Monday, November 5, 1888.

     W. said: "I guess John wrote if he says so, but the letter never reached me. If you write tell him this. Make it plain to him always that he is eminently present to me always here: no matter what happens, remains vitally with me, sharing my life." He reached towards the table. "I have had a letter to show you: it came to-day: from Sidney—Sidney Morse: I laid it out somewhere for you." He struck upon it after considerable difficulty. "It is in his worst hand." I was looking it over. "But in his best heart," I said. He said: "Yes, that: Sidney is notable for fellowship: radiates, illumines: is the whole, not the piece, of a man." Brinton informs me that Ingersoll's name is taboo in The Ledger office—is prohibited by a standing order. I said to W.: "To judge by the rare appearance of your name there you must be under a similar ban." W. rejected this idea: "Hardly—hardly me: McKean would not go to that extreme: indeed, I am occasionally referred to, and kindly, though without enthusiasm."

     I reported to W. that Acton was proud to have the portrait. W. was happy over it: "It 's fine to be able to do

     W. dropped the political talk here. He produced from under some other papers what proved to be an "undecipherable" letter. "Here is a specimen note from one of the illegibles," he said. I turned it over. "Read it if you can," he said. I asked: "Can't you read it?" He answered: "It has never been read so far as I know: I never have read it: I read enough of it to get its purport: I managed to read the postcript, which was meant for me." I commenced to puzzle over it. W. demurred: "I wouldn't bother with it now: take it with you: devote yourself to it some day when the time hangs heavy on your hands." "You call Houghton one of the illegibles?" "Yes: there are two illegibles: Miller is one, Houghton is the other: curiously enough this letter is from one to the other." "I wonder how they like taking each other's medicine?" W. broke into a hearty laugh. "I wonder?"

Chicago, Sept. 4.

My dear Miller:

     Here I am in the heart of the old country and directly on the borders of the new. We (I and my son) have had three pleasant weeks in Canada—a Dominion not to be snubbed as you Americans are in the habit of doing.

     I don't know how you have found your way to that "inferior

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Europe," as you call the Northern cities. I told everybody you were going to Japan and India—but this was on your own authority—which of course I ought n't to have cared for.

     I myself expect to be there about the 29th and shall stay in the neighborhood of New York and Boston through October. My son returns on the 29th to England, to the University of Cambridge.

     I have been intending to write every day to Mr. B—— in answer to his cordial letter but did not like to do so till my plans were a little clearer. I shall do so as soon as I have quite made them out.

     I have to thank you for verse and prose. I did not care for the subject of your Poem as much as for that of your others but the treatment and diction are very powerful. The story of the Sierras has the difficulty of following Bret Harte. I wish you had been the first in that field. You would have done it as well and won both fame and gold. The publishers said your Italian novel would be out soon. I await it with interest.

     Please give my best regard to Mr. Whitman.

I am yours very truly

Houghton.

     W. said: "Miller sent me that letter on account of the postcript, but it is, all of it, a valuable example of touch and go from a traveller. I have talked with you before about Miller and Houghton: Miller, rugged, careless, happy-go-lucky, earthy: Houghton, titled, refined, cultivated, in a certain sense an elect: they were both my friends: I feel warm towards them—towards their work. Miller's work? Oh! Miller has broken loose some—been more or less free in technique: Houghton wrote in the old ways, hugging the traditions."

     John Forney is often spoken of in Philadelphia as Buchanan's son. W. said: "I never heard of that. I do not believe it. Yet I have been aware of Buchanan's signal

     Clifford said yesterday: "If Doctor Bucke is to come on and comes out here why should n't he speak some Sunday from my pulpit?" I repeated this to Bucke in writing to-day. W. said: "What you tell me is surprising: Clifford must have a phenomenal church: he is himself phenomenal. Did I say what you tell me is surprising? Well—I hardly meant that: it would be surprising emanating from any other man: coming from Clifford it seem natural enough." I asked: "Suppose Bucke should give them a Leaves of Grass sermon?" W. answered: "Suppose? I can hardly conceive of it: they have never made much of us in pulpits: I know of no case: there have been allusions—some of them strong (some kindly enough): but for the most part we have been ignored or damned." He said Conway when in Cincinnati had treated him liberally. "But then Conway is not the man we find Clifford to be—not as true, not of nearly equal weight and measure, however brillant." He advised: "Don't take Bucke's simple no as sufficient: insist upon the speech: let him come down: tell him of a Saturday evening without ceremony, $lsquo;Your sermon comes on to-morrow morning$rsquo;: he will go, find his message, speak. Maurice has his head full of things which people over there might like to hear."

     Harned came in. He sat on the edge of the sofa. W. asked: "Tom, who's going to be elected?" Tom did n't