What Really Killed Walt Whitman?

“Sit a while dear son,

Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.” – “Section 46” of Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

At the start of every semester I ask my creative writings students what food they would choose to eat for their last meal. What they say reveals elements of their pasts, values, hopes, regrets. Students have answered crème brûlée, Papa John’s pizza, Ritz Crackers washed down with grape juice. My go-to is whole fried chicken, served cold, alongside champagne.

Beginning in a roundup of notable ailing figures titled “The Sick Among Us,” the New York Times chronicled the decline of Walt Whitman, whose two-hundredth birthday would have been today. In the article published December 18, 1891, he was said to have been “taken with a chill” and “quite feeble to-night, though not considered dangerously ill.” The poet was seventy-two years old, a celebrity the country over—his health warranted front-page news. Over the next few months, the Times continued with minute coverage of what turned out to be Whitman’s final days and diet. Among the liquids and solids mentioned, one in particular caught my eye—milk punch.

Milk punch dates back to the seventeenth century. The cocktail writer David Wondrich credits the drink to Aphra Behn, an English actress and writer noted for being one of the first women to make a living by publishing her work. Typically