With Walt Whitman in Camden vol. 1 (1906)

     WITH WALT WHITMAN IN CAMDEN

     (March 28-July 14, 1888)

     Horace Traubel

     BOSTON

     SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY

     1906

     Copyright, 1906, 1906, by Horace Traubel

     Copyright, 1905, by The Century Company

     Entered at Stationers' Hall

     Published February, 1906

To Readers

     My story is left as it was originally written. I have made no attempt to improve it. I have taken nothing off and put nothing on. I know that it has defects. I am not ashamed of defects. I know that it has virtues. I am not proud of virtues. Here is the record as it virginally came from my hands in the quick of the struggle it describes. It might have been made more literary. It might have been made more precise. Its loose joints might have been tightened. Some commas might have been put where colons are. Phrases might have been swung about. The formal grace of the recital might have been improved. I have preferred to respect its integrity. To let it remain untouched by a censorship. To let it continue, for good or bad, in its then native atmosphere. I do not want to reshape those years. I want them left as they were. I keep them forever contemporary. I trust in the spontaneity of their first inspirations.

     Did Whitman know I was keeping such a record? No. Yet he knew I would write of our experiences together. Every now and then he charged me with immortal commissions. He would say: "I want you to speak for me when I am dead." On several occasions I read him my reports. They were very satisfactory. "You do the thing just as I should wish it to be done." He always imposed it upon me to tell the truth about him. The worst truth no less than the best truth. He did

WITH WALT WHITMAN IN CAMDEN

Wednesday, March 28, 1888.

     At Walt's this evening. Called my attention to an old letter in the Philadelphia Press describing a visit to Emerson with Louisa Alcott, and Emerson's senility.  [See note p001.1] "The fact is pitiful enough but the narrative is more so: the letter is so uselessly literal, so much mathematical: has to tell it all and let it run over." He had himself seen Emerson "after the shadow." And he "saw nothing tragic or startling" in Emerson's condition. "The senile Emerson is the old Emerson in all that goes to make Emerson notable: this shadow is a part of him—a necessary feature of his nearly rounded life: it gives him a statuesqueness—throws him, so it seems to me, impressively as a definite figure in a background of mist."

     W. handed me a leaf from The Christian Union containing an article by Munger on Personal Purity, in which this is said:   [See note p001.2] "Do not suffer yourself to be caught by the Walt Whitman fallacy that all nature and all processes of nature are sacred and may therefore be talked about. Walt Whitman is not a true poet in this respect, or he would have scanned nature more accurately. Nature is silent and shy where he is loud and bold." "Now," W. quietly remarked, "Munger is all right, but he is also all wrong. If Munger had written Leaves of Grass that's what nature would have written through Munger. But nature was writing through Walt Whitman. And that is where

     W. watched me as I read the letter and when he saw I was through resumed: "Children of Adam stumps the worst and the best: I have even tried hard to see if it might not as I grow older or experience new moods stump me: I have even almost deliberately tried to retreat.   [See note p003.1] But it would not do. When I tried to take those pieces out of the scheme the whole scheme came down about my ears. I turned Buchanan's letter up today in a heap of nothings and somethings. I guess Buchanan and Munger would not agree about lots of the subsidiary things but here the preacher and the radical come together: though as for that there is a difference between them even in this thing: for while Munger talks of the 'fallacy' as though it was fundamental to Buchanan I am only guilty of a lack of taste.   [See note p003.2] Well—there are the pieces, to sink or swim with the book: and here is Walt Whitman to sink or swim likewise."

Thursday, March 29, 1888.

       [See note p004.3] In speaking on the subject today W. said to me that "the radical element in Lincoln was sadness bordering on melancholy, touched by a philosophy, and that philosophy touched again by a humor, which saved him from the logical wreck of his powers."

Friday, March 30, 1888.

       [See note p004.4] Happening to refer to something Ellen Terry had said about him in Chicago, which had been repeated to me in a letter, W. laughingly exclaimed: "We have heard from her

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direct on that point. Let me see—where is that letter? Oh, yes! I know!" He reached to the floor and picked up a book. "I remembered I had used it for a bookmark. It came several months ago. Here it is." This is the letter:

Sunday, April 1, 1888.

     At Harned's. A crowded table. W. in fine fettle. Felix Adler there: also Tom Dudley, once consul at Liverpool and now retired. Dudley is among high-tariff apostles as high as any.   [See note p006.3] W. is a free trader. The talk went hot, hit and miss, on the tariff. W. declared: "I am for getting all the walls down—all of them." "So I suppose," said Dudley, sarcastically: "even the walls between the planets, if you could." "If I could, yes," retorted Walt, with spirit: "that's what the astronomers are working all their days and nights, especially nights, to do!" He was even more explicit as the argument proceeded: "While I seem to love America, and wish to see America prosperous, I do not seem able to bring myself to love America, to desire American prosperity, at the expense of some other nation or even of all other nations."  [See note p006.4] "But must we not take care of home first of all?" asked Dudley. "Perhaps," replied W.: "but what is home—to the humanitarian what is home?"

     At the table Dudley toasted Lincoln. Opposite Whitman, on the wall, was a portrait of Lincoln.  [See note p007.1] When Dudley offered the toast, W. lifted his glass, turned his eyes up to the picture and exclaimed: "Here's to you! Here's to you!" Adler cried: "I shall always wish to remember Whitman as he looked at that moment." And to the table in general Adler remarked: "I feel honored in having three things in common with Mr. Whitman—I like coffee, I admire Millet and I love the lilac!"

     W. caught at the name of Millet.  [See note p007.2] "Yes, there's Millet—he's a whole religion in himself: the best of democracy, the best of all well-bottomed faith, is in his pictures. The man who knows his Millet needs no creed." Harned interjected this question: "If Millet is enough and to spare what's the use of Leaves of Grass?" "That's what I say," replied W.: "If I had stopped to ask what's the use I never would have written the Leaves: who knows, Millet would not have painted picture! The Leaves are really only Millet in another form—they are the Millet that Walt Whitman has succeeded in putting into words."  [See note p007.3] Dudley broke in: "But what about the Constitution of the United States while all the rest is going on?" W. laughed: "Good for you, Dudley. After Millet and Whitman we seem to have left little room for anything else. What about the Constitution? What about last year's almanac, the weeds back there on the lot, the ash heap down the street? I guess these things crowd into the scheme after all; and after all Millet and Whitman need not feel so lonely."

     W. is often described as lacking humor.  [See note p007.4] But this quiet play of pros with cons enters more or less into all his conversation. One of Harned's little boys slid himself off his high chair, after being thoroughly bored with our tiresome sallies in economics and philosophy, and remarked, to nobody in particular: "There's too much old folk here for

Monday, April 2, 1888.

     Mousing among some old papers on his table today, looking for something else, W. spilled out a letter which he first scanned himself and then passed over to me, saying: "If ever a fighter lived, Boyle O'Reilly is that fighter: he writes me fiery letters, he tells me fiery stories. Have you never met him? No? I shall never forget the first time he spoke to me about his prison life. He was all alive with the most vivid indignation—he was a great storm out somewhere, a great sea pushing up the shore. Read this letter. It is mild for him. Then read the letter he enclosed."

The Pilot Editorial Rooms,
Boston, Feb. 11, 1885.

Dear Mr. Whitman,

  [See note p008.3]

     I have received the enclosed letter today from one of the ablest men I have ever known; and I send it to you as another little proof that Irishmen understand and honor you. I hope you are well. Somebody told me lately that you had been in Boston within a month; but I could not believe that you would have gone away without letting me have the pleasure of seeing you.

       [See note p008.4] Bartlett is happy, and busy; but he has no more money than he had two years ago. His son is now with him, and they are finishing two portrait busts of rich men.

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     Mrs. Fairchild, whom you will remember, is never done preaching you and your work.  [See note p009.1]

     Good-bye.

Faithfully yours,

Boyle O'Reilly

     The enclosed letter follows:

39 Bowdoin Street [Boston]
10, 2, '85.

My Dear Boy,

     I am very grateful to you for inducing me to read Walt Whitman. He is to me that which he claims to be to all his readers, a Revelation and a Revealer. He has marshaled facts and sentiments before my mind's eye which have been floating, vaguely and transiently, through my consciousness since I commenced to be untrammeled in thought: he has given me views which help to render my 'dark days' endurable and my nights teem with companions.  [See note p009.2] When I read Walt Whitman nature speaks to me: when I read nature Walt Whitman speaks to me. He travels with me and he points out the goodness of men and things and he intensifies my pleasures by his presence and sympathy. Leaves of Grass! so like "the handkerchief of the Lord"! covering the face of creation with love and pity and admiration for "man and bird and beast" and thing! How sad that for a few 'bare' expressions it should be kept out of the hands of the multitude and the women and the children!

     I thought I knew the greatest American in my dear friend Henry George, but no!  [See note p009.3] Walt Whitman (whom he admires) is still greater, as a philanthropist, a democrat and a philosopher. He also excels your greatest theologians, naturalists, scientists and poets. He is an intellectual colossus or individuality, which admits of no comparison. He is not a poet and still he is greater than any—no dramatist and yet his characters breathe and strive and even smite you at his will: he knows little of the names of plants and animals,

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but he makes nature a domestic panorama: he can hardly be termed a religious man, yet he overflows with Faith and Hope and Love: he has no rank as a politician, yet his principles, if grasped, would revolutionize the world.  [See note p010.1] Thus, he is everything and yet—nothing but Walt Whitman, a distinction which should satisfy the most craving ambition.

I am your friend and debtor

I. G. Kelly.

     W. had pencilled this on the note: "Sent me by Boyle O'Reilly Feb. 85."  [See note p010.2] When he saw I had got through with the second letter he asked: "What do you think of that for a broad summing up? Barring any extreme statement, he seems to hit several real proper nails on their heads—gets pretty close to my ribs. The man with eyes to see that substance in my work must first of all have had it all in himself: we know that so well, so indubitably, so without disposition to quarrel or doubt, that it saves us from vanity. That man Kelly must be of the most real kind of real stuff. I like especially what he says about religion.  [See note p010.3] I claim everything for religion: after the claims of my religion are satisfied nothing is left for anything else: yet I have been called irreligious—an infidel (God help me!): as if I could have written a word of the Leaves without its religious root-ground. I am not traditionally religious—I know it: but even traditionally I am not anti: I take all the old forms and faiths and remake them in conformity with the modern spirit, not rejecting a single item of the earlier programs."

Tuesday, April 3d, 1888.

     He gave me some books to deliver to two or three persons in Philadelphia to whom he felt indebted for courtesies. He is always giving away books. He sent copies of the two volumes 1876 edition by me to Adler.   [See note p011.2] "Adler," he says, "is first rate soil. He is all gone on ethics. Worse things might happen to him, though ethics is bad enough. I do not see how these Ethical fellows can expect to do much as an opposition to the church: they may stir the church up, plague it into reforms, changes, even revolutions—but the church is bound to continue to be the church imminent—imminent, imperative.  [See note p011.3] People have thought I was powerful 'set agin' the church: but the church has not bothered me—I do not bother the church: that is a clean cut bargain. I am done with the letter of the church—with its hands and knees: but that part of the church which is not jailed in church buildings is all mine too, as well as anybody's—all of it, all of it!"

     My mother had sent W. some cookies. "The best part of every man is his mother," said W.  [See note p011.4] I told him of one of his girl friends who had just given birth to a boy baby. "She will be too proud to go with us when she gets up," he jocularly remarked—adding: "But any mother of any baby has a right to be proud."

