Pete Doyle*

Peter Doyle in March joined his friend Whitman in the real country.  He was a strong man and worked up to his normal strength to the last day of his life.  Men, women and children felt the charm of his simple, direct being.  He held no pose.  Cared not a hang for anyone’s opinion.  Lived a free sane life and hated appointments.  Spoke only of things in his knowledge.  Never faked up any good-sounding phrases.

Pete was a cranky fellow, the boys said, but he held them close by his singular magnetic personality.  Ale tasted better when he was along.  They always wanted him at christenings and weddings and such occasions, but he usually begged off, to be in a quiet place where a few close friends knew where to find him.

Fellowship was Pete’s faith, and the Elks, to whose organization he gave time and money, represented his principles and embodied his ideas of practical service.  He was joyously looking forward to the remarkable Elks conclave in Philadelphia at the time of his death.

Pete’s early association with Walt Whitman, after they met in Washington, Pete being then a young man, colored his whole life.  Perhaps he never knew that Whitman was a great spiritual teacher, but the finest things in his nature were aroused, and his whole character was seasoned, by the strong love which grew up between them.  He showed us an old raglan Whitman had given him, and said that when he felt lonely or blue he wrapped himself in it and was at once calm, cheered and restored.

Doyle was full of stories of his days with Whitman. You could hardly talk five minutes with him before he was quoting Walt as his authority for some fact or opinion, or was telling some story he got from Walt.  Pete was easy to approach.  He liked to meet people without any preliminaries and wanted to be introduced simply by his first name—“this is Pete”—or as plain “mister.”  If dealt with in this way he was at once free with anybody, unawed, though they were learned professors or editors or bookmen from over the sea. To the interviewing bore he was a stale and silent proposition.

I forced myself on Pete one night as his train came in to Boston.  He was passing trunks out of his car.  The man who was receiving the trunks made some disrespectful remark about the Pennsylvania Railroad or about its way of doing business.  This unloosened the vials of Pete’s wrath.  He swore a streak—and he was gifted above the average sons of men in the intelligent use of invective.  Suddenly he spied Traubel standing there with me.  Traubel stepped forward and reaching up shook hands with Pete, who stood in the doorway of the car.  “It’s Dr. Wiksell,” said Traubel looking around over his shoulder towards me.  “God! is that so? did he hear me a-goin’ on?” Pete asked Traubel.  Then we were introduced.  I shall never forget it.  Pete looked magnificent in his indignation. There could not have been a more impressive and characteristic initiation of our friendship.  To see the hot anger one minute and then to see it so easily and genially melt away.  From that day on Traubel and I never lost sight of Pete for long at a time. Traubel would see him in Philadelphia, where he lived, and I would see him in Boston. Often, when Traubel was in Boston, we would go to Pete’s haunts together, talking, jollying, with him as he ate his dinner or drank his beer.  They are sacred memories—those dear nights, and that dear man, Pete, our true brother, now passed on.

Well: here’s good night, not good bye, to our darling brother.  Let all stand up and toast him.  He was Walt’s brother: he was, he is, your brother, too.  Toast him: with love in your hearts toast him.  Pete: Good night!

Percival Wiksell.