New York.

Unlike Poe’s site, Whitman House contains the poet’s furniture and belongings.

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Even his goulashes are here--when they aren’t traveling to NYC for display in a museum.
Ranger Dick Dyer tells us a story about the French police "and the French army" (perhaps an exaggeration), who guarded the unloading of Whitman’s cane and other belongings from an airplane at CDG. Passengers weren’t allowed to disembark until the precious relics were safely unloaded for transport to an exhibit. Whitman successfully
promoted himself and everything he owned.

Quick Tips:

Before visiting Whitman House, you might want to reread "I Hear America Singing." Then, when you enter the rundown neighborhood in Camden (2.5 blocks straight from the ferry landing), you may be able to imagine carpenters and other tradesmen at their work--or can you? Well, Whitman was famous for his histrionics! Perhaps too much the optimist, he claimed that he liked living in Camden because it allowed him to see all over again the Industrial Revolution that had excited him in Brooklyn. He romanticized everything all workers touched, everything they wore.

Looking toward Philadelphia from the Camden Waterfront, I think I hear Whitman’s "varied carols": the ferry’s horn, a crane moving just west of Elfreth’s Alley,
the English actors dueling on the stage in Betsy Ross’ courtyard. The Signer
statue comes to mind, and I wonder where I can find The Singer, who immortalized the building of this country by tradesmen and the common sounds of our daily lives. Whitman designed the post-romantic poetry of America as surely as the founding fathers set its government in motion.

Best Way To Get Around:

Whitman often rode the ferry across the Delaware to Philadelphia. As we
board, I am reminded, as he was, of "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry":

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"I loved well the stately and rapid river;The men and women I saw were all near to me;Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look’d forward to
them;"

Walt’s concept of ferries obliterating barriers of time and space seems valid. I chat with a lady from Australia. When she doesn’t disembark at Camden dock, I ask why: "I like riding ferries everywhere I go." Perhaps she feels the presence of past souls, too! Maybe even Whitman.

We take SEPTA bus no. 47 at 7th and Market and ride north on 7th to Spring Garden Street
and Poe’s site on the left. The same bus takes us back to 7th and Market, and from
anywhere on Market, most east-west buses go to Penn’s Landing. The ferry dock is down
the steps and right.

We buy Philadelphia Entertainment Book and save the purchase price with just one meal. As one extra, we get 50% off a ferry ride with the purchase of another. Usually, Riverlink is round-trip.

The ranger for Walt Whitman House, a National Historic Landmark, is at the Poe site while we are there, and when he discovers that we are headed for his site while he has it closed, he offers to give us a session. In a private room, we spend a good part of an hour listening to Dick Dyer lecture about Whitman, his residence, and his life.

We learn about his housekeeper and friend, Mrs. Mary Davis, widow of a sea captain who lived with The Poet of Democracy in Camden in the house he was able to buy with proceeds from the sale of the 1882 edition of Leaves of Grass.

The book of poetry was first published in 1855, but Walt continued to add to it and revise it until his death in 1892. He was 72 when he died, at a time when most men lived to be about 44. If lifespan is any indication of intelligence, then Big Walt was pretty smart! He wasn’t very rich, though. His estate amounted to $14,000, while his brother, a plumber, was worth more.

Dyer explains that Whitman relived his Brooklyn youth in Camden, and even when his brother moved on, Walt insisted on staying in the house on Mickle Boulevard. Among his guests was Ralph Waldo Emerson, who must have been envious of Whitman’s down-to-earth language as he was of Henry David Thoreau’s. Other visitors included Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Bram Stoker, and artist Thomas Eakins. Whitman and Eakins especially admired each other’s work; both flouted the conventions of their time to create masterpieces that were distinctly American. Eakins photographed and painted Whitman. Even Oscar Wilde crossed the ocean to meet here with the poet he considered the greatest.

The tour, we are told, discusses some of Whitman’s idiosyncrasies, including his penchant for bathing daily, which made him an eccentric in his day. He could afford a bathtub, a luxury at the time. Besides his cane, goulashes, furniture, and clothing, the house contains many images of him, including the oldest known one, an 1848 daguerreotype, which has been displayed at the Smithsonian. All wallpapers have been authentically reproduced, and I understand that the inside is attractive.

As we walk toward the restored residence, we pass a man sleeping on his stoop. Garbage covers the vacant yard between his house and the Whitman row.

The garbage may be cleared by September, because a celebration is planned here for the 150th anniversary of Leaves of Grass.

Since we can’t go inside, we content ourselves with viewing the carriage stone, a marker that kept the house from destruction. A woman who wanted to save it knocked on the door and asked the tenant if this was where Walt Whitman had lived. He said, "No!" She started to leave and then saw the stone with initials.

Only 7,000 visitors are expected this year. What a travesty! It will be interesting to watch the site grow. It must, because Whitman is a giant.