     Back of him on the wall was a pencilled figure of a rather ragged looking nondescript. "Where did you get that?" I asked. "Would you believe it—the tramp himself was here this morning."  [See note p011.5] He was a curious character—an itinerant poet: and he read me some of his poems: Lord pass him, what stuff! But it was his own, written on the road. It made me feel bad to think that he could go along in the

Wednesday, April 4, 1888.

     W. not so well.  [See note p012.2] "I am not down in the mouth about it," he explained, "but I am still jealous of that tramp: I suppose he's bummin' along somewhere on the road eatin' apples and feelin' drowsy and doin' as he pleases—and here am I in this room growlin' with a bellyache. What is the use of poetry or anything else if a man must have a bellyache with it?"

     W. gave me an old letter from Linton. "This stuck its head out from a bunch over there this morning and I grabbed it. Take it along—put it among your souvenirs. That bunch of your souvenirs must be getting a bay window on it."

New Haven, Conn., May 19, 1875.

My Dear Whitman:

       [See note p012.3] Why have I not written to you? Why has not spring come? I have waited for that, waiting a little also till I could get through some work which would have made me uncompanionable.

     Now—I go to New York on Saturday June 5 to the Century meeting and remain in New York till Tuesday or Wednesday after. Can not you meet me so as to return

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home with me? Apple blossoms surely will be out by then, and some summer warmth to enable you to enjoy your hammock (did I tell you I have one?) on the piazza.  [See note p013.1] I want you here and to set you to rights. Can you come then (not for a night or two but to stay indefinitely ) or will you rather come later?

     Do which may best suit you; but come; and let me know as near as you can when I may look for you.

Affectionately yours

W. J. Linton.

     I want a copy of your Mystic Trumpeter for England.

Thursday, April 5, 1888.

     "I feel so good again today," W. assures me, "that I no longer envy the tramp.  [See note p013.2] I think that dusty cuss did me lots of good: he left me temporarily in a quarrelsome mood: I hated the room here, and my lame leg, and my dizzy head: I got hungry for the sun again, for the hills: and though Mary brought me up a good supper she didn't bring the sort of food required to satisfy a fellow with my appetite. She didn't bring the sun and the stars and offer them to me on a plate: she brought muffins, a little jelly, a cup of tea: and I could have cried from disappointment.  [See note p013.3] But later, next day, yesterday, the tramp's gift got into my veins—it was a slow process, but got there: and that has made me happy. I thought he had taken everything he had brought away with him again: but I was mistaken. He shook some of his dust off on me: that dust has taken effect."

Friday, April 6, 1888.

Saturday, April 7, 1888.

     W. is always a good deal interested in public discussions of the college.   [See note p015.1] How much freedom could be expected in the atmosphere and teaching of the schools? "To what extent can professors and editors, scholars tied up with institutions and writers writing for their daily bread (and writing under the severest conditions) be expected to talk out and defy the formal monitors of speech?" W. says the college is "of necessity an aristocracy." We have often gone over that same ground.   [See note p015.2] Today he revived the subject by producing a letter from Lathrop written to Burroughs in 1877. "This," W. contended, "shows how serious such difficulties are—how far they crawl serpent-like out from the college walls into the general world." To him Lathrop's letter was "touched with spiritual tragedy." "Hope deferred makes the heart sick—so does speech deferred." But what can a man do when he finds himself driven up against that wall?  [See note p015.3] "Come forward and make a peaceful surrender, be dragged out and grudgingly capitulate or stand where he is and be shot." This confession from Lathrop, W. contended, served to show why it would "be impossible for such a man, fine as he is, fine as his letter is, to really build up and round out a capacious career": there was a "lesion somewhere in his marrow." He looked at me and seemed to see some distrust in my face. "You think I am condemning Lathrop? Thousands from it! I love him—honor him: if there's anything comes short it excites my regret: I judge no one." This is the letter:

Sunday, April 8, 1888.

Monday, April 9, 1888.

       [See note p022.1] "Tucker," said W., "has been giving me the very devil in Liberty for calling the Emperor William a 'faithful shepherd' in my poem. In fact, Tucker is not alone: I have got a whole batch of letters of protest—one, two, three, a dozen; but too many of the fellows forget that I include emperors, lords, kingdoms, as well as presidents, workmen, republics." We talked the matter over for some time. W. was good natured about it all. Yet he was disposed to regard the criticism rather seriously. As he said: "It is all from my friends. Take William O'Connor—take Tucker himself—they deserve to be listened to." In winding up our chat he said: "I see I must be careful in such things or maybe the boys will think I am apostate.  [See note p022.2] Yet they ought to be just to me, too. There was nothing in this little poem to contradict my earlier philosophy. It all comes to the same thing. I am as radical now as ever—just as radical—but I am not asleep to the fact that among radicals as among the others there are hoggishnesses, narrownesses, inhumanities, which at times almost scare me for the future—for the future belongs to the radical and I want to see him do good things with it."

       [See note p022.3] Matthew Arnold was mentioned: "Arnold has been writing new things about the United States. Arnold could know nothing about the States—essentially nothing: the real things here—the real dangers as well as the real promises—a man of his sort would always miss. Arnold knows

     Just as I was about to leave W. reverted to the Emperor William affair: "Do you think I had better write a little note to my friends making that line a little clearer?" "I thought you never explained?" "I never do explain—rather, I never have explained: yet the rule is not arbitrary." "A rule you can't break is no good even as a rule." "That is true—true—if I wrote I would do no more than make it clear that my reference was to the Emperor as a person—that my democracy included him: not the William the tyrant, the aristocrat, but the William the man who lived according to his light: I do not see why a democrat may not say such a thing and remain a democrat."  [See note p023.2]

Tuesday, April 10, 1888.

     I quoted W. that phrase from Swinton's letter: "I have been going toward social radicalism of late years." "Yes," said W., "I remember it. Are we not all going that way or already gone?"

     I picked up a stained piece of paper from under my heel and read it, looking at W. rather quizzically.  [See note p025.2] "What is it?" he asked. I handed it to him. He pushed his glasses down over his eyes and read it. "That's old and kind o' violent—don't you think—for me? Yet I don't know but it still holds good." I took it out of the hand with which he reached it back to me. "Put it among your curios" he said, "you'll have enough curios to start a Walt Whitman museum some day." The note is below:

       [See note p025.3] "Go on, my dear Americans, whip your horses to the utmost—Excitement; money! politics!—open all your valves and let her go—going, whirl with the rest—you will soon get under such momentum you can't stop if you would. Only make provision betimes, old States and new States, for several thousand insane asylums. You are in a fair way to create a nation of lunatics."

     Some neighbor had sent W. a plate of doughnuts.  [See note p025.4] He put four of them in a paper bag and gave them to me for my mother. "Tell her they are not doughnuts—tell her they are love."

Wednesday, April 11, 1888.

       [See note p026.1] A hospital talk with W. led him to speak of a letter he had just recieved from a western man, now prosperous, who had as a soldier been nursed by W. and was offering to send money, "with love and out of my great surplus." W. was visibly touched. We had a fine hour together, W. full of reminiscence. "I got lots of help those days from noble people all over the North—especially from women." He stopped and pushed his forefinger among some papers on the round top, drawing forth an old yellow envelope, unstamped, which he shoved over toward me.  [See note p026.2] "That was a great woman." I saw that the letter was addressed in his hand to "Hannah E. Stevenson 86 Temple st, Boston Mass." This memorandum was made on the envelope: "sent Oct. 8, '63." "That," he explained, "was the rough draft. Take it along: it will give you a little look in on the sort of work I had to do those days." The letter is given in full.

Washington October 8 1863

Dear friend

       [See note p026.3] Your letter was recieved, enclosing one from Mary Wigglesworth with $30 from herself and her sisters Jane and Anne—As I happened stopping at one of the hospitals last night Miss Lowe just from Boston came to me and handed me the letters—My friend you must convey the blessings of the poor young men around me here, many amid deepest afflictions not of body only but of soul, to your friends Mary, Jane, and Anne Wigglesworth. Their and all contributions shall be sacredly used among them. I find more and more how a little money rightly directed, the exact thing at the exact moment, goes a great ways.  [See note p026.4] To make gifts comfort and truly nourish these American soldiers, so full of manly independence, is required the spirit of love and boundless brotherly tenderness, hand in hand with greatest tact. I do not find any lack in the store houses, nor eager willingness of the North to unlock them for the

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soldiers—but sadly everywhere a lack of fittest hands to apply, and of just the right thing in just the right measure, and of all being vivified by the spirit I have mentioned—Say to the sisters Mary and Jane and Anne Wigglesworth, and to your own sister Margaret, that as I feel it a privilege myself to be doing a part among these things, I know well enough the like privilege must be sweet to them, to their compassionate and sisterly souls, and need indeed few thanks, and only ask its being put to best use, what they feel to give among sick and wounded.  [See note p027.1] —I have recieved L. B. Russell's letter and contribution by same hand, and shall try to write to him to-morrow—

Walt Whitman

     Address Care Major Hapgood Paymaster U S A
cor 15th and F St Washington D C

Thursday, April 12, 1888.

Friday, April 13, 1888.

Saturday, April 14, 1888.

       [See note p034.1] W. is not insensible to professional applause, but he is emotionally most moved by the accessions of obscure persons who have no axes to grind and are not bothered by the pros and cons with which culture is apt to wear itself out. He spoke of this today and as illustrating his notion gave me a letter from his table and called my attention to a note he had made on the envelope: "from a lady—a stranger—Washington—1870 (a letter to comfort a fellow and brace him up)." He waited while I read.

June 14th, 1870.

To Walt Whitman, Gentleman.
Sir.

       [See note p034.2] You have had many tributes from the learned and great of Europe and America, yet you will not despise that of a simple, honest woman who writes to thank you, in all sincerity, for those Leaves of Grass from which her soul has drawn such health, freshness, and aroma. I visited Washington for the first time this May, the guest of Mrs. Schwartz (who one night in passing off the platform of a car gave you a rose). I was compelled to [take] many car rides in my transit to "the city." On car No. 14 I encountered you more than once. Your face, which I chose to think a fac simile of the grand old patriarch's, Abraham, attracted me. Through Mr. Devlin, from Mr. Doyle, I was allowed to read your—I prefer saying—I was permitted a long look into the wonderful mirror of your creation, where I saw the reflex of your soul, and felt the influence of your divining power.  [See note p034.3] Mr. O'Connor's manly, eloquent, but most unnecessary vindication of your purity was also given me.

     Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves,
As souls only understand souls.

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     I needed no one to translate for me the language of yours, written so plainy in every line and furrow of your face, and revealed to the world in the many gracious deeds of love to your kind.

     I closed your book revelation, a wiser and more thoughtful woman than when from idle curiousity I first opened it at the very stanza, Perfections, which I have just quoted.  [See note p035.1] Life held grander possibilities to me from that hour, and the mission of a soul born into this world to love, influence, and suffer, was invested with profounder responsibilities.

       [See note p035.2] To whoever is granted the power to make another long for Truth for its own beautiful sake; love the lowly and opressed for the sake of the divinity spark which is in each human body and see in Nature the heart of the great Mother-God who concieved and gave it birth—to such an one there is a debt due of allegiance and profound gratitude.

     I thank you Sir, with all my heart, and pray for you the abiding Presence and hourly comfort of the divine Pure in Heart whom you worship.

