With Walt Whitman in Camden vol. 5 (1964)

     

EDITOR'S PREFACE

      This fifth volume of Horace Traubel's "With Walt Whitman in Camden" is the first to appear in print without the benefit of a final reading by the author. I have corrected only obvious slips and unnecessary repetitions, checking references that seemed unclear. While the manuscript was sometimes difficult to decipher, it was never in disjointed notes, but always a continuous narrative.

      Here is my mother's description of H.T.'s procedure (as quoted by Sculley Bradley in his Introduction to Volume 4): "The notes of the visits to Whitman were written on small bits of paper to fit into the pocket of his jacket and were written in what he called 'condensed longhand,' in the dim light of Whitman's room. Within the hour of the words spoken, the material was put into the complete form with which you are familiar in the three published volumes. There was no vacuum of time or emotion, thus preserving the vitality of the original conversation."

      Vitality, contemporaneity--these Whitman characteristics--bring him to you not just an old man reliving a memorable career, but--like most seers--looking at the events before him with flashes of prophetic insight.

GERTRUDE TRAUBEL

Germantown, Philadelphia
May, 1963

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

     First to my mother, Anne Montgomerie Traubel, whose unfaltering faith in the value of this work was responsible for the devoted preservation of the original manuscript.

     Then to Charles E. Feinberg, who, with a belief in this record second only to hers, has, with encouragement and assistance made the publication possible.

     Also to Arthur W. L. Bray for his translation of the letter from Gabriel Sarrazin.

     Also to the men and women of the Free Library of Philadelphia and the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, who so readily met with patience and cooperation my numerous requests for assistance and information.

     And to Mildred Bruning who made a labor of love out of the typing.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

     [ Frontispiece ]

     Walt Whitman from Life, Aug. 6, 1889
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     [ Between pages 242-243 ]

     A Letter from Walt Whitman to Oldach (Binder)
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Entry from the First Page of Walt Whitman's Commonplace Book, Second Volume
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Walt Whitman with Jeanette and Nigel Cholmelly-Jones, Niece and Nephew of Jeanette Gilder
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Horace Traubel's Ticket for the Walt Whitman Testimonial Banquet
Courtesy of Gertrude Traubel

     Gabriel Sarrazin
Courtesy of Bernard Sarrazin

     Hamlin Garland
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Trial Make-up Page (Unused) for Frontispiece of "Camden's Compliment to Walt Whitman"
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Whitman's Revised Autobiographic Note and His Copy for Advertisements: Both to Be Used in "Camden's Compliment to Walt Whitman"
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Directions by Walt Whitman to Oldach (Binder), on Wrapper of Package
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Manuscript Page in Richard Maurice Bucke's Copy of Leaves of Grass , Pocket-Book Edition
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Walt Whitman, April 15, 1887
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Partial Draft and Trial Lines for the Poem "Death Valley"
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Richard Maurice Bucke Among His Books
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Harrison S. Morris and Horace Traubel, Sept. 1, 1890
Courtesy of Gertrude Traubel

     Mary Whitall Smith, 1884
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Alice (Alys) Smith
Courtesy of Mrs. Barbara Halpern

     Robert Pearsall Smith
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Edward Wilkins
Courtesy of Gertrude Traubel

     Geoffrey Buckwalter
Courtesy of Mrs. Ruth S. Evans

LETTERS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

(Including Other Manuscripts of Walt Whitman)

Monday, April 8, 1889

     10:45 A.M. W. sitting up, reading papers, but not looking well, which I remarked to Ed, who said, however, W. had made no remarks confessing any bad sensations. W. talked only briefly—somewhat about the morning's news, the books, the weather, &c. He expressed some regret that no mail at all had for several days again come from Washington. Gave me advice as to work in town. Then I left.

     Evening 7:00. The room darkened—sun just fully down—the night clear beyond description, and calm at last, after the tempestuous forenoon. W. on his bed—laying out flat—his cane beside him—he covered and tucked in by his knee-blanket. Ed sat on foot of bed. They had been talking. We had a fairly good talk, Ed retiring. W. kept his position, his hands folded across his stomach, his voice very clear, and head not seemingly troubled. I said on taking a seat, "I hope this does not mean that you are sick?" It has been rarely of late that I have found him on his back of an evening. He responded: "No—nor does it: but I have had a bad day: in fact, all my days of late have been pretty bad." Then half-reflectively: "But we get along, at a slow pace, it is sure—but get there!"