Saturday morning, walking from Hilton Garden Inn, we see a golden oak wagon with red trim that looks as if it were just finished yesterday. The sprightly pony pulling it is as high as my waist. There he is, looking absolutely frisky and playful as he bounces along with only tiny children in the wagon. All three of us catch on simultaneously: "Die Ah-mish!"

Without the presence of mind to snap a photo, I jog along behind the wagon until it leads me to Reading Terminal underpass and the Amish Festival. I almost run into a cow! Now, what a black-and-white spotted cow looking just like Borden’s Daisy is doing here, I haven’t a clue, but I finally think to get a photo of these ponies--sure, now that they aren't bouncing like puppies anymore!--before I begin to look for food.

I notice jugs of dark brown brew. Closer, I see "homemade root beer--50 cents a cup." After a few each, we wish we had bought a half-gallon jug ($3.95). We’ve had breakfast at the hotel, but we want to sample Amish cooking. I spot the perfect after-breakfast dessert.

I have tasted peach pie I didn’t relish, but this one is scrumptious and without any sugary or other aftertaste.

We must walk to Market Street to get our bus, but we’ll stop on our way back to the hotel--not too late for the market, because we’ll have to shower before our Candlelight Walking Tour of Society Hill, which, incredibly, begins at 6:30pm (sunny and nearly 100°F). I’ll want more root beer then! All the Amish haven’t arrived yet; perhaps there will be more.

We don’t make it back until late Saturday, after most Amish vendors have left. A band is playing outside in the underpass, and a few folks linger at tables. We have another peach pie and look inside for something to take back to the hotel. At a pastry counter, a girl is buying an Italian pastry I want: crostata di frutta. There are only two, so I wait to see if she scarfs both. When she buys only one, I take the other. Heavenly! The thick and flaky pastry wafer covered with Italian cream, fresh pineapple, kiwi, and other fruit is one of the best-made desserts I’ve had on this continent! Sorry, I devoured it fast and didn’t think of a photo (or the hotel), but I can tell you that it was beautiful.

I buy plums to take to the room, and they are perfect specimens. My one disappointment at Reading Market hits me hard--no Philly cheesesteaks! There are places here where you can buy one and sit and eat it, but they aren’t open late Monday afternoon! Only burger and seafood stands are open, but we find a diner-style restaurant.

Our turkey sandwiches ($7.50) are a full meal, with broccoli, potatoes, and dressing.

We’re glad we’ve stayed next door! Now downstairs for R-1, the airport train.

Since Thomas Eakins and Whitman were good friends, one might plan a day’s itinerary around the poets’ and artists’ sites of Philly/Camden. A trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art would be sure to reveal plenty of Eakins’ work, but I never want to go to a major museum on my first tour of a city. Instead, I decide to see the Charles Wilson Peale gallery at Second Bank. (Ironically, I spend as much time here as I would have spent at the Museum of Art.)

I find the huge collection of portraits fascinating, even though I have intended for this day to focus on 19th-century artists and their friends. So here I am, destroying my day’s coherent timeline and retrogressing back to the founding-fathers’ focus. I guess you just can’t get away from that in Philly!

The Second Bank building itself, designed by William Strickland, is beautiful, pale marble built in Grecian style modeled after the Parthenon. Inside, the main gallery looks like this:

I take photos of every portrait--and no guard stops me! Each one has a little biographical note below it, and I find many that aren’t familiar to me. Even though I photograph the biographical notes for future study, I am compelled to read them all here. Well, this is the only place I know where one can read about so many of these guys in one place! That is what takes me so long. Another room has more portraits (185 in all). If you want to make sure you aren’t overlooking any important 18th-century notables, then you want to spend more than an hour here.

After studying all the portraits in the front room, I stand in the center of the gallery and look all around, scanning the collection. This is a good way to get a broad perspective on everything that was going on in every walk of life over a span of just a few decades, beginning with the Revolution. Heroes of all backgrounds are represented, even the Mohawk Chief Thayendanegea. One group represents members of the Philosophical Society, founded by Ben Franklin. These include David Rittenhouse, astronomer; William Clark, explorer, cartographer, and botanist; and Robert Fulton, inventor of the steamboat. Here is Meriwether Lewis:

Another room displays several Supreme Court Justices, and I am especially interested in John Marshall, since I have been reading about Thomas Jefferson’s dispute with him and his failure to convict Aaron Burr. I think he looks mean, and I side with Jefferson anyway on the matter of Supreme Court autonomy.

Since my visit, I have discovered an interesting note on Peale. A student of Benjamin West before West moved to England. Peale wrote to him after the Revolution to ask if there was demand in England for portraits of George Washington, and West replied that the Brits would also like paintings of American military uniforms. Notes in the gallery, too, instruct us on how artists managed their careers in pre-tech times.

We’re early (trying to beat the heat), but the attraction is open between 9am and 5pm Wednesday through Sunday in the winter months and 7 days a week in summer. The door seems locked, but as I am "gently rapping," a rollicking ranger throws open the door, and Andrew McDougal welcomes us to Edgar Allan Poe National Historical Site.