     I need make no apology for this note. You will not misunderstand it. I go to my home in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, tomorrow. I may never again chance to see you, but you will believe, nevertheless, that I will wish for you—and teach others to do the same—a long earth life of usefulness, and an eternity of appreciation and renown.

Reverently yours

Mrs. Nellie Eyster.

     When I was through he asked: "What do you think of that? Would a thousand dollar bill do you as much good as that?  [See note p035.3] I think I never got a letter that went straighter to what it was aimed for: it's better than getting medals from a king or pensions from Congress."

     W. had been burning some old manuscripts today. A piece had dribbled at the foot of the stove. I picked it up.

       [See note p036.1] "Eighty millions of Tartars may shave the top of the head from Comparison to Self-Esteem, and so on down to the ears; and this may be done for thirty centuries, and be one of the institutions of the Empire.—But if a man appears at the end of that time in whose eyes the custom is unnatural and therefore ungraceful, this man will be none the less right because he is denied by a hundred generations, whose coronal fronts were well scraped, and whose pig tails hung down behind."

     Above this note, which was of an old period, probably the fifties (the ink was much faded) W. had written in pencil: "Japanese women (mothers) shave their eyebrows."

Sunday, April 15, 1888.

     To W.'s in the forenoon. "I'm going up to Tom's for tea—you will be there?" He was trying on a new red tie. "Red has life in it—our men mostly look like funerals, undertakers: they set about to dress as gloomy as they can."

     As I was about leaving W. said suddenly: "By the way, I have found the Tennyson letter I promised you.   [See note p036.2] Take it along—take good care of it: the curio hunters would call it quite a gem." [W. borrowed this letter back from me several times in after years and several times sent people to me to look at it.] "Tennyson has written me on a number of occasions—is always friendly, sometimes even warm: I don't think he ever quite makes me out: but he thinks I belong: perhaps that is enough—all I ought to expect." I read the letter. "It is a poem," I said. "Or better than a poem," added W. "Tennyson is an artist even when he writes a letter: this letter itself is protected all round from indecision, forwardness, uncertainty: it is correct—choice, final."

       [See note p037.2] Later at Harned's. No strangers present. "With each month that passes I feel more and more uncertain on my pins." "But you don't worry about the pins as long as you are all right at the top?" "I don't worry either way. But I guess I am all right at the top—at least as near right as Walt Whitman ever was: you know how crazy I have always been to some people."

     W. talked with us in the parlor a long time.   [See note p037.3] "When I got up Monday morning last I had three sets of verses in hand. I sent one to the Herald, one to the Century and one to the Cosmopolitan. The Century folks sent me a check at once. The piece sent to the Herald was used according to our standing arrangement. The Cosmopolitan editor rejected me. He wrote a note saying the poem did not attract him—he suggested that I should submit other matter." The poem refused was To get the final Lilt of Songs.

       [See note p037.4] W. got hold of a San Francisco portrait of Ingersoll from Harned's mantel and regarded it long and intently. "That is a grand brow: and the face—look at the face (see the mouth): it is the head, the face, the poise, of a noble human being. America don't know today how proud she ought to be of Ingersoll." Harned read aloud some paragraphs from Ingersoll's North American Review paper on Art and

     "What do you think?" W. asked: "I've received an invitation to embark on a lecturing tour in England—a real invitation with dollars, pounds, back of it.  [See note p038.2] Of course, it's impossible, but it's interesting. My friends here and there, both sides, do not realize how badly broken up I am. Another thing. Hollyer, over there in New York, who is getting up some etchings of the writers—Carlyle, Whittier, Longfellow, Tennyson, and so forth—has written me for my portrait, sending along some specimens of his work, with which I am but little impressed.  [See note p038.3] I assented to his request and sent him a copy of what Mary Smith calls the Lear picture: you all know it. Of course I am a lot curious and very little certain about Hollyer."

       [See note p038.4] At the table W. raised his glass before the others had done so and glancing at the picture of Lincoln on the wall opposite exclaimed: "Here's to the blessed man above the mantel!" and then remarked: "You know this is the day he died." "After my dear, dear mother, I guess Lincoln gets almost nearer me than anybody else." W. borrowed Boswell's Johnson from Harned, saying: "I have never so far read it."  [See note p038.5] "Tom," he said, "when I was out in the carriage I picked up a lame fellow on the road—a sort of tramp, limpsy, hungry, a bit dirty, but damned human,

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much like your uncle here, bless his buttons!" H. exclaimed: "Walt—that sentence is as good as a sermon." W. put on a look of mock inquiry: "Is that all it's worth—is that the best you can say of it?"

     W. is writing about Hicks. Morse, now in the west, has made and sent W. a copy of a Hicks bust. W says: "The box is still unopened.   [See note p039.1] I told Sidney I was writing a Hicks piece which I would deliver in a lecture and give to Lippincott's to print (Will Walsh says he wants it). The bust has been along two or three weeks. I want Horace to come down with his hatchet or come down and use my hatchet and open the box."

     Eakins' portrait of W. being mentioned, W. said: "It is about finished. Eakins asked me the other day: 'Well, Mr. Whitman, what will you do with your half of it?' I asked him: 'Which half is mine?' Eakins answered my question in this way: 'Either half,' and said again regarding that: 'Somehow I feel as if the picture was half yours, so I'm going to let it be regarded in that light.'  [See note p039.2] Neither of us at present has anything to suggest as to its final disposition. The portrait is very strong—it contrasts in every way with Herbert Gilchrist's, which is the parlor Whitman. Eakins' picture grows on you. It is not all seen at once—it only dawns on you gradually. It was not at first a pleasant version to me, but the more I get to realize it the profounder seems its insight. I do not say it is the best portrait yet—I say it is among the best: I can safely say that. I know you boys object to its fleshiness; something is to be said on that score; if it is weak anywhere perhaps it is weak there—too much Rabelais instead of just enough. Still, give it a place: it deserves a big place.   [See note p039.3] I seem to be in great request for portraits just now. The last request was from Warren Miller—he is in Brooklyn—who wants to know whether I will give him some sittings for a portrait in oil. I told him I would—yes, I would."

     When W. was leaving H. said: "I hope you have enjoyed yourself today enough to come again."  [See note p040.1] W. replied merrily: "Better than that, I have enjoyed myself today enough to hate to go at all."

Monday, April 16, 1888.

     "I found the Gosse letter today," said W. as I entered: "I knew it was about somewhere. I wasn't looking for it—it just turned up." I took it and read it.

1 East 28th St.,
New York City, Dec. 29, 1887.

Dear Mr. Whitman:

       [See note p040.2] I am very anxious not to leave this country without paying my respects to you, and bearing to you in person the messages which I bring from Mr. Swinburne and other common friends in England. I propose, therefore, if it be not inconvenient to you, to call upon you in Camden on Saturday next, in the forenoon.

     Pray believe me to be, Dear Mr. Whitman

Faithfully yours

Edmund Gosse.

     "This was the letter—this was the meeting—that O'Connor seemed to think was so significant.  [See note p040.3] I do not know about the significance—I was glad to hear from him, glad to have him come. Gosse is very largely a formal craftsman but he has a little disposition our way."

     W. was in excellent humor. He directed me to the hatchet and had me open the Hicks box. Meanwhile he kept up a running talk. "Half an hour ago I was wired by The Herald for some word on Matthew Arnold, who died suddenly today, and that is already finished and mailed.  [See note p040.4] Did you ever know me to be so fast before? What's to be said of Arnold? Do you know? My judgment would, on the whole, the judgment I sent to The Herald, be considered

     Gilchrist sends W. a card invite to an exhibit of his Whitman in London.  [See note p041.2] W. said: "Horace, I can't go. You go as my representative." "All right. And what shall I say of the picture when I get there?" "Nothing unless you must." "And if I must?" "Well, if you must be careful what you do. Don't set it very far up—but don't damn it, either." Arnold was referred to again. Arnold had recently said of Lincoln that he "lacked distinction." This seemed to irritate W.  [See note p041.3] "That makes me think of some one who once said there were two kinds of jokers—the damned good one and the damned bad one. Arnold is a damned bad one. Swinburne resorted to similar strategy to destroy Byron but it would not work. Byron has fire enough to burn forever."  [See note p041.4] W. continued: "I have a warm place even for Shelley. He seems so opposite—so ethereal—all ethereal—always living in the presence of a great ideal, as I do not.  [See note p041.5] He was not sensual—he was not even sensuous."

     The poem The Cosmopolitan rejected was sent by W. to The Herald, in which it appeared this morning. His con-

     Speaking of the "strain of American life" W. declared that "every man is trying to outdo every other man—giving up modesty, giving up honesty, giving up generosity, to do it: creating a war, every man against every man: the whole wretched business falsely keyed by money ideals, money politics, money religions, money men."  [See note p042.2]

Tuesday, April 17, 1888.

     Adler promised to send W. the Sower (Millet) but writes saying he cannot find a copy in New York such as he wishes and will send another peasant subject which he thinks would be almost equally interesting. W. had a lot of old cancelled envelopes in a rubber. "What are these?" I asked. "These are my visiting cards: I put them in my pocket when I go out."  [See note p042.3]

     W. sent an autographed portrait of himself to Harned's cook. "She has done as much to make me happy as anybody." A couple of volumes of poetry from unknown writers reached W. by mail today.  [See note p042.4] "Everybody is writing, writing, writing—worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers—every damned one of us—were sent off somewhere with toolchests to do some honest work." We got talking a little about Carlyle, whereat W. produced a Burroughs letter which he explained to me had

     We exchanged some few words about Joaquin Miller. W. was very willing to say good things about him.  [See note p044.2] "Miller is wholesome: he is a bit of his own West done up in print. I ought to be very grateful to him. He has always gone out of his way to show that he stood with me—that the literary class would not find him aligned with them in their assaults on me. Miller never quite does the work I expected him to do. He may yet do it." W. gave me a Miller letter the other day. It illustrates the friendliness of their relations. Miller enclosed a portrait of himself. I insert the letter here. It was written in 1874.

Hotel Chatham,
67 and 69, Rue Neuve St. Augustin, Paris.

My dear Walt Whitman:

       [See note p044.3] In London last week I met many mutual friends who were asking after you and wondering when you would come over to the great Smoky Capital—friends who know you only by your books. Last winter Story of Rome the author of Cleopatra, you remember, asked me for your photo once. I gave it him to contemplate

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and he has it yet. Are you coming, and when? Most like I shall return to the States this winter and then visit Washington for I have never yet seen our national capital.  [See note p045.1]

     The news of the great Democratic victories has just reached us and all Paris—that is all American Paris—is terribly excited. Of course this suits me, born Democrat as I am, but I trust it will not at all disturb the future of my dear friend the "good gray poet." My address is the Langhorne Hotel. Drop me a line.

Yours faithfully,

Joaquin Miller.

Wednesday, April 18, 1888.

     Whitman adds as to Arnold: "He will not be missed.  [See note p045.2] There is no gap, as with the going of men like Carlyle, Emerson, Tennyson. My Arnold piece did not appear in Tuesday's Herald. I wonder if the editor was a little in doubt about it? It appeared today, however. The Herald has a higher opinion of Arnold than I have. I discussed Arnold in effect—throughout in such words—as one of the dudes of literature. Does not Leaves of Grass provide a place even for Arnold? Certainly, certainly: Leaves of Grass has room for everybody: if it did not make room for all it would not make room for one. What we mostly need in this age are the men who do the portage.  [See note p045.3] We have for a hundred years—yes, I may say, for two hundred years—been about to be transferred—something has always delayed. Some object to being tranferred but are transferred in spite of themselves. I am myself of late years more inclined to sit still exploiting and expounding my views than was the case back in the past when I was physically up to more."

