8 P. M. W. working over his notebook. Light up full, room very warm. The day mild and clear. How had he spent his Christmas? "Oh without variety: there can be no variety for a man situated as I am here: I am always much as you see me here now." He had read and written somewhat—"started a letter for Doctor Bucke to be finished and sent off to-morrow." Had he had any visitors? "Yes—a few: only a few: Mr. Corning was here, and with him a young man, an Englishman—from the south of England somewhere—Rathbone by name." He paused and looked at me. I must have looked my ignorance. "Perhaps this will point the way for you. You remember the man who spoke about the nude in art? I used his speech: it is there in Specimen Days." I assented. "Well, it was his son: and a real handsome fellow he was, too—even you would admit that." I asked laughing: "Why do you say 'even' me?" "After the way you and Tom received my mention

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of some one last evening I felt I had to be careful what I said, what I tied to."

     Had he read more of the Tolstoy book? "I have finished it—every word of it: was impatient to do it—profoundly interested." I felt that he began to see the reasons for my warm espousal of Tolstoy. Was the book not vivid? "I should say so!—rich: if I had to criticise it I should say, too strong, too vivid." Yet it was "fascinating beyond words." "The translation itself was a work of finest art: Tolstoy, so far as I see, is here for the first time fitly rendered in English. I wrote the Doctor about it this eve-

     Insisted that I take the book. I wrote the name of the translator on a sheet of paper which he carefully laid aside. He then composed himself in his chair and looked for a long time at the frontispiece portrait of Tolstoy. "It is a wonderful powerful head: I have seen such heads: dynamic—crowded with character." Then: "Some day look about in the print stores or among the art dealers—find me a good portrait of Tolstoy: get two— I will take and pay for one: I wish to have it about me here." "This book is far, far, far—threefold, fourfold—beyond anything I have seen before from Tolstoy. From reading it, from hearing your reasons, from the man Black's articles in Unity—new lighs are thrown on him: I find tangible indications of to me heretofore only half-suspected powers: mainly by your strong statement and this book: the whole, compacted, compating, judgment: ascending: up—up—up and out"—trying to illustrate it with his hands. "Oh! he has immensely risen—immensely!" He "fully realized" the "grandeur" of T.'s methods—"his planting himself on certain facts—redoubtable facts." "The wonder to me is, that those characters emerge from extremest social conditions—the conditions of all others we would think little likely to produce them: from the most tyrannical social forces in Europe. Think of Turgenieff: I often talked of him with Gurowski—my family friend there in Washington—one of the clearest headed most remarkable men I ever came in contact with. Gurowski was very irascible at times, but when at his best, when on good humor, he was keen,

     "Did you notice," W. asked later on—"Did you notice Doctor speaks in that letter I gave you"—Dec. 21st—"speaks of the big book again?—calls it grand?" "What is the secret of the growth of the fame of L. of G.?" W. said: "It seems the merest accident: an accepter here and there: an accepter quite accidentally generated: how, wherefore, who can declare?" He spoke of the original fight over it—"the efforts to keep it upon its feet"—"even now acquiesced in by a scarce circle." Bucke's allusion to immortality in his letter interested W. "Did you notice what the Doctor said?" "Does the Doctor go with you the whole way?" "I think Bucke fully acquiesces: Bucke is Oriental—has an Oriental religiosity—a firm fixed notion of some sort." How then about W. W. himself? "I mostly conclude I do—mostly: yet there are times when I ask myself very seriously—do you or do you not?" I said: "Donaldson asked me about it when he was over." "Did he? What did you say?" I explained: "I said to him what I have been saying to others—and a good many have been asking me lately—that I believed you always accepted while never dogmatizing about it." W. exclaimed: "Good! good! that

     As we sat there talking Ed brought in a card—a reporter's card—a fellow I knew well and whom W. knew when I explained who he was: connected with The Record. W. put on his glasses: read the name off deliberately— "Charles [something] Bacon"—repeating it several times as if to job up his memory. "I indistinctly remember him. tell him to come up—stay a minute: tell him I am sick—that he is to stay only briefly." Then as Ed was about to go: "Put a chair there"—motioning towards the foot of the bed. Bacon shortly came in—shook hands: W. saying some few welcoming words and inviting B. to take the chair. B. explained that he had been sent by The Record to find out how W. had spent his Christmas. W. thence-

     My honest thanks to you, Hugo for your letter posting me up not only about yourself but about my dear boys, Fred, Nat Bloom—always so welcome to hear personally or in any way any and every item about them. Dear friend, the same evening I received your letter I saw in the New York papers (which I get here about 5 every evening) the announcement of Charles Chauncey's death. When I went up to my room that night towards 11 I took a seat by the open window in the splendid soft moonlit night and, there alone by myself, I devoted, (as is my custom sometimes under such

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circumstances) to the dead boy the silent cheerful tribute of an hour or so of floating thought about him, and whatever rose up from the thought of him—his looks, his handsome face, his hilarious fresh ways, his sunny smile, his voice, his blonde hair, his talk, his caprices—the way he and I first met—how we spoke together impromptu, no introduction—then our easy falling into intimacy—he with his affectionate heart thought so well of me, and I loved him then, and love him now—I thought over our meetings together, our drinks and groups so friendly, our suppers with Fred and Charley Russell &c. off by ourselves at some table, at Pfaff's off the other end. O how charming those early times, adjusting our friendship, I to the three others, although it needed little adjustment—for I believe we all loved each other more than we supposed—Chauncey was frequently the life and the soul of these gatherings—was full of sparkle, and so good, really witty—then for an exception he would have a mood come upon him and right after the outset of our party, he would grow still and cloudy and up and unaccountably depart—but these were seldom—then I got to having occasionally quite a long walk with him, only us two, and then he would talk well and freely about himself, his experiences, feelings, quite confidential, &c. All these I resumed, sitting by myself. Hugo, that 's the way I sat there Wednesday night till after midnight (the pleasant Virginia breeze coming up the Potomac) and certainly without that they call mourning thought of the boy. That 's often my little way of celebrating the death of my friends.

     Dear Hugo, you speak of your all remembering me and wish to see me, it would be happiness for me to be with you all, at one of your friendly meetings, especially at Fred's room, so pleasant, with its effect I remember of pictures, fine color, &c. to have the delight of my dear boys' company and their gayety and electricity, their precious friendship, the talk and laughter, the drinks, me surrounded by you all (so I will for a moment fancy myself) tumbled

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upon by you all, with all sorts of kindness, smothered with you all in you hasty thoughtless magnificent way, overwhelmed with questions, Walt this, Walt that, and Walt everything. Ah if one could float off to New York this afternoon. It is Sunday afternoon now, and perhaps you are at this moment gathered at Fred's or at your house, and having a good time.

     I suppose you were at Charles Chauncey's funeral—tell me about it and all particulars about his death. When you write tell.