ever drawn it.  As our colleague Endymion suggested, it would make a fine subject for Walter Jack Duncan.  In the eastern end of this strip of fine old masonry resides the seafaring tavern we spoke of above; formerly known as Sweet’s, and a great place of resort (we are told) for Brooklynites in the palmy days before the Bridge was opened, when they used to stop there for supper before taking the Fulton Ferry across the perilous tideway.

The Fulton Ferry—­dingy and deserted now—­is full of fine memories.  The old waiting room, with its ornate carved ceiling and fine, massive gas brackets, peoples itself, in one’s imagination, with the lively and busy throngs of fifty and sixty years ago.  “My life then (1850-60) was curiously identified with Fulton Ferry, already becoming the greatest in the world for general importance, volume, variety, rapidity, and picturesqueness.”  So said Walt Whitman.  It is a curious experience to step aboard one of the boats in the drowsy heat of a summer afternoon and take the short voyage over to the Brooklyn slip, underneath one of the huge piers of the Bridge.  A few heavy wagons and heat-oppressed horses are almost the only other passengers.  Not far away from the ferry, on the Brooklyn side, are the three charmingly named streets—­Cranberry, Orange, and Pineapple—­which are also so lastingly associated with Walt Whitman’s life.  It strikes us as odd, incidentally, that Walt, who loved Brooklyn so much, should have written a phrase so capable of humorous interpretation as the following:  “Human appearances and manners—­endless humanity in all its phases—­Brooklyn also.”  This you will find in Walt’s Prose Works, which is (we suppose) one of the most neglected of American classics.

      [Illustration:  Drawing of “Lightning” statue]

But Fulton Street, Manhattan—­in spite of its two greatest triumphs:  Evelyn Longman Batchelder’s glorious figure of “Lightning,” and the strictly legal “three grains of pepsin” which have been a comfort to so many stricken invalids—­is a mere byway compared to Fulton Street, Brooklyn, whose long bustling channel may be followed right out into the Long Island pampas.  At the corner of Fulton and Cranberry streets “Leaves of Grass” was set up and printed, Walt Whitman himself setting a good deal of the type.  Ninety-eight Cranberry Street, we have always been told, was the address of Andrew and James Rome, the printers.  The house at that corner is still numbered 98.  The ground floor is occupied by a clothing store, a fruit stand, and a barber shop.  The building looks as though it is probably the same one that Walt knew.  Opposite it is a sign where the comparatively innocent legend BEN’S PURE LAGER has been deleted.