     W. said Adler's Millet had not yet come. W. reading the Boswell he got from Harned Sunday. "Johnson does not impress me.  [See note p045.4] I read this not because it interests me much but because I ought to know what the old man did

Thursday, April 19, 1888.

     W. quizzed in this way: "When you write do you take anybody's advice about writing?  [See note p048.1] Don't do it: nothing will so mix you up as advice. If a fellow wants to keep clear about himself he must first of all swear a big oath that he'll never take any advice."

     W. brought up the subject of November Boughs. When would he bring the book out? "I don't know: I get up some mornings and say, this is the day: but somehow before the day is over I see this is not the day: yet it will come out, and before long, God willing, and you, Horace Traubel, willing: for I shall need you to help me through with this expedition.  [See note p048.2] If you go back on me now I might just as well fold my sails." He produced the mass of papers going to make up the copy for November Boughs: a bundle of letters, reprints, new manuscript, pictures, tied together with a bit of coarse string. "This is the sacred package," he explained, solemnly. "It is ready for the printer, ready this minute, but I do not seem to pluck up the courage to get the enterprise under way."  [See note p048.3] Alluded to his memory: "It lasts—lasts wonderfully well: it plays me some tricks—but then it always did: it is not a marvellous, only a decently good, memory. I remember that the Broadway stage-coachmen could turn back over a month's confusion of trips—tell with readiness and accuracy the tally-numbers of passengers of the up and down rides of any hour that could be named—the records being always kept in this simple fashion by the

     W. waited till I had read this letter. Then he exclaimed: "Well, how does that strike you?  [See note p050.2] Don't you think that's a bright letter for a dark day? I like these letters from people I don't know, from people who don't know me, these confessions of love, these little 'how do you dos' that appear every now and then out of mysterious obscure places. I know some people will damn me and some will save me—the big guns who noise about the world: I don't know as it affects me either way. But such a letter as this has a verity, a sureness, a solid reason for itself, which gives it special value. I confess it pushed clean into my vitals."

Friday, April 20, 1888.

       [See note p051.2] I read W. a story about Turner—how he had on varnishing day once blacked out one of his brilliant canvases in order to save some adjacent pictures of other men from the destructive contrast. W. exclaimed: "Beautiful! beautiful! It's as fine as anything in Plutarch. The common heroisms of life are anyhow the real heroisms; the impressive heroisms; not the military kind, not the political kind: just the ordinary world kind, the bits of brave conduct happening about us: things that don't get into the papers—things that the preachers don't thank God for in their pulpits—the real things, nevertheless—the only things that eventuate in a good harvest."

       [See note p051.3] As I left W. put into my hands an O'Connor letter, old date, of which he said: "Put this with your Emerson papers: it throws more light on Emerson matters: O'Connor is always throwing light on things—lavishing light, we might say: vehement, penetrating light: light that nothing can stand up against. William is a torrent—he sweeps everything before him.  [See note p051.4] This letter is only one letter of many letters—all of them alike in that: alike in their power to make themselves felt. I don't believe William ever wrote

       [See note p054.4] When W. saw I was through reading this vigorous letter he said: "That's like a battle-ship firing both sides and fore and aft: no man in America carries as big an armament for controversy as William—can do as heavy immediate execution. I would hate to be in his way myself—to have him feel me to be an obstruction, that he had to strike me down; I'd far rather have him on my side. I was going to say What a fighter! I won't say that: I will say: What a lover! For, after all, William is a lover: after all? yes—and before all, too."

Saturday, April 21, 1888.

     In with W. Complains of headaches. "Rather, not aches, but a sort of congestion.  [See note p055.1] I have felt myself for two weeks back to be in a rather dubious condition. Today I have felt worse than any day previous. But what's the use complaining?—Why should I trouble you with my pains? You have pains of your own." He paused for a minute. I said nothing. He then continued: "I don't believe you have any pains of your own: I believe you are a sickless animal—I don't believe you know what it is to be on your back." I confessed that I did not. "Neither did I for the most of my life: I hardly knew I had a stomach or a head for all the trouble I had with either."

     He got talking about New York—its literary men.  [See note p055.2] "They are mainly a sad crowd: take the whole raft of them—Stoddard, Fawcett, the rest—what are they saying or doing that is in the least degree significant? I am told that Stoddard is pretty sour on me—hates even to have my name mentioned in his presence, never refers to me with respect.  [See note p055.3] I do not blame him. But—I am sorry for Walt Whitman. There is Taylor. He was first rather friendly. Then he went to New York and experienced a change of heart.  [See note p055.4] Yet I have been told by a man who was very near to Taylor that he was melting towards me again when he died. I had a couple of letters from Taylor back, back, years and years ago. I don't know where they are: they were good letters. When they turn up, if they turn up, you shall have them. They will add a bit to the material you have collected about me. Did I tell you that I dined with Stoddard at the house of a Mrs. Bleecker? He was courteous but not friendly on that occasion. New York gives the literary man a touch of snow: he is never quite the same human being after New York has really set in: the best fellows have few chances of escape. Take John himself. Burroughs, I mean.  [See note p055.5] He lives just far enough off. Even John barely

     W. gave me another Miller letter.  [See note p057.1] "I guess I belong to Miller: he has proved himself in so many ways—his books have proved him, his personal affection has proved him."

Revere House, Boston, May 27, '75.

My dear Walt Whitman,

     Your kind letter is received and the sad news of your ill health makes this pleasant weather even seem tiresome and out of place. I had hoped to find you the same hale and whole man I had met in New York a few years ago and now I shall perhaps find you bearing a staff all full of pain and trouble.  [See note p057.2] However my dear friend as you have sung from within and not from without I am sure you will be able to bear whatever comes with that beautiful faith and philosophy you have ever given us in your great and immortal chants. I am coming to see you very soon as you request; but I cannot say today or set tomorrow for I am in the midst of work and am not altogether my own master. But I will come and we will talk it all over together. In the meantime, remember that whatever befall you you have the perfect love and sympathy of many if not all of the noblest and loftiest natures of the two hemispheres. My dear friend and fellow toiler good bye.

Yours faithfully,

Joaquin Miller.

Sunday, April 22, 1888.

     W. said to a visitor in my hearing: "The American people wash too much." "See," said the visitor: What did I tell you? His gospel is a gospel of dirt." "What did you say to that?" asked W.  [See note p059.1] "I only said you were misunderstood—that what you meant was that the American people did not sufficiently honor the trades, the physical occupations." "Of course, and wasn't that obvious?" "Not to your vistor." "I suppose not. But what do such visitors come for anyhow? To be confirmed in their prejudices. I think our people are getting entirely too decent. They like nice white hands, men and women. They are too much disturbed by dirt. They need the open air, coarse work—physical tasks: something to do away from the washstand and the bathtub. God knows, I'm not opposed to clean hands. But clean hands, too, may be a disgrace. It was the disgraceful clean hands I had in mind."

     W.'s friends often rally him about his aristocracy.  [See note p059.2] W. says for himself: "I appeal to no one: I look in all men for the heroic quality I find in Caesar, Carlyle, Emerson: yes indeed—find it, too, it is so surely present. If that is aristocracy then I am an aristocrat."

     I spoke of Lincoln—of the Nicolay-Hay biography. W. said: "That reminds me." Reaching forward to the table and pulling a letter out from under a block—"Here's a letter from John Hay to me written long ago—twelve years ago.  [See note p059.3] I laid it aside for you. It illustrates the friendly basis upon which our acquaintance rests. When Hay was with Lincoln I used to see a great deal of him. He has been loyal—has always watched my work, has inevitably appeared at the right time with his applause. Here is the letter.  [See note p059.4] It is mighty decent of John to talk out in meeting as he has—to avow his faith. But read the letter." W. had written some memoranda on the letter, which was without an envelope. "July 25, '76, Letter from John Hay (Custer poem slips and paper sent him July 25)."

       [See note p060.2] "There's no use talking," said W., after I had finished reading the letter, "I no doubt deserved my enemies but I don't believe I deserved my friends."

Monday, April 23, 1888.

     To see W. He said: "I gave you some notes from editors the other day—notes declining the poems. I have found you another to add to the collection. This is from Alden: it is more recent than one or two of the others. You see, I have been declined everywhere more or less. Alden is friendly. I never quarrel with the editors.  [See note p060.3] Besides, it's best not to have a royal road—it stiffens a fellow up to be told all around that he is not wanted, that his room is better than his company, that he has a good heart—that he can nurse soldiers but can't write poetry. But read Alden's little note: it's all in his own hand, polite but rigid: rigid? yes, almost frigid."

       [See note p061.2] W. got talking of Emerson again: "The world does not know what our relations really were—they think of our friendship always as a literary friendship: it was a bit that but it was mostly something else—it was certainly more than that—for I loved Emerson for his personality and I always felt that he loved me for something I brought him from the rush of the big cities and the mass of men. We used to walk together, dine together, argue, even, in a sort of a way, though neither one of us was much of an arguer. We were not much for repartee or sallies or what people ordinarily call humor, but we got along together beautifully—the atmosphere was always sweet, I don't mind saying it, both on Emerson's side and mine: we had no friction—there was no kind of fight in us for each other—we were like two Quakers together. Dear Emerson!  [See note p061.3] I doubt if the literary classes which have taken to coddling him have any right to their god. He belonged to us—yes, to us—rather than to them." Then after a pause: "I suppose to all as well as to us—perhaps to no clique whatever."

     W. wandered into some side remarks on what he calls "the New York crowd of scrawlers." Winter, for instance. "There's little Willie Winter— miserable cuss!"  [See note p061.4] Of Stedman: "Stedman's judgment sometimes has a grandmotherly tinge." Of Stoddard: "I allow for Stoddard what he will not allow for me—that he has written good things. He

     W. spoke of Washington as "a big man after all." I said: "But I think Lincoln was a bigger man after all."  [See note p062.2] W. laughed and replied at once: "I know you are right—Lincoln was more likely as a Walt Whitman Horace Trauble man: Washington belonged to another period, to another social era: and Washington is too big to be trifled with. I allow him his full measure. But Lincoln? Well, we are very near Lincoln. He is like somebody that lives in our own house."  [See note p062.3] Described Kennedy's conversion: "It was slow, gradual—won out of an actual radical antipathy. Kennedy is the mixed fruit of the Puritan consciousness. Think of Walt Whitman and Plymouth Rock getting somehow together. It is hard to think out. Kennedy could not think it out at first: it was the most difficult problem he ever tackled: but finally the snarl was escaped. Kennedy came out of it on our side."  [See note p062.4] W. further: "Tom was in today—brought some kind of a preacher along: I don't even remember his name—a clever fellow but preachery all over, like a man in a lather. It did my eyes good to look away from him towards Tom—Tom, who is a normal man, gruff, honest, direct, simple, strong."

Tuesday, April 24, 1888.

