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Sunday, November
4, 1888.
7.15 P. M. I found W. writing. "I 'm thinking of
a squib for the big book," he said. He thought he would call it "a
note in conclusion." Not sure yet, however. His writing pad was on his lap. He had been
busy. "I am feeling about a bit to see whether I should or should not
write a little prefatory note and perhaps an epilogue—something of the kind. What do
you think of the idea? Would it seem superfluous to make the addition?" So far he had been
saying: "I guess I'll let the book go as it is: no intermediating words
are necessary." Now he says: "If you say yes I'll do yes. What do
you say?" I said yes, of course. W. then: "Well—that 's a vote: two for, none against: I'll work on the thing to-morrow—will have the copy for you to-morrow evening. I have spent most of the day arguing it over with myself: I needed
you to bring me to a conclusion—to end my vacillation."
W. very cheery. Said he felt "almost flirty" most of the day. "Hunter did not get here: I expected him—wanted him: but Tom came
in with Frank and young Mr. Corning. We talked politics: Tom is hot about the election but I
don't feel my pulse stirred a bit: even my hopes are only lukewarm: for Cleveland personally,
I care nothing: he don't attract me: is rather beefy, elephantine: yet I do care for some of
the things he represents. I have no feelings against Harrison as a man: he may be good enough
looked at as a hail fellow well met—but so is Dick Turpin: the fact remains that I
dread what his election must inevitably
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bring about. No man can
look into what we call party politics without seeing what a mockery it all is—how
little either Democrats or Republicans know about essential truths." W. said again: "It 's fine to see Tom so hot in the collar but I
always wish it was in the interest of something more important: I am always quoting Epictetus
myself: he said: 'Don't fret, don't excite yourself: be satisfied: the man who must win will
win.': which is an admonition to self-control." He did not like Harrison's attitude
towards the South. "I recognize all the flummery of the
South—the flummeriness, the tinsel: but I would humor it in that—give it
plenty of rope: yes, humor it, as I would a bad boy or a bad horse: humor it, wait, rest my
faith in the developmental energies: giving the good a chance to drive out the bad, as it
will, is sure to, with time. This may seem like a trifle, but trifles move mountains. I
remember a story which Bryant told me. There was a banquet arranged for: the guests
came—were gathered about: a waiter brought in a big bowl of soup, placed it on the
table: one of the guests took a toothpick, used it and threw it into the soup. That toothpick
was a little thing, but it nullified the soup: it was only a detail, a trifle, but it changed
the face of that world. This represents the Harrison case to me: Harrison's election could
only be that toothpick—and yet! Now," he concluded, "let
them all have their useless says: all of them: even The Press man over there in Philadelphia
with his damned cartoons, which, if I had a weak stomach, would make me throw up. What do you
think of The Press anyway? To me it gets worse and worse: of all the political horrors it is
the most horrible horror."
W. passed me back The Star piece about Carlyle: "I read it with
considerable interest: it corroborates all that has gone before—is in the usual
strain: is genuine: it adds nothing to the Carlyle story but goes over the old ground
vividly." He quizzed me. "How does the title page seem to you to-day? Do you think it looks lean? Has it a
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thinnish air? I am more and more interested in the reproduction: Clifford is
right—it beats the original: this half-tone gives an effect of richness—in
tint, effect, delicacy—that the photo itself does not possess." And he said
further: "I am a little suspicious of the picture in one regard: it seems
to give me a superior niceness which I have never thought of as an element in my makeup."
Referred to "O'Connor's orator nature—his mobile, passionate,
high-strung orator nature," and spoke again of William as being "all
over eyes to see and ears to hear—his senses are so infinitely comprehensive."
Nora Baldwin said to me this afternoon in Germantown: "The carpenter
portrait of Walt is prevailingly sad—seems sad first and last—is
overpoweringly pathetic to me." W. admitted: "It is open to such a
suspicion: it must be touched with what is tragic—the minor key: the idea has been
exploited before: even Dr. Bucke has made something of it: but Bucke speaks of it as an
elusive, fleeting phase only."
