Pictured imaginatively the city streets, the weather and the near Christmas. "There must be streams and streams of people—met everywhere—crossing you in all directions: old and young, gay and sad" &c. &c.—the play of his imagination quite fine. He said further: "The Christmas lasts in its own way rather than in the old way: the theological suppositions are all taken out of it: it has become humanized—been brought down to the earth out of the heavens: has been humanized—sometimes I think almost marketized." W. advised me to read Bucke's letter. He referred particularly to this: "I wish I could hear from O'Connor—I imagine all sorts of things about him and worry a great deal." W. said: "I too imagine but I do not worry: I too wonder: but I won't make the concession that my suspicions seem somehow to impose. It looks to me as if William was in for some extreme decision before

     He stopped—was very quiet. "Do you have moods in which you get that doubtful about yourself?" "Yes—

     W. shot all this out much faster than in his usual talk as if stirred by great feeling. When he was through with it I thought he was likely to say more. When he was through with it I thought he was likely to say more. So I did not break in. There were some minutes of silence. Then he quietly said: "At least that 's the way the situation looks to me, Horace: I have no illusions about myself: Leaves of Grass is still speculative—I mean its hold on the world, its place in literature: where it is to be put if put anywhere at all: whether it 's to go to the dust bin to which Carlyle was so fond of consigning his contemporaries." I asked W.: "Suppose the whole damned thing went up in smoke, Walt: would you consider your life a failure?" He cried out at once with intense feeling: "Not a bit of it: why my life? why any life? No life is a failure. I have done the work: I have thrown my life into the work: in those early years: teaching, loafing, working on the newspapers: traveling: then in Washington—clerking, nursing the soldiers: putting my life into the scale—my single simple life: putting it up for what it was worth: into the book—pouring it into the book: honestly, without stint, giving the book all, all, all: why should I call it a failure? why? why? I don't think a man can be so easily wrecked as that." "You really mean that you don't think he can be wrecked at all." "Yes—that 's better—that 's saying the whole truth: not

     W. said: "Harned has not been in to-day: I miss him: I like him to come every day: he never stays long (I wish he would stay longer) but he always says a few stirring cheerful things which wake me up." No callers to-day. W. read the daily papers. "That 's hopeful: don't you think so?" he asked. Wrote to Bucke. "A short letter," he said. Then: "I am depending upon you to in the main keep our folks informed how I am—John, William, Kennedy: and, if you will, I would like it if you should connect with the fellows abroad: they should know you—you already know them: they should be told from time to time whether I am walking or crawling: they write me constantly—seem so sincerely, profoundly, anxious: Carpenter, Symonds, Dowden, Rossetti: and there are others, Horace—quite a list: they have been loyal to me." I was getting ready to go when he handed me a little bunch of stuff from off the corner of the chair. "We have often talked of Charley Hine—of his portrait of me: the portrait Johnston has: I have told you some things about Charley—some things about the picture: to-day I came across this stuff pinned together just

"sent May 9, '68"

My dear Charles Hine:

     I received with gladness the authentic sign and proof that you are on hand and doing,—viz. Watson's Art Journal with notice &c—I am anxious to see the picture. I am sure it must be a thing of beauty, glowing, human and true. Believe me, my friend, I have not forgotten you nor your old kindnes and friendliness. Also Mrs. Hine and the daughter—to whom I send best remembrances.

     As soon as I come to New York again I will visit you at the studio. In the meantime, I send you by same mail as this a copy of my last edition, also a little book, written by Mr. Burroughs, (a second Thoreau,)—and a newspaper, with letter—the book and letter all about my precious self,—and I dare say may interest you. If the books are not brought by the carrier, you must send to p. o. for them. I have seen Faris here, but now he has gone back to N. Y. I am working in the Attorney General's office—have a pleasant berth, moderate pay, but sufficient. I am well, weigh nearly 200, and eat my rations every time. You must write and let me know whether the books come safe.

New Haven, Aug 6, 1871.

My dear friend Walt Whitman:

     I have written so many letters to you dictated by Charles that I feel a painful pleasure in commencing this to you at this time, knowing that his voice is silent, and that no pleasant message can come from his lips to you. It is useless for me to tell you how strong his affection was for you, and how he has looked forward to you coming N. H. I think that after your visit to him that his hold on life seemed to give way and his yearnings were all accomplished. There was a gentleman, Mr. John Matthew, who was very kind to him once in New York when he was sick. He had sent several invitations to him but he put it off for some reason, and he was the only one of all his friends. His exit was peaceful—no struggle—a gradual giving way. He used to say: "I don't believe I can die," when his sufferings were so great. It seemed as if his release would never come. And although I thought he was likely to die at any time, still I found I was unprepared for his departure—and my ambition and hopes were all crushed. I am feeling most keenly the desolation of widowhood. I look at my three children and think what a work I have yet to perform. The duty of father and mother both merged in one. As far as my means go I am left very dependent, Charley's protracted sickness exhausting the little we had laid by. I hope I may realize a little from the sale of pictures. I want to ask you if you could at the distance I live assist me to get some writing or copying to do. I thought you if anyone might know of something, and you could perhaps make inquiries that might lead to my getting some business of that kind. I wish I might. Mr. Townsend, a dear friend of Charley's, has sent you a paper with a pleasant article written by himself. I hope you have received it. I am intending to visit New York soon. I shall try to call upon your mother. It will be always pleasant to me to hear from you; any and every association connected with my husband will be hallowed. The funeral was Masonic and

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 331] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

largely attended, and the ceremony at the grave was very impressive.

     My mother from Massachusetts is with me for a few days and is a great comfort.

Hoping to hear from you soon I am very sincerely you friend

Mrs. Charles Hine.

New York, March 25th, 1884.

Dear Walt:

     I promised you I would send you fifty dollars four times over for your portrait by Hine, but the thought has occurred to me that your moving may make it desirable to have some extra cash just now, and so I send you my check for one hundred dollars and will send the balance before you need it, I trust; if not a gentle reminder from you will fetch it.

     As I looked at your things packed up for moving, I wondered if you had in any way by will or otherwise secured their safe care when you have passed away. Some one who loves you should have them to give to the world in proper shape. I do not consider myself the proper one, although I hope some day to tell the world "what I know about Walt Whitman," but the safe care of your literary remains I feel anxious to have in right hands.

     Mr. Montgomery was wonderfully delighted with meeting you, and talked of nothing else all day and evening. He is a man of very marked ability, who will be heard of before long in politics and literature. I think he has a wonderfully well-balanced mind. Alma ws sorely disappointed at my not bringing you home with us Sunday and hope you will very soon visit us.

     I want you to write me the full history of the painting by Hine—when, where, how, &c &c.

Sincerely yours,

J. H. Johnston