     W. had been to Gloucester to a planked shad dinner and was unusually tired. Remarked his bad ears. "I am getting a little deaf—I don't hear little things.  [See note p063.2] I have to be pounded and yelled at to hear." This was an exaggeration called out by the fact that I had knocked a long time at the door and rang the bell and was not heard. W. was alone in the house. I asked him how he was managing to go about so readily. He prefers to be alone on these excursions. "The worst of it is I not only sit here and simmer all day long but am growing contented to do it—losing the desire to move.  [See note p063.3] I do not enjoy the sign—it seems like the beginning of the end: yet it is more and more marked. I resolutely say I won't get tired and won't stay at home—yet I am tired even while I speak and settle down into my chair as if I was never to leave it. I do not hide the facts from myself. They do not concern me. I never invite trouble to hurry up." I found W. reading Louise Chandler Moulton's book on Marston. "How is that?" I asked.  [See note p063.4] W. explained: "She was here yesterday. She left me the book. I have been trying to make something out of it—so far have not succeeded. Marston did some creditable work—work, however, that can hardly live. It lacked grit—it lacked the requisite organs: it was largely in the air. A sweet enough fellow, though, with a life tragedy, which should have taught him how to write. Literary men learn so little from life—borrow so much from the borrowers."

     W. was joyous over what he called "a piece of the best news."  [See note p063.5] What was the best news? "The Whitman Club in Boston has petered out. It failed because I sat down on

       [See note p064.2] W. alluded to Goldsmith as "the Jim Scovel of literature," (J. S. a local man "of flaring but unreliable qualities," to quote W's words), and added: "I have not read The Deserted Village and The Traveller, but have read The Vicar of Wakefield more times than I can count."

     Walsh has been saying something in Lippincott's to this effect: Whitman stands for idea, Tennyson stands for expression.  [See note p064.3] W. said: "It seems hard to justify such a hard and fast judgment. The idea must always come first—is indispensable. Take my own method—if you call it that. I have the idea clearly and fully realized before I attempt to express it. Then I let it go. The idea becomes so important to me I may perhaps underrate the other element—the expressional element—that first, last and all the time emphasis placed by literary men on the mere implement of words instead of upon the work itself.  [See note p064.4] You see it in Doctor Johnson—expression always paramount: you see it in Walsh himself here, who is one among the many who write down everything that comes into their minds without reference to their ultimate meanings. I avoid at all times the temptation to patch up and refine, preferring to let each version or whatever go out substantially as it was first sug-

Wednesday, April 25, 1888.

     Some anarchist was in to see W. today.  [See note p065.1] W. did not know his name. "He was a stranger to me—a Russian, I think: clean, earnest, with a beautiful face—but too insistent: he would have me, whether I would or would not, say yes to his political, or revolutionary, program. We had no quarrel—I only made it plain to him that I was not to be impressed into that sort of service. Everybody comes here demanding endorsements: endorse this, endorse that: each man thinks I am radical his way: I suppose I am radical his way, but I am not radical his way alone. Socialists, single tax men, communists, rebels of every sort and all sorts, come here.  [See note p065.2] I don't say they shouldn't come—that it's unreasonable for them to come: the Leaves is responsible for them and for more than them. But I am not economically informed—I do not see the fine—even the coarse—points of difference between the contestants. I said to the Russian today: 'Don't ask me for too many definitions. Be satisfied with my general assurance. My heart is with all you rebels—all of you, today, always, wherever: your flag is my flag. Why should you want me to give you more?' The fellow was sensible—said he had learned a thing or two—and went away.  [See note p065.3] I think Emerson was sweeter with such men than I am—was more patient, was more willing to wait their talk out."

     Something I said induced him to talk of the New York reception last year.  [See note p065.4] "I did not enjoy it: it was too sudden a change from my passive life in Camden: it was too much the New York jamboree—the cosmopolitan drunk. Some of my best friends, coming into the suite of parlors, seeing the crowds about, with me in the midst sitting there dazed, at a loss to know what it all meant, went away, satisfied to

     Urged me to read Stedman's American Poets.  [See note p066.1] I had read the essays as they appeared in The Century. That was not enough. "Read the book: the book is somewhat different—modified. Stedman has both injured and stengthened his book: it is powerful in spots—rather few spots—and then goes to pieces in general. I should not say this: I should be as fond of Stedman's book as I am of Stedman. How can I? I am making a confession. How can I?" He could not find the book for me. It had got mislaid. "Every time I criticise a man or a book I feel as if I had done something wrong.  [See note p066.2] The criticism may be justified in letter and spirit—yet I feel guilty—feel like a man who ought to go to jail. I guess I am weak just there—the love in me breaks loose and floods me. I hate to think any man may not write the best books—any man. When I find any man don't I am disappointed and say things. How lucky is the man who don't say things!"

     As I was going he called after me. I was already outside the parlor door. "Here's something for you to take along—something for your archives: another of William's letters: a bit sad (he speaks of his sick girl here—it was in 1883)—but powerful: a look into our work-shop while we were putting the timbers together for Bucke's life.  [See note p066.3] William could not be uninteresting: this is a sort of executive letter, so to speak, yet it is racy, sparkling—a real flame out of William's irrepressible fire." W.'s allusion to the archives followed naturally upon his knowledge that I was systematically collecting W. W. data. Once he said: "I will be handing you stuff from time to time for yourself—for use—perhaps for history: it would get lost here, most of it: some of it

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gets stolen—I miss many things: be careful to put it away safely but in some accessible place." The O'Connor letter:

Thursday, April 26, 1888.

     With W. Read him a letter I had from Morse about the Hicks bust.  [See note p069.1] "The bust wears well. Say so to Sidney for me. Tell him I've had a bad head on me lately—have written few letters and nothing else. Say the bust wears best —tell him that. It will please him: I want to please him." W. not very well. Had been in excellent condition for three or four days. "Now I suffer the old heady feeling again. I wonder what it is all coming to? Something is brewing."

     Talked of Marston. I said M. did not attract me, W. replying: "I can see why and approve why; but then you know Mrs. Moulton is a gushing woman.  [See note p069.2] Marston did not have the good fortune to be thrown up against the rough of the world—to get out into affairs, the trades—but was taken care of in parlors by friends who were never forgetful of his affliction. This shows in his verse. Day by day, in these older years of my life, I see how lucky I was that I was myself thrown out early upon the average earth—to wrestle for myself—among the masses of people—never living in coteries: that I have always lived cheek by jowl with the common people—yes indeed, not only bred that way but born that way. I was in a sense a boy of the farm and the streets; it was my fate, my good fate. Marston needed such an encounter (which was impossible in his case) to complete his education."

     W. had been reading Gladstone's reply to Ingersoll in the North American Review.  [See note p069.3] W. shook his head: "It won't do, Mr. Gladstone: you may try: you have the right to try—you try hard: but the Colonel carries too many guns for you on that line." And after a pause he added: "Besides, Gladstone's day for that work is gone. Old men are too apt to insist upon being in the swim after their virility is departed.  [See note p069.4] It was so with Bryant, all of whose late work was poorer than indifferent—who should have retired and

     I asked W. about the Boswell—would he finish it? He seemed so little interested. "O yes! I'll whack away at it. I don't care much for it, but shall finish it as a duty.  [See note p070.2] I always remember that sometimes a fellow has to choose to do the unpleasant thing. 'Doing your duty' the preachers and the mothers call it. Sometimes I do my duty: not always: not because I live by any special method. Duty, duty. It is a free word—it is a slave word. The mothers make it a free word—the preachers make it a slave word."  [See note p070.3] W. said of Sidney Morse: "If he is not actually a genius he is the sort of stuff out of which genius is made." I spoke of Morse as "a non-organized, not a disorganized man"—as "lacking in consecutiveness." W. assented. "That's as good as it could be about Sidney: a sort of thumb-nail sketch, profound and complete. I think of him as lacking in coherency, which is about the same thing."

       [See note p070.4] W. had found the Stedman book. It is inscribed in this way: "to Walt Whitman with the love and sincere admiration of Edmund C. Stedman. New York April 14th 1887. Dies memoriae et lachrymarum." W. said the book "interested him." "But it is not convincing. With all its scholarliness, it kindliness, its receptivity, its genuine and here and there its striking talent, it still lacks root—still misses a saving earthiness: what shall I call it?—a sort of brutal dash of elemental flame, which burns, burns, oh, burns, but saves."  [See note p070.5] Then after a stop: "How strange it is how much better all these fellows are than their books.

     W. remarked that three Englishmen had been in to see him today.  [See note p071.3] "They were not celebres but were none the less—perhaps the more—welcome on that account. They talked about matter of fact things in a matter of fact way—about their aunts and uncles and my aunts and uncles: about their voyage over—some mighty interesting experiences. They were the best kind of plain men—you know the sort I mean: the best plain men are always the best men, anyhow—if there is any better or best among men at all. The cultivated people, the well-mannered people, the well-dressed people, such people always seem a trifle overdone— spoiled in the finish."

     W. loves to receive letters—any letters, provided they are in the true sense human documents.  [See note p071.4] He is always disappointed if the postman passes without stopping. This evening, while we talked, Mrs. Davis stuck her head in at the doorway and W. quickly asked: "Any letters?" "No, not one." "Not one? Not one? That's bad luck." W.

Friday, April 27, 1888.

     Said W.: "Well, what do you think of that? Do you think that could be answered?"  [See note p076.3] "I don't see why you call that letter driving you hard. It's quiet enough—it only asks questions, and asks the questions mildly enough." "I suppose you are right—'drive' is not exactly the word: yet you know how I hate to be catechised. Symonds is right no doubt, to ask the questions: I am just as much right if I do not answer them: just as much right if I do answer them.  [See note p076.4] I often say to myself about Calamus—perhaps it means more or less than what I thought myself—means different: perhaps I don't know what it all means—perhaps never did know. My first instinct about all that Symonds writes is violently reactionary—is strong and brutal for no, no, no.

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Then the thought intervenes that I maybe do not know all my own meanings: I say to myself: 'You, too, go away, come back, study your own book—an alien or stranger, study your own book, see what it amounts to.'  [See note p077.1] Sometime or other I will have to write him definitively about Calamus—give him my word for it what I meant or mean it to mean."

     Symonds spoke of two portraits. The portrait of himself was still enclosed. The child portrait was missing. W. said: "It's around the house somewhere."

Saturday, April 28, 1888.

     Asked W. "How is November Boughs?" "Still getting ready." "I thought you said it was ready?" "So I did—so it is: about ready: but that about sometimes covers a multitude of cautions. You know I am a conservative animal—I don't jump till I must—till I'm pretty sure I can jump right."  [See note p077.2] "Well—I'm ready any time the book is ready." "I know—I know: we haven't said much about that between us, but you know, I know: give me a little more time, a little more room—then we can get our start: yes, start right."

     Early evening. W. had just been out on his drive. Not over well. Complains some. "I keep so congested—head, belly. The truth is, I have no desire to go out, though I do go—going mostly because I feel it to be a duty. There was a time—not long ago, either—when the mere pleasure of locomotion—of having my arms and legs going out of doors—was a joy to me."

     W. said: "I have this afternoon mailed two pieces to the Herald—two more throws against oblivion." I laughed—W. adding: "It does seem funny.  [See note p077.3] A man makes a pair of shoes—the best—he expects nothing of it: he knows they will wear out: that's the end of the good shoe, the good man. Any kind of a scribbler writes any kind of a poem and expects it to last forever. Yet the poems wear out, too

     Frank Stockton has recently lived at Merchantville near by.  [See note p078.1] Had Frank called? "I do not think so, though I do not remember all my callers. I confess that my curiosity is slight, though I might like Frank at close quarters. The story writers do not as a rule attract me.  [See note p078.2] Howells is more serious—seems to have something to say—James is only feathers to me. What do you make of them?—what is their future significance? Have they any? Don't they just come and go—don't they just skim about, butterfly about, daintily, in fragile literary vessels, for awhile—then bow their way out? They do not deal in elements: they deal only in pieces of things, in fragments broken off, in detached episodes."  [See note p078.3] Mentioned Stedman again: "Stedman always feels that he must be judicial—the dominance of that principle has held him down from many a noble flight. Stedman seems so often just about to get off for a long voyage and stops himself on the shore. Why shouldn't we just let go—let life do its damnedest: take every obstacle out of the way and let it go? Why should being thought foolish or unreasonable or coarse hold us back? We can go nowhere worth while if we submit to the scorners."