W. picked up The North American Review volume on Lincoln and opened it at his own piece. He
pointed to the portrait facing it. "See this: of all the Lincoln pictures
this is the best." He looked at it long and earnestly in silence. "I
think I must at one time have collected fully fifty pictures of Lincoln: there were lots of
them; they were countless: most of them very cheap and hideous—as ugly as the devil.
I had a copy of this picture: they wanted it: I sent it for the book. They promised me
faithfully they would use it and return it, which they have never done. The figure is better
than St. Gaudens'—far better: Lincoln has for the most part been slanderously
portrayed. I vividly remember a street view I once had of Lincoln: he was on a balcony
speaking to a big crowd—a mixed popular assemblage—a usual American
audience—not too still, not too noisy: it affected me powerfully: Lincoln stood just
as we see him here—he had one hand behind him, he was in spite of his speechifying
calm and in a way reposed: his face—its fine rugged lines—was
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lighted up: it seemed removed, beyond, disembodied: I see it all over
again now: this picture is like enough to have been seized out of that scene." Then he
spoke of photography itself. "The art is growing with strides and leaps:
God knows what it will come to: some of the smart wide awake fellows even back in that Lincoln
time had a knack of catching life on the run, in a flash, as it shifted, moved, evolved."
Don Piatt's name was there before us in the Lincoln book. W. remarked: "He makes me think of a sloop, a yacht, without an anchor, that would forever keep on going
like hell." He spoke of Piatt's "fermentative lightness."
"The only thing in Piatt that interests me is his free-tradeism: the
free-trade principle is like the sun—it shines upon the good and the bad alike:
Piatt has a right to his evil and his free-trade, both: he is a fiery cuss who burns but does
not shine."
W. asked me further about the Germantown party at Clifford's. Some one there had asked about
W.'s weight at the the time the steel was made. W. said: "I should say
about forty pounds less than for the last twenty years—about a hundred and
sixty-five or thereabouts: I formerly lacked in flesh, though I was not thin: I was less
fleshy than in after years—had less belly—though I never had belly in
excess—was never at all portly: I had a good liberal frame—was all right
that way: I owed a lot to my mothers and fathers." Another question came up. Had Sam
Longfellow been over during his occupancy of the Germantown Unitarian pulpit which Clifford now
has charge of? Clifford said: "He must have been here at the time of the
Boston affair: if so, if he was Walt's friend, it was his place to call—to put
himself on record by Walt's side." W. said to that: "I should never
have thought of that myself but now that Clifford says it I can see very well why it should
have been said. I don't think Sam was ever here: I may have met him over there in the
city—in Germantown—though even that seems doubtful. Sam is a fellow who
would not do anything to
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endanger his share of a good
dinner—of one or two thousand a year. I know very well that this is not so of
Clifford: it would not be like him: being brave, on the right side, uncompromising, goes of
course with such a man."
Clifford had said to me: "Sam Longfellow is in some ways at least a
more powerful figure than Henry." W. took that up when I repeated it. "I have said that to myself more than a few times: but then I am not sure
enough of my ground to dogmatize about it. Perhaps Sam is like our man there in The Pall Mall
Gazette as Mary Costelloe describes him—inordinately lazy. Henry's face does not
suggest strength: no—not at all: it suggests grace, finish, affability, sweetness,
suavity." I alluded to the Longfellow diary notes in Sam's Life of Henry as "almost insipid." W. took me up. "Regarding
them critically that probably might be said—but you must not regard them critically.
Take Longfellow for what he was: a man of a certain sort, of his own sort (more or less
traditional, according to rule)—as necessary as men to whom we would attribute an
ampler genius, larger purposes. Longfellow was no revolutionaire: never travelled new paths:
of course never broke new paths: in fact was a man who shrank from unusual
things—from what was highly colored, dynamic, drastic. Longfellow was the expresser
of the common themes—of the little songs of the masses—perhaps will always
have some vogue among average readers of English. Such a man is always in
order—could not be dispensed with—maintains a popular conventional
pertinency."
