have been more pleasantly at ease.  (O.  Henry, one remembers, used to insist that what some of his friends called laziness was really “dignified repose.”) Two elderly colored men were loading gravel onto a cart not far away.  I was a little worried as to what I could say if they asked what I was doing.  In these days casual loungers along docksides may be suspected of depth bombs and high treason.  The only truthful reply to any question would have been that I was thinking about Walt Whitman.  Such a remark, if uttered in Philadelphia, would undoubtedly have been answered by a direction to the chocolate factory on Race Street.  But in Camden every one knows about Walt.  Still, the colored men said nothing beyond returning my greeting.  Their race, wise in simplicity, knows that loafing needs no explanation and is its own excuse.

If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so well, in New York and Philadelphia, he would find the former strangely altered in aspect.  The New York skyline wears a very different silhouette against the sky, with its marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft.  But Philadelphia’s profile is (I imagine) not much changed.  I do not know just when the City Hall tower was finished:  Walt speaks of it as “three-fifths built” in 1879.  That, of course, is the dominant unit in the view from Camden.  Otherwise there are few outstanding elements.  The gradual rise in height of the buildings, from Front Street gently ascending up to Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation to catch the gaze.  The spires of the older churches stand up like soft blue pencils, and the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel buildings catch the sunlight.  Otherwise the outline is even and well-massed in a smooth ascending curve.

It is curious how a man can stamp his personality upon earthly things.  There will always be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Delaware ferries are full of excitement and meaning because of Walt Whitman.  Just as Stratford is Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman.  Some supercilious observers, flashing through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a town in which there is no delirious and seizing beauty.  Let us remind them of Walt’s own words: 

  A great city is that which has the greatest men and women,
  If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole
  world.

And as I came back across the river, and an airplane hovered over us at a great height, I thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, a poet who can catch the heart and meaning of these grievous bitter years, who can make plain the surging hopes that throb in the breasts of men.  The world has not flung itself into agony without some unexpressed vision that lights the sacrifice.  If Walt Whitman were here he would look on this new world of moving pictures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell us what it means.  His great heart, which with all its garrulous fumbling had caught the deep music of human service and fellowship, would have had true and fine words for us.  And yet he would have found it a hard world for one of his strolling meditative observancy.  A speeding motor truck would have run him down long ago!