     W. said: "Too much is often said—perhaps even by me—about my Quaker lineage.  [See note p078.4] There was some of it there, but back, altogether among the women, with my own dear mother and grandmother and her mother again. It is lucky for me if I take after the women of my ancestry, as I hope I do: they were so superior, so truly the more pregnant forces in our family history. The Quakers are very clannish, though I am not that way myself. I am like the

Sunday, April 29, 1888.

     W. took a drive at eleven, forenoon, and came in at Harned's after we were done supper at 6:30. Had been to see the Staffords at Glen Dale.  [See note p080.2] In good feather, "feeling rather peart," as he said. Drove up alone. No one at Harned's door. I saw him from the window. He held the reins and called out, waiting for some one to see or hear. When we had helped him into the hallway he said instantly: "I came for a drink—oh! I am that thirsty for it. I could wait no longer—have had it in mind, could not get rid of it, for an hour past." Someone remarked the fine day and he exclaimed: "Oh! it is perfect! And I saw out there such a field of fine new sweet wheat."

     W. sat up at the table. We were gathered about him, he eating and drinking and talking. Got telling about the dinner the other day at Gloucester. "They wanted a toast from me—a toast to three eminent good fellows—and I gave them President Cleveland, Gladstone, and the Emperor of Germany.  [See note p080.3] I got myself into trouble. You should have heard the uproar. They all kicked on one or another of

     My sister Agnes remarked: "The drives are certainly doing you good—you show it." He assented. "They do indeed: yes they do.  [See note p082.3] I have been out each day now for three or four days—the season is opening some: I had got to feeling so I knew I had to do something or go flunk." He turned to Tom: "I say Tom what's the matter with that tipple? Did you put in the cork again? What's the good of a tipple with the cork in?" Then after his glass was filled. "Well, I forgive you. I forgive everybody: I am in a good mood for gentle things: the beautiful day, my hearty reception here, all of you about me: there's no room left for malice."  [See note p082.4] "Do you know, my philosophy sees a place and a time for everybody—even Judas Iscariot—yes, for all: all of us are parties to the same bargain: the worst, the best, the middling—all parties to the same bargain. We are as we are, all of us—and that's both the very bad and the very good that's to be said."

     I was to go to Philadelphia to hear Adler speak. Had W. any message? "Yes, surely. Give him my love: describe

Monday, April 30, 1888.

       [See note p083.3] W. said: "I want you to have this letter of William's for your archives. It would be valuable enough if it was only William's—but it happens to be more than that. You see the date—1865. He encloses a letter from George William Curtis—it makes good history. Curtis always had the big manner—yes, big without being offish: his personality has a large swing, as if it had plenty of time and space in which to live.  [See note p083.4] William elicited a noble reply. I don't know which is finer, the man who could have provoked such a letter or the man who wrote it: I suppose neither is finer—one is necessary to the other: it takes both to make the complete affair." Again: "It is an eloquent letter all through—rather silent, still, pastoral, for William: his tempest is lulled: the best soldiers are often the best men of peace."  [See note p083.5] This is the letter:

New Ipswich, New Hampshire, October 19, 1865.

My dear Walt:

     The article you sent Nelly from the London Leader is in my possession. Good! I shall incorporate it. Part of it is very fine.

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     I wonder if young William Allingham wrote it? The Leader is the paper he is on. He is a poet, you remember—one of the most promising of the young British choir. He is an Irishman and a reverent lover of Emerson's genius.  [See note p084.1] I shouldn't wonder if he wrote this critique.

     Anyhow it's good and I shall put a great deal of it in.

     If, ever since I have been here, I have not had the worst cold I ever had in my life—a cold which has made me really sick and spoiled the pleasure of my visit—I should doubtless have ere this sent off the MS. to Curtis.  [See note p084.2] It will probably go soon. It is just as well and even better than I have delayed it, for in the first place it will be enriched with this quotation, and besides you will like it better by the excision of nearly all the personality, new light having come to me on this point as time has passed and the sweet country air and relief from labor cleared and refreshed my poor boiled brains.

     On my way through New York I enquired at Harper's for Curtis and found he was out of town. So I brought the MS. with me up here.  [See note p084.3] Then came Curtis' answer; of which I send you a copy that you may see how true the reply this splended gentleman and noble heart sends back to my call.

     I really did not expect so much from Curtis. I relied on his literary chivalry, but did not look for the rest. As George would say, he has "elements"!

     I have written to him saying that I want him to endeavor to find me a publisher and mentioning Hurd and Houghton: also saying that in a few days I shall send him the MS.

     I wish you could come up here. The landscape is exquisite. Fields, farms, the quiet rustic town, the gorgeous foliage, the Temple and Peterboro hills enclosing all. And then, drive out a few miles and lo!  [See note p084.4] Monadnoc! O Walt, what a sight! A purple breadth of mountain, spreading calm in sleepy light and filling the landscape with grandeur.

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It is the finest mountain I have seen. Its characteristic is breadth.

     I am staying here at the house of Miss Jenny Bullard, a friend of whom I believe I have spoken to you.  [See note p085.1] I wish you knew her. You would like her. She is handsome, bountiful, generous, cordial, strong, careless, laughing, large, regardless of dress or personal appearance, and appreciates and likes Leaves of Grass. The first thing she read in the book was Enfans d'Adam, which she cordially liked and wondered how anyone could mistake its atmosphere and purport. She is a very particular friend of mine. I wish you knew her. She told me today that she wanted me to invite you to come up here for a few days before I go, but I said I wouldn't because I knew you wouldn't come.  [See note p085.2]

     I shall probably leave here about the twenty-fifth and go to Boston. Then home.

     Spite of dear friends and respite from the treadmill and the superb scenery, I have had considerably of a bad time, chiefly owing to the horrible cold I have had and the weary state I have been in. But I am better now and the world looks brighter.

     Now I hope to be able to announce to you that the MS. has a publisher. But oh, Walt, the literary shortcomings of it oppress me. It is not the thing that should be said of your book—not the thing that it is in even me to say—as I feel. However. Good bye. I will write you again.

Your faithful

W. D. O'Connor.

     The enclosed letter of Curtis follows:

Ashfield, Mass. 30 Sept. 1865.

My dear O'Connor:

       [See note p085.3] Here, up among the Autumn Hills, I get your interesting letter of the 20th and you may be very sure that I will do all I can to redress the wrong of which you speak.

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     The task you undertake is not easy, as you know. The public sympathy will be with the Secretary for removing a man who will be considered an obscene author and a free lover.  [See note p086.1] But your hearty vindication of free letters will not be less welcome to all liberal men.

     Personally I do not know Whitman; and while his Leaves of Grass impressed me less than it impressed many better men than I, I have never heard anything of him but what was noble nor believed anything of him but what was honorable.

     That a man should be expelled from office and held up to public contumely, because of an honest book which no candid mind can truly regard as hurtful to public morality, is an offence which demands exposure and censure.  [See note p086.2]

     I know Carleton but he has several times asked of me favors which I could not grant and I do not believe your offer would be strengthened if made through me. If you think otherwise, I shall most cheerfully go to him,—but would it not be better for you to write to him and refer him to me, saying, if you choose, that you had asked me to call upon him? Think of it and let me know.

     It was very pleasant to see your comely chirography again, altho' I wish I could think of you as having had some vacation. We have been here for two months, far from railroads, telegraphs, and gossip, and are just going home. My wife returns your friendly remembrance and yours, I hope, has not forgotten me.  [See note p086.3] I should be glad, too, if I thought you felt as cheerfully as I feel at the real gain in the Good Fight made by the war. Andy may Tylerize but the country will not. The wave may be lower, but the tide is rising.

     Good bye. Let me hear as soon as you will. You know how gladly I shall serve you and how truly I am

Your friend

G. W. Curtis.

Tuesday, May 1, 1888.

     W. talked again about literary honesty.  [See note p088.3] "It's not quite the thing to take language by the throat and make it yield you beautiful results. I don't want beautiful results—I want results: honest results: expression: expression. You know we talked about this the other day: you may have thought I was over vehement, thought, as for that, I don't see how a fellow can say too much on that score. Since we talked I have come across a letter from John Burroughs that finely illustrates my point.  [See note p088.4] It is an old letter, written by John from England in 1871: a letter in which he lets himself go—talks out—isn't trying to be judicial or qualified—which is on the square all through. See what I wrote on it then at the time in red ink." I took the letter from his hand and read the memorandum: "splendid offhand letter from John Burroughs—? publish it." W. resumed: "John

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has a few of the simply literary habits—not many—not enough to spoil or even much hurt the batter. You will notice the postscript, written the next day.  [See note p089.1] He asks himself then whether he hadn't gone too far the day before—shows that after all he was a little bit afraid of his enthusiasm. He had slept over night—the judicial atmosphere was returning. But the letter itself? There is no discount on the letter—it is a superb example of let go: let hell come if it must, but let go. Does this seem lawless?  [See note p089.2] Of course I mean let go within the law—within your own law, not somebody else's law: every individual within his own law."

Wednesday, May 2, 1888.

       [See note p091.1] Returned to W. the Marston volume containing Garden Secrets and the memoir from Mrs. Moulton, who had written on one of the fly-leaves: "To Walt Whitman, Poet, These poems, by an English poet who delighted to do him honor. Louise Chandler Moulton, April 23, 1888." W. not well, had been feeling out of sorts again since Sunday. This is Wednesday. Same symptoms—the insistent headache, congestion, &c. Lay on sofa in parlor in some exhaustion. The Marston book I had noticed was not cut throughout. W. smiled. "No—I did not read the book; I looked into it: the bit I read did not lead me on: I dropped the trail—or lost it, perhaps." How about the lecture trip to England? Would he take it?  [See note p091.2] "No. It was tempting up to a certain point. But I would rather finish, as I have grown up, here. I could not stand the excitement of travelling and meeting people—of being lionized and denounced. This is a safer place for me—this little town, this little room, my own bed and chair." Said he had been reading Gladstone's reply to Ingersoll—"It is a great weariness—but I stuck to it, thinking it probably my fault.  [See note p091.3] Its protestations seem to me a sort of Captain Cuttle busines—the 'yes I do,' 'no I don't,' 'perhaps,' 'Oh no': Gladstone is neither here nor there: he is longwinded and indefinite—he doesn't make his mark clear and then drive to it: he goes all over the country looking for his game. Ingersoll is everyway different—knows exactly what he wants and gets it at once."

     Had W. ever heard directly from Carlyle? "No—never directly.  [See note p091.4] I once heard a report that Carlyle had made some foul allusion to the Leaves, but we had reason afterward for believing that he was not responsible for the nasty

     W. spoke about the first edition of the Leaves: "It is tragic—the fate of those books.  [See note p092.4] None of them were sold—practically none—perhaps one or two, perhaps not even that many. We had only one object—to get rid of the books—to get them out someway even if they had to be given away. You have asked me questions about the manuscript of the first edition. It was burned. Rome kept it several years, but one day, by accident, it got away from us entirely—was used to kindle the fire or to feed the rag man."

     W. said about Franklin Evans: "I doubt if there is a copy in existence: I have none and have not had one for years; it was a pamphlet. Parke Godwin and another somebody (who was it?) came to see me about writing it. Their offer of cash payment was so tempting—I was so hard up at the time—that I set to work at once ardently on it (with the help of a bottle of port or what not).  [See note p093.1] In three days of constant work I finished the book. Finished the book? Finished myself. It was damned rot—rot of the worst sort—not insincere, perhaps, but rot, nevertheless: it was not the business for me to be up to. I stopped right there: I never cut a chip off that kind of timber again."

     As I was about to leave W. rose painfully from the sofa, saying: "A minute—yes, wait: there is a little thing I am going to ask you to do for me.  [See note p093.2] I have received word that someone in England—a lady—a very great lady—indeed, no less a person than Lady Mount Temple, daughter of Lord Palmerston—has sent me a scarf or waistcoat. This letter speaks of it and I am going to have you see what we need to do to get possession of the dainty gift." W. handed me the letter:

Phila. Apr. 28, '88.

Mr. W. Whitman, Camden, N.J. Dear Sir:—

     We will receive your acct by the "Br. Prince," now due from Liverpool, consigned to us for your acct., one package containing apparel valued at £1.  [See note p093.3] We would thank you for your invoice covering same as early as possible in order to clear through customs on arrival. The package will come to us through the medium of Messrs. G. W. Wheatley & Co. If the apparel contained therein is worn at all, kindly say so when replying to the above; and oblige

Yours truly

O. G. Hempstead & Son.

     W. wrote to Hempstead on the face of an envelope: "Please treat with the bearer of this, Mr. Horace Traubel, a personal friend of mine, the same as you would with me, and consider him as my fully authorized agent in the matter."  [See note p094.1] To me W. said: "I have no word from Lady Mount Temple direct but from Wheatley, as in Hempstead's letter. I suppose this means the usual rigmarole and expense: by the time we get the thing in our hands we will have paid out more than it is physically worth. Of course the gift is the gift—we appreciate that: we will not lose sight of the gift in our struggle to rescue it from customs.   [See note p094.2] This whole tariff business is an insult to our good sense besides being a palpable impertinence and invasion. But we'll get the waistcoat if it takes our last cent—at least you'll get it: I am no good anymore, that way speaking: I am tied down here fast to my infirmities."

Thursday, May 3, 1888.

     In with W. "I've had a bad day of it," he said as I raised the light—"a bad day altogether." He was on the sofa. I told him I had seen the Hempsteads about the Mount Temple gift.  [See note p094.3] Who was the Lady Mount Temple? What had she done? "I know little about her. She is not literary: but she is evidently a reader of books. I have had several letters from her—she has bought several copies of Leaves of Grass direct from me. She is a friend of my Quaker friend, Mary Costelloe: it was no doubt through Mary that we came together." "You are constantly getting gifts. You take them very composedly." "Why shouldn't I? They are pleasant—we all like to be tickled, to be soft-soaped: we like to have our fur rubbed the right way."

       [See note p094.4] W. again: "I had a Boston visitor today: Thayer, a young man, a Cambridge man, author of The Confessions of Hermes, published last year—a good fellow, interesting, of means I judge, who has travelled and makes a facile talker.

     W. said he had just heard from Rhys, writing from the Union League, New York, on his way to Baltimore and to Philadelphia.  [See note p095.2] "We will see him again before he takes his steamer for the return trip." "What do you think, Horace? He didn't, he will not, go to see Niagara. Think of a man coming to America and not seeing Niagara! It's refreshing. All the strangers come over and see a few of the ostentatious things and then feel satisfied that they are equipped for literary service. The foreign professionals cross the sea, visit Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago—see a few elect people—hurry, skurry—then go back again and write a book: all in a breath—all over night, metaphorically speaking.  [See note p095.3] Do you think they know America? Not a bit of it. I do not mean to connect these people with Rhys—I am only speaking of the average traveller and his less than average work. I do not know that his position, or his offense, is a singular one. Don't most men who write write without knowing life? Write all over the surface of the earth, never dig a foot into the ground—everlastingly write."

     W. talked of Arnold. "Arnold had no genius—only a peculiarly clever order of refined talent.  [See note p095.4] Arnold is much that sort of man who would be in his place as Keeper of Her Majesty's Despatches, careful that never a word be misapplied or misspelled—or he might serve as a tutor for

     I have not yet succeeded in getting the waistcoat out of customs. "A lot of red tape has first to be encountered and escaped: then the customs bill will have to be paid: that damned customs bill, as utter a piece of piracy as being held up by a robber on the high seas."  [See note p098.4] As I left W. called after me: "Don't think I have forgotten about the Boughs. A few days more and we will be ready. You can roll up your sleeves any time now."

Friday, May 4, 1888.

     W. had seen Ingersoll's endorsement of Gresham for President.  [See note p101.1] "Yes," said W., "I am for Gresham too if he has all them virtues. But has he? The political class is too slippery for me—even its best examples: I seem to be reaching for a new politics—for a new economy: I don't know quite what, but for something." Touching E. L. Youmans, whom he had met several times, he said: "I like the scientific spirit—the holding off, the being sure but not too sure, the willingness to surrender ideas when the evidence is against them: this is ultimately fine—it always keeps the way beyond open—always gives life, thought, affection, the whole man, a chance to try over again after a mistake—after a wrong guess."  [See note p101.2] W. in rather happier mood than for some days. "I've got a little memorandum here for your archives," he said: "take it along with you: tell me tomorrow what you think of it: that Emerson matter sometimes seems to have two sides." He handed me an envelope bearing the printed legend: "Attorney General's office, official business" with W.'s script added to this effect: "J. T. Trowbridge's anecdote (Sept. 6, 1865) of Rich. Moncton Milnes' letter."  [See note p101.3] I went off without reading it, simply saying good night, kissing W. as I left. Inside the envelope, still on the stationery of the Department of the Attorney General at Washington—Sep 6, 1865—W. had set down this brief narrative:

     "J. T. Trowbridge has called on me today, stopt an hour. Told me, on authority of Mr. Emerson, the following. An English gentleman who came to America, and among the Boston literati, not long since, was the bearer of a letter to me from Lord Houghton (Richard Moncton Milnes, the poet)—a friendly and generous letter about Leaves of Grass and also intended as a letter of introduction for the gentleman bearing it.  [See note p101.4] But the Boston literati talked severely and

     "By J. T. T.'s account it is plain that Mr. E has quite thoroughly shifted his position from that taken in the letter of 1855, and makes the largest qualifications."

Saturday, May 5, 1888.

     Matthew Arnold's Milton address appears in the Century.  [See note p104.5] W. discussed it: "When you talk to me of 'style' it is as though you had brought me artificial flowers. Awhile ago, when I could get out more, I used to stop at Eighth street there, near Market, and look at the artificial flowers made with what marvellous skill. But then I would say: What's the use of the wax flowers when you can go out for yourself

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and pick the real flowers? That's what I think when people talk to me of 'style,' 'style,' as if style alone and of itself was anything. I have tried to be just with Arnold: have taken up his books over and over again, hoping I would at last get at the heart of him—have given him every sort of chance to convince me—taking him up in different moods, thinking it might possibly be the mood that prejudiced me.  [See note p105.1] The result was always the same: I was not interested: I was wearied: I laid the book down again: I said to myself: 'How now, why go any further with a thing that in no way either assists or attracts you?'" "Speaking of style in that way," I said, "makes me think of something Lincoln said about policy—that it was his policy to have no policy." "That's just it," exclaimed W. delightedly: "the style is to have no style."  [See note p105.2] W. called my attention to some newspaper criticisms of his books. "All such criticisms, such threats, such warnings, go to show how necessary it is to leave the poems just as they are—to keep them intact: to weather out all the objections, sincere and insincere. The poems are not only fit for the future—they are also fit for today. Today is their day—I stick to it, is their day." Again: "You can detach poems from the book and wonder why they were written. But if you see them in their place in the book you know why I wrote them."

     I had been seeing Verdi's Otello. "Is it our opera—the vocalism of the new sort? or is it still the old business lingering on?" "It is both, though mostly new." "Good—we have rather expected Verdi to do heroic things."  [See note p106.3] "I thought you liked the old operas—preferred them?" "I do like them—at least, I did—but their age is gone: we require larger measures, in music as in literature, to express the spirit of this age."

     Touched upon a practical item. "I have been sending monthly bills to the Herald but tired of it—it seemed so commercial.  [See note p106.4] May 1st I did not do so. Yet the check came. They are very systematic—they have treated me handsomely. You sometimes hear me tell the truth about the editors who turn me face down, kick me out, advise me to go to a nunnery: now I am telling you of an opposite case—of another editor, who can find some wood for me to saw." As I was getting ready to go W. handed me an envelope: "Here's another little scribble from Joaquin—it has several fine little touches—one especially sweet to me towards the end.  [See note p106.5] You see, I too can be flattered—I too may give in. Why should we resent any honest friendliness? If a fellow don't give up his soul to get it, why is it not squarely his, to be cherished, for comfort, solace? the real capital is love, after all: just love. Take Miller along with you." I took Miller along. This is the letter:

Sunday, May 6, 1888.

     W. drove up to Harned's at six, evening. Seemed rather feeble as he alighted, but joyous. The open air had done him good. "It's fine to see the green again. I wonder how many more springs I will last?  [See note p107.3] Not many, I guess. You should see the wheat—wheat, wheat, everywhere. How tired, how good, I feel! Very tired, O very—but not sick. The sweet sun has got into all my old bones."

     Here are a few of W.'s detached sayings from the talk today: "I believe in the eligibility of the human soul for all perfect things." "All the 'great phases' in history are no doubt fictions."  [See note p107.4] "There's a beautiful woman: she is not beautiful alone or chiefly because of her eyes, her complexion, the mellowness of her body, though these, too, play their parts, but because of a certain unity, atmosphere, a certain balance of light and shade, which accounts for every detail—finally gives the detail its proper environment: yes, takes leave of the detail in the whole." "I believe in saints if they're far enough off."

     W. spoke of "the nebulous South American republics which one day will melt in our North American sun."  [See note p108.1] Corning present. Talked again of Greek art. W. said: "I have always wished to know more about certain mysteries in Greek art—of Greek painting and music—their comparative primitiveness as compared with their literature and sculpture."  [See note p108.2] Had been looking over Notes and Queries. "It is a sort of small bug business. You have to take a magnifying glass to inspect the arguments." "I have this morning sent to The Herald the last little poem I had."

     W. talked humorously of portraits, of traditions about public men. "I meet new Walt Whitmans every day. There are a dozen of me afloat.  [See note p108.3] I don't know which Walt Whitman I am. Now, there's Abraham Lincoln: people get to know his traits, his habits of life, some of his characteristics set off in the most positive relief: soon all sorts of stories are fathered on him—some of them true, some of them apocryphal—volumes of stories (stories decent and indecent) fathered on him: legitimate stories, illegitimate: and so Lincoln comes to us more or less falsified.  [See note p108.4] Yet I know that the hero is after all greater than any idealization. Undoubtedly—just as the man is greater than his portrait—the landscape than the picture of it—the fact than anything we can say about the fact. While I accept the records I think we know very little of the actual. I often reflect, how very different every fellow must have been from the fellow we come upon in the myths—with the surroundings, the incidents, the push and pull of the concrete moment, all left out or wrongly set forth.  [See note p108.5] It is hard to extract a man's real self—any man—from such a chaotic mass—from such historical debris.