     It is very curious how quickly if I have a bundle in my hand he will ask like a child "What have you got there?" and how soon after my coming, if he expects anything, he will inquire "What have you got with you? What have you got for me? " This last he asked tonight the first thing after the talk of his

     W.'s knowledge of the positions and names of stars is rather wide. Knowing from what I said that the night was remarkably clear he asked—"And what of the moon? How big has she got, and where now lays?" I spoke of a lustrous—to me problematic star off towards the N.W., and W. asked: "Tell me how low—and how she impresses you?" Then proceeding along a list of names to my more ignorant ear musical but irrepeatable. Always spoke of his "envy" of me in a pleasant sort of way, that I can so regale myself "with the sights of seasons and sounds of out-door things." And on my often-repeated protest—"I wish you could get out to see them for yourself—but don't forget, you saw them all and 'full measure' before I was born!"—he will laugh thoughtfully and say "True again—true again, boy!" W. spoke of good hours for reading—I of midnight hours, at times: especially for L. of G.—the deeper passages. He questioning and commending me, father-like, that I "can read anywhere" after all.

     W. discussed again McKay's singular explanation over Bryant's letter Saturday. W. laughed heartily at remembrance of it. But he spoke in best terms of McKay. I repeated to him the main points of a debate I one day had with Bucke while here. I contending that I had more than merely business feelings for McKay and his espousal of W., and Bucke contraverting with statement that he had not, since with McKay it was only a matter of business which others—perhaps many

     Ed came in for mail—W. directed him to a couple of postals over on the floor in the darkness, which he found. I was on my way to Philadelphia to hear Tom Davidson's lecture on Aquinas. W. inquisitive—greatly "tempted" by my description of D.'s reading of Scotch poetry: "I should like to hear them without a doubt." Then said: "By the way Horace—I see the Camden papers have been giving Moorhouse a big lift—his sermon is there in one of them at great length." W. never reads sermons and I knew it, but I asked him with a laugh—"Well, what did you think of it? You read it, of course?" His enjoyment great—"Well—well—well—I can't say that I did! I saw that it was there!"

     Further along W. said: "Now tell me, Horace—how did the Emerson speech come off that night last week. You don't tell me anything about it." My details few, but he evidently a good listener. He was amused with my account of nervousness preceding. Had he ever experienced nausea before speech-making? He said quietly: "I don't know what it is. I have heard of stage fright—a sort of tremor—sometimes momentary, sometimes fatal—have even heard of this—this sickness at the stomach as you call it—but as to personal knowledge of it, or participation—that is not in the line of experience for me—never has been." It is easy to believe this is the case. His serenity surpasses that of any person I have known—is much like what he says was the "necessary atmosphere" of Emerson. I sat down this morning and wrote up a brief account of Saturday night's stroll up Second Street. W. had me tell him much of its substance.

Tuesday, April 9, 1889

     Alluded to his "personal" in yesterday's Press stating that the latest reports of Tennyson's sickness are but false repetition of older ones. W. then spoke of Walford's letter in Critic in which he quotes F. W. H. Myers' saying, that Tennyson has "passed out of the poet into the thinker" and that his "face expresses not delicacy, but power." W. had taken careful note of it. "But I don't think Myers hits the mark. Not that Tennyson lacks power of anything signifying power—but that power is the dominant factor. It seems to me—I should say—that Tennyson rather expresses elegance—such elegance as at least our age has nowhere else displayed—workedness, sublime care." And he went on reflectively, "And so it is, I think, while Tennyson does a good deal of good—oh! incalculable good!—he does harm too—often much harm: his mellifluosity—one may call it: it is great, overwhelming, everything in his imitators is sacrificed to accomplish that."

     5.30 P.M. W. eating his dinner. It seems he has had a rather poor day of it, though eating quite a breakfast of buckwheat cakes and honey and now a supper of, for him, considerable proportions. But he complains of his head, says: "I look forward to a bad night"—and has by no means done the work he had desired to do today. When I asked if the "Epilogue" was finished, he replied: "Sort o' finished—yet not finished"—for he would not give it to me now, but he rather "must keep it till tomorrow, anyhow." I brought him now the third proof of the title page and he said the instant he looked at it: "That is good—that seems all right now." As to a change still of some figures from Italic to Roman which Myrick suggested, he remarked: "I am not bent on it: if he had put them that way I don't think I should have changed them. If he thinks best let him do it still."

     Commented on the still "rather ominous absence" of word from Washington.

     Talked explanatorily of a Truebner pamphlet I picked up from the floor. "I have a friend over there in the Truebner establishment" [he pronounced it Trubner with diphthong, and bore with my correction with a laugh and an attempt to correct himself]—"a man named Childs—Josiah Childs—I imagine him old and a Quaker: there have been letters from him. I picture him as a man of the confidential clerk kind which Dickens so delighted to talk about—the invaluable men in the big houses." The reference to Dickens reminded me of the discussion at Clifford's table between his daughter Charlotte and Dr. Bucke as to the visