7.15 P. M. W. lying on the bed when I came, but at once got up and with my assistance crossed the room to his chair. Seemed extra heavy and weak on his pins. Very bright. Talked of many things. I had brought him The Impressions of Theophrastus Such. He took it, repeated its title line, went over the subheads. "No doubt," he said, "the matter is better than the manner"—putting his forefinger down on the list of themes: "The old essayists, the Addison fellows, would say, On Power, On Love—all that: it was their custom, tradition: on this, on the other." I said: "Emerson used the simplified caption—Power, Love, and so on." "Yes," W. nodded: "it was justified in him: I only hope my own titles will be justified in me." "George

     Reference having been made to Shakespeare, W. said: "Shakespeare shows undoubted defects: he often uses a hundred words where a dozen would do: it is true that there

     W. had read the George Eliot letters "after a fashion," as he described it: "Looked over them: but I want to particularize: I want to go carefully through the whole series." W. gave me Bucke's letter of the 4th. "Read the first sentence or two," he said: "it 's rich." I opened the letter and did so. Bucke wrote: "Gave the first lecture of the course yesterday morning—a demonstration of the brain—cerebral statics—the next will deal with cerebral dynamics (what grand names we give to our various ignorances!)." W. laughed. "Our various ignorances! how immense that is! it specifies, contains, the whole of a great truth: exhibits the whole weakness of professionalism in three words: 'what grand names we give our various ignorances': how perfect that is—how it says all, leaves nothing to be added: our various ignorances: scientific, priestly, literary: our various ignorances: oh! Maurice, you are none too vehement: 'our various ignorances': Amen! Amen!" I said: "Bucke is impatient for the big book." He said: "Tell Maurice to give the big book time: you can't shift the tide ahead of its own pleasure: it comes in, it goes out, according to its own leisurely law." Read Donaldson's piece in to-day's Press on Phil Sheridan: called it "wonderfully interesting"—adding: "Sheridan is always a fierce flaming fiery figure." I laughed: "What are you laughing about?" he asked. "Your alliteration: it sounds like Swinburne." He was unconscious of what he had done. I repeated the phrase back to him. "Sure enough—that

     Had he done any work on the Note to-day? "No: I did not touch it: it does not come to me: something holds me back: if a day or two more passes without an inspiration I'll let the thing drop." "But they won't," I put in: "the inspiration always comes in the end." "Yes: that has been so far true." "If you could lay it aside, take a walk out, ride across the river, loaf a bit in the streets, the secret would come back to you at once!" "Ah!" he said: "that would be the solution of it all: that was my old way: a walk to the river, a look up at the stars, a trip to Timber Creek: oh! those days at Timber Creek! If anything went wrong I would get my stick and hobble down to the water." Then he paused, closed his eyes. "Those old days! those old days! they are past—gone forever!" I said to him: "After awhileI 'm going over to the city to mix in the crowd and see the election returns." He was immediately interested. "If I had leges for it I'd go with you: in the old days I never missed it: until very lately, never missed it: as long as I could keep on my pins: now that I cannot go you must be my scout: you must go around, peering into everything, reporting by and by at headquarters!" He asked: "Did you hear anything on your way home to-night? It 's just as well not to get into a stew over it. I think of Emerson's 'why so hot, my little man?' That seems to me to apply—I adopt it. Have you noticed how these tides—these

     I find Clifford a Shakespeare sceptic. He said Sunday: "The assurance O'Connor displays in his reference to Bacon as the author of the Plays is contagious." W. now said: "If Clifford takes an interest in the problem he should read Hamlet's Note Book: I have it here, somewhere here, I guess: will hunt it out for him." Harned has the book. I told W. so. He replied: "Well, take it from Tom's then: tell Clifford I advise him to read it." He called it, "every way quite characteristic of William: sharp, keen, decisive—full of fine fence and masterful learning." And yet: "Donnelly's is the book if you wish to go conclusively into the subject: Donnelly has done the best with the problem so far: I don't say is final: I say, has done more than any other." He asked: "Have you noticed the dirty tricks to which Donnelly's enemies resort to discredit him? I put no faith in the stories of his political crookedness: his literary enemies make a lot of it: consider it a final adverse argument—though what that has to do with Shakespeare versus Bacon I don't see. The typical literary man is no more able to examine this question dispassionately than a priest is to pass on objections to the doctrine of the atonement, hell, heaven: not a bit more able: the scribblers are blind from the start: they are after effects, technique, what a thing looks like, not what it is: they don't read farther up or farther down than the surface of the ground they walk on: Donnelly comes in on a general stream: there is a spirit abroad in our age which is bent upon the destruction of falsely cherished stories, historic marvels, maudlin theological

     W. had referred to the Cæsar myth when he spoke of Donnelly. I mentioned Froude's Cæsar. "Ah!" exclaimed W.: "Have you got it?" and when he learned that I had asked to see it. "Froude is brilliant: I think a whole big heap of him: he is always readable: I accept him: on the whole trust him. I have no sympathy with the people who accuse him of a lack of veracity: he has faults, no doubt."

50 Wellington Road, Dublin, Oct. 15, 1871.

My Dear Sir:

     I ought before now to have thanked you for the poem, After All, not to Create Only, which I read with very great interest and pleasure. The evening I came to Dublin, a friend—Todhunter—offered to lend me a copy cut out of a New York newspaper, not knowing I had seen it. Much work lying before me on my return here prevented me from thanking you sooner.

     Probably the Hon. Roden Noel, almost certainly Mr. Rossetti, has sent you a copy of this month's Dark Blue—nevertheless on the chance of your not having seen it I post a copy. I think you can hardly fail to be pleased with the article upon your poems. The essay in the same number upon Robert Browning is by Max West, whom I have named to you as one who knew and loved what you have written.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 42] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

     I also send you the first morsel of O'Grady's writing (I named him to you also) which he has got into print—Apollo. You will see, I think, that he springs from Carlyle on one side, and from you on the other, and is an aristocratic-democrat or democratic-aristocrat. I do not wholly like Apollo. I think he has made Apollo (and his English fellow) too idle, a god of glorious play merely, whereas he really does each day a good day's joyous work, illuminating the world, and slaying Python, and doctoring sick folk in a magnificent manner.

     We have heard here that Mr. Tennyson has asked you to come to him. I hope you will come. And if to England—to Ireland too. And if to Ireland, would you not come to this house if you had not pleasanter quarters? Your welcome, at least, would be very sincere.

Yours very truly,

Edward Dowden.