       [See note p108.6] At the table there was a discussion started upon the need for preaching. "I am radical, severe, on that point," said W., "I am not willing to admit that we have any further serious use for the old style authoritative preacher. As I

       [See note p110.1] Of the announced reply of Ingersoll to Gladstone W. said: "I do not assent to Gladstone's claim upon the attention of scholars: I do not feel that he deserves it: either for his Homeric or theological—perhaps not even for his political—work—though, I acknowledge, something may be really said about his politics. I think Gladstone a wearisome old man determined to keep in the swim till he dies. Take Emerson's old age: how much more beautiful it was: not meddlesome, not insistent: yes, take Darwin's old age, too: how clean it was kept—how sanely and equably sufficient.  [See note p110.2] Gladstone seems restless to be seen and heard like a fourth-rate theatrical star."

     In answering the question: "Do you think the church could be safely destroyed?" W. replied: "Yes, why not? Men make churches: men may destroy churches. I see no use for the church: it lags superfluous on the stage. Yet that is not the whole story.  [See note p110.3] That's my part of the story. I suppose we must concede that all these things, these social furbelows, have a reason for being."

     W. said: "I believe in immortality, and by that I mean identity . I know I have arrived at this result more by what may be called feeling than formal reason—but I believe it: yes, I know it.  [See note p110.4] I am easily put to flight, I assure you, when attacked, but I return to the faith, inevitably—believe it, and stick to it, to the end. Emerson somewhere speaks of encountering irresistable logic and yet standing fast to his conviction. There is judgment back of judgment—defeat only seems like defeat: there is a fierce fight: the smoke is gone—your enemies are nowhere to be seen—you are placidly

Monday, May 7, 1888.

     W. spoke of material successes in civilization. "What do they show? Not necessarily much: we make a big noise about the things we have done, accumulated—what we can do and will do: with some of this I have some sympathy: but after all the main question is, what is all this doing for all the men, women, children of America?  [See note p113.1] The goods are worthless alone: they might demonstrate failure as well as success. Do you think goods can succeed and men can fail? They must succeed or fail together—they are damned or saved together. Against the things we call successes I see other, counter, tendencies working—an increased indisposition of certain classes to do the honest labor of the world, and the solidification of the money powers against the fraternity of the masses. Either one of these might, both of them are sure, to ruin the republic if nothing appears to contravene them.

     Professor Adler and Tom Dudley had a hot discussion at Harned's in which D. spoke in severely disrepectful terms of the European masses, W. resenting it.  [See note p113.2] "I will not believe it, Dudley—I will not believe it. Give them a chance—give them a chance—they will be as good as the rest. All that man needs to be good is the chance. History has so far been busy—institutions, rulers, have been busy—denying him of that chance." W. said again: "In that narrow sense I am no American—count me out." Bonsall argued in favor of restricting emigration. W. took him up: "Restrict nothing—keep everything open: to Italy, to China, to anybody. I love America, I believe in America, because her belly can hold and digest all—anarchist, socialist, peacemakers, fighters, disturbers or degenerates of whatever sort—hold and digest all.  [See note p113.3] If I felt that America could not do this I would be indifferent as between our institutions and any others. America is not all in all—the sum total: she is only to contribute her contribution to the big scheme.

       [See note p114.1] I read to W. a letter written by Ingersoll to the friends of Leonard Whitney, dead. (Published in Unity, Chicago. Whitney was a Unitarian preacher. In the Civil War was Chaplain of I.'s regiment.) W. said: "How graphic, touching, powerful that is! What a substantial, rounded fellow the Colonel certainly proves to be! He is in a way a chosen man. There always was something in the idea that the prophets are called. Ingersoll is a prophet—he, too, is called.  [See note p114.2] He is far, far deeper than he is supposed to be, even by radicals: we get lots of deep sea fruit out of him. Read that over again: I want to hear it again." This was what I read:

     "During the time he was with us he was almost constantly by the sick and wounded, and was as kind to them as though they had been his own children. At the battle of Shiloh, he gave his blankets to the wounded, then slept upon the ground uncovered, with the chilling rain pouring upon him the whole dreary night, and at that time, as I believe, laid the foundation for the disease that terminated his life.  [See note p114.3] Permit me to say that I sympathize with you deeply in your irreparable loss. Generous men are not indigenous to this world. They are exotics from the skies. There is no such thing as being consoled for their loss. Their memory is worthy of and demands the bitterest of tears. And yet, believing as you do in the immortality of the soul, the dark cloud of grief now enveloping your heart, if not dissipated, will at least be adorned and glorified by the sweet bow of Hope."

     "That," said W., "seems to catch the Colonel in his more affirmative mood.  [See note p114.4] I know quite well why and where I must disagree with him. The Colonel and I are not directly at issue even about God and immortality: I do not say yes where he says no: I say yes where he says nothing. I do not know whether to object to or to agree with his statement

     W. handed me an envelope marked as follows: "Sent about Aug 15 or 16 '63—letter to S. B. Haskell Breseport Chemung Co N Y"—and said: "I promised to give you some sample memoranda about the hospitals. Here is a letter—the draft of a letter—I sent to the parents of a boy who died. It was a pitiful, though after all only a specimen, case: they died all about us there just about in the same way—noble, sturdy, loyal boys.  [See note p115.2] I always kept an outward calm in going among them—I had to, it was necessary, I would have been useless if I hadn't—but no one could tell what I felt underneath it all—how hard it was for me to keep down the fierce flood that always seemed threatening to break loose." I read the letter. I must have shown I was much moved. W. said gently: "I see that you understand it. Well, I understand it too. I know what you feel in reading it because I know what I felt in writing it. When such emotions are honest they are easily passed along." I asked W.: "Do you go back to those days?" "I do not need to. I have never left them. They are here, now, while we are talking together—real, terrible, beautiful days!" W. was in a very quiet mood. "Kiss me good night!" he said. I left.

Washington, August 10 1863

Mr and Mrs Haskell, Dear Friends

       [See note p115.3] I thought it would be soothing to you to have a few lines about the last days of you son Erastus Haskell, of Company K 141st N Y Vol—I write in haste, but I have no doubt any thing about Erastus will be welcome. From the time he came into Armory Square Hosp until   [See note p116.1] he died there was hardly a day but I was with him a portion of the time—if not in the day then at night—(I am merely a friend visiting the wounded and sick soldiers). From almost the first I felt somehow that Erastus was in danger, or at least was much worse than they supposed in the hospital. As he made no complaint they thought him nothing so bad. I told the doctor of the ward over and over again he was a very sick boy, but he took it lightly, and said he would certainly recover; he said, "I know more about these fever cases than you do—he looks very sick to you, but I shall bring him out all right"—Probably the doctor did his best—at any rate about a week before Erastus died he got really alarmed, and after that he and all the doctors tried to help him but it was too late. Very possibly it would not have made any difference. I think he was broken down before he came to hospital here—I believe he came here about July 11th—I took to him. He was a quiet young man, behaved always so correct and decent, said little—I used to sit on the side of his bed—I said once, jokingly "You don't talk much Erastus, you leave me to do all the talking."  [See note p116.2] He only answered quietly, "I was never much of a talker"—The doctor wished every one to cheer him up very lively—I was always pleasant and cheerful with him, but never tried to be lively. Only I tried once to tell him amusing narratives &c but after I had talked a few minutes I saw that the effect was not good, and after that I never tried it again—I used to sit by the side of his bed generally silent, he was opprest for breath and with the heat, and I would fan him—occasionally he would want a drink—some days he dozed a good deal—sometimes when I would come in he woke up, and I would lean down and kiss him, he would reach out his hand and pat my hair and beard as I sat on the bed and leaned over him—it was painful to see the working in his throat to breathe.  [See note p116.3]

     They tried to keep him up by giving him stimulants, wine, &c—these effected him and he wandered a good deal

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of the time—I would say "Erastus, don't you remember me—don't you remember my name dear son?" Once he looked at me quite a while when I asked him, he mentioned over a name or two, (one sounded like Mr. Satchell)—and then he said, sadly, quite slow, as if to himself, "I don't remember,—I don't remember,—I don't remember."  [See note p117.1] It was quite pitiful—One thing was he could not talk very comfortably at any time, his throat and chest were bad—I have no doubt he had some complaint besides typhoid. In my limited talks with him he told me about his brothers and sisters, and his parents, wished me to write to them and send them all his love—I think he told me about his brothers being away, living in New York city or elsewhere.—From what he told me I take it that he had been poorly for several months before he came, the first week in July I think he told me he was at the regimental hospital, at a place called Baltimore Corners, down not very many miles from White House, on the Peninsula.  [See note p117.2] For quite a long time previous, although he kept around, he was not well—didn't do much—was in the band as a fifer—while he lay sick here he had the fife on the little stand by his cot,—he once told me that if he got well he would play me a tune on it, "but," he says "I am not much of a player yet"—

     I was very anxious he should be saved and so were they all—he was well used by attendants—he was tanned and looked well in the face when he came, was in pretty good flesh, never complained, behaved manly and proper—I assure you I was attracted to him very much,—Some nights I sat by his cot till far in the night, the lights would be put out and I sat there silently hour after hour—he seemed to like to have me sit there, but he never cared much to talk—I shall never forget those nights, in the dark hospital, it was a curious and solemn scene, the sick and wounded lying all around, and this dear young man close by me, lying on what proved to be his death-bed.  [See note p117.3] I do not know his past life,

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but what I saw and know of he behaved like a noble boy.  [See note p118.1] I feel if I could have seen him under right circumstances of health &c I should have got much attached to him—he made no display or talk—he met his fate like a man—I think you have reason to be proud of such a son and all his relatives have cause to treasure his memory. He is one of the thousands of our unknown American young men in the ranks about whom there is no record or fame, no fuss made about their dying unknown but who are the real precious and royal ones of this land, giving up, aye even their young and precious lives, in the country's cause.  [See note p118.2] Poor dear son, though you were not my son, I felt to love you as a son, what short time I saw you, sick and dying there.—But it is well as it is—perhaps better. Who knows whether he is not far better off, that patient and sweet young soul, to go, than we are to stay? Farewell, dear boy,—it was my opportunity to be with you in your last days,—I had no chance to do much for you, nothing could be done—only you did not lay there among strangers without having one near who loved you dearly, and to whom you gave your dying kiss.  [See note p118.3]

     Mr and Mrs Haskell, I have thus written rapidly whatever came up, about Erastus, and must now close. Though we are strangers, and shall probably never see each other. I send you and all Erastus' brothers and sisters my love.

     I live when at home in Brooklyn, New York, in Portland Avenue, 4th floor, north of Myrtle.

Tuesday, May 8, 1888.

     W. said: "I have never been translated into the French except in bits. It is an interesting mystery to me, how I would pass the ordeal of getting into another language. I shall never know, of course: I know no language but my own.  [See note p119.3] William used to say the Leaves would before their work was done make all tongues of the earth their tongue." W. added: "I had a good friend in Washington who translated for me viva voce from the French and did it well. Through him I got rather directly acquainted with some of the French master-craftsmen—with Hugo, for instance. My whole—not exactly that: my best—knowledge of Hugo was derived from that man."

     Referring to The Path (Theosophic) which he had on his lap: "Even the Theosophists claim me.  [See note p119.4] How much of me is going to be left for myself after all the claims of the radicals are satisfied?" N.Y. Herald today contains W.'s poem—