I said: "Clifford spoke of O'Connor's two letters as unmatched in
English literature." W. at once assented: "There is nothing in their
line anywhere near equal to them: William was vehement: he was boundless in his forthreach: he
went into the anti-slavery fight hot, ripe, for all encounters: transcendentally powerful:
enjoyed the smoke of battle: had not fire in his eye (his eye was gentle)
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but certainly was a burning bush of justice. I was always anti-slavery myself but
never was able wholly to sympathize with O'Connor's fervid dead-earnestness." I cited
Emerson's "what right have you to your one virtue?" But Walt
dissented: "I don't know that it was for Emerson's reason or for any
conscious reason: I felt, I feel, that the cosmos includes Emperors as well as Presidents,
good as well as bad. Why should n't I?" W. stuck his fingers
under some papers on the table and pulled out a letter which he handed me. "Read that," he said: "it
's not new according to the calendar but it 's brand new
according to its goodwill. Read it aloud: I 've read it often but
I'd like to hear it again." So I read.
Chicago, Feb. 3rd, 1887.
My dear and honored Walt Whitman:
It is less than a year ago that I made your acquaintance so to speak, quite by accident,
searching among the shelves of a book store. I was attracted by the curious title: Leaves of
Grass, opened the book at random, and my eyes met the lines of Elemental Drifts. You then
and there entered my soul, have not departed, and never will depart.
Be assured that there is as least one (and I hope there are many others) who understands
you as you wish to be understood; one, moreover, who has weighed you in the balance of his
intuition and finds you the greatest of poets.
To a man who can resolve himself into subtle unison with Nature and Humanity as you have
done, who can blend the soul harmoniously with materials, who sees good in all and overflows
in sympathy toward all things, enfolding them with his spirit: to such a man I joyfully give
the name of Poet—the most precious of all names.
At the time I first met your work, I was engaged upon the essay which I herewith send you.
I had just finished Decadence. In the Spring Song and the Song of the Depths my orbit
responded to the new attracting sun. I send you this essay because it is your opinion above
all
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other opinions that I should most highly value. What you may
say in praise or encouragement will please me, but sympathetic surgery will better please. I
know that I am not presuming, for have you not said: "I
concentrate toward them that are nigh"—"will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?"
After all, words fail me in writing to you. Imagine that I have expressed to you my
sincere conviction of what I owe to you.
The essay is my first effort at the age of thirty. I, too, "have sweated through fog with linguists and contenders." I, too, "have pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,"
reaching for the basis of a virile and indigenous art. Holding on in silence to this day,
for fear of foolish utterances, I hope at least that my words may carry the weight of
conviction.
Trusting that it may not be in vain that I hope to hear from you, believe me, noble man,
affectionately your distant friend,
Louis H. Sullivan.
When I was through W. asked: "Ain't that catchin'? It sounds like
something good that comes along on the wind for them as know enough to suck in. I'd say that feller's some shucks himself: whatever he does I'll bet he
does big: he writes as if he reached way round things and encircled them. He
's an architect or something: and he 's a man for sure. Take
the letter along, Horace: keep it near you: use it now and then when it comes in just
right."
I had casually mentioned Harrison Morris: W. thereupon suddenly starting to hunt something up
among his papers—finally pulling out a copy of The Poetry of the Future—a
pamphlet such as he had sent to Jerome Buck. W. said then to me: "Show
this to Morris sometime: There 's a passage along here which
exactly meets his case." Turning to page 202, he marked the following with his
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blue pencil, saying at the same time: "They sent
me several of these pamphlets from New York there: I think Bromley had a hand in it: you know
it is Bromley who sent me this book"—holding up the Lincoln volume: "He is a Friend."
"Is there not even now, indeed, an evolution—a departure from the masters?
Venerable and unsurpassable after their kind as are the old works, and always unspeakably
precious as studies (for Americans more than any other people), is it too much to say that
by the shifted combinations of the modern mind the whole underlying theory of first-class
verse has changed? 'Formerly, during the period termed classic,' says Sainte-Beuve, 'when
literature was governed by recognized rules, he was considered the best poet who had
composed the most perfect work, the most beautiful poem, the most intelligible, the most
agreeable to read, the most complete in every respect—the Æneid, the
Gerusalemme, a fine tragedy. To-day, something else is wanted. For
us the greatest poet is he who in his best works most stimulates the reader's imagination
and reflection, who excites him the most himself to poetize. The greatest poet is not he
who has done the best; it is he who suggests the most; he, not all of whose meaning is at
first obvious, and who leaves you much to desire, to explain, to study, much to complete in
your turn.'"
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