We start with the 8-minute film that puts into perspective Poe’s six years (1838-1844) in Philadelphia. He lived in many houses in the city, but only this one survives. His sojourn here in his rented "rose-covered cottage" with his wife, Virginia Clemm, and her mother, Maria, was happy and productive. Even Poe himself tells us that in his poem "Annabel Lee:"

"The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me--"

Perhaps "that was the reason (as all men know... )" that Congress decided to make this house on Spring Garden Street the national memorial to one of our most cherished poets.

Other Poe houses can be visited in Richmond, Baltimore, and New York. I "toured" the one-room residence in Richmond in the late 1970s and found it lacking in interest then, with only a table displaying some manuscripts. When I offer this comment to Andrew McDougal, he practically jumps up and down, saying, "No, they have the original manuscripts of... " (I forget which works).

One thing is for certain: our ranger guide is passionate for Poe! He becomes excited again and again, and his big eyes light up with enthusiasm as he explains why Poe was more than a "jingle-maker," a label I remember that Ralph Waldo Emerson assigned him (probably upon reading, "To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells/ From the bells, bells, bells, bells/ Bells, bells, bells."

I dare to ask if he really considers Poe an intellectual comparable to the Brahman Poets of New England or transcendentalists Emerson and Thoreau. Oh, boy! This is where I have my preconceived notions about Poe as a mere technician with adolescent subject matter destroyed! It seems that I have paid attention only to works that the poet intended for public consumption and to make a living, not those that established his reputation as critic and editor. I hear figures representing skyrocketing circulation for Burton’s and Graham’s while he was editor for those literary magazines and quotes from many leading literary figures that prove their admiration for his concepts. As for the Brahmans, he corresponded with Longfellow and Lowell.

This is so much fun that we hate to let go of Andrew so that he can eat his lunch. He lingers to make sure we understand the circumstances of Poe’s death. I know that he was found drunk in Baltimore on election day and that rumor has it that overzealous poll workers may have filled him with liquor to get him to vote their ticket. Andrew teaches us the term "cooping," the underhanded practice of taking voters to a cellar and pouring whiskey down them before taking them to the polls--then changing their clothes and taking them back again and again! Do you know that our most famous national poet was found in somebody else’s clothes? That cinches this rendition of his death for me, but Andrew still chocks it up to coincidence. On election day and in somebody else’s clothes?

We haven’t seen the rest of the house yet, so we get our copy of the self-guided walk-through. Walls have been stripped of 17 coats of paint and wallpaper, and the NPS doesn’t know yet what they are going to do with them. They want them to look new, as they did in Poe’s day, and they’re studying alternative treatments for them as we tour. The empty house has its original fireplaces, and photos and critical commentary are displayed on closet shelves. We see the bedroom where Poe wrote by candlelight. He explains in one of his essays that he considers gaslight "ghastly," so he didn’t use the fixtures with which his brand-new house in Spring Garden suburb was supplied. We talk about what Poe might have done with today’s technology. Andrew speculates that he would have loved to work with hi-tech media.

We don’t want to miss the cellar, the one Poe describes in some of his macabre stories.

It is complete with fake fireplace. The poet lived in this house in 1843-44 and wrote "The Raven," "The Black Cat," "The Goldbug," and "The Tell-Tale Heart" while he lived here, but the cellar is described in other works, too.

Another room off the visitor center is interesting. It is decorated according to Poe’s "Philosophy of Furniture," in which the poet pokes fun at aesthetes and effetes. The room is well furnished with a sofa, table, and chairs, and a mirror hangs "so high that a man can’t see himself in it."

There is also a painting of nature, one of classical architecture, and, of course, one of a beautiful woman (living and healthy!), a Thomas Sully portrait.

Andrew engages us in discussion of planned improvements. Next visit, the house may look new, as it did in Poe’s day, and window scrims may display what the poet saw when he looked out. I suggest that a hologram of Poe talking about his own life and works would be nice--I can just imagine how much fun Andrew might have assuming the voice of Poe for the recording. His first impression is that "It couldn’t be done. The technology isn’t available." He doesn’t know that Friendship Hill has one of Albert Gallatin, and when I impart this information to him, he is anxious to call that National Historical Site to find out how they have managed to get one.

The site presently attracts only 15,000 visitors each year. Nevermore! What school child doesn’t recognize the name, even the poetry, of Poe? What American can’t quote the first stanza of The Raven? This is the American poet the French and Russians want to visit, since Baudelaire translated Poe into French and engineered his revival on the continent. (As for Philly poet sites, the French tour here, while Brits and Scots prefer Whitman House, another ranger tells us.)

We learn that Poe’s residence might have been destroyed if not for Richard Gimbel, the department store magnate who bought the entire block and donated it to the people of Philadelphia in 1971. The house has been a National Historic Landmark since 1962 and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1966.

If I think visitation here is pathetic, I am appalled to learn that Whitman House in Camden has only 5,000 to 7,000 visitors each year. What? That site is accessible to Philly visitors via Riverlink Ferry, and we’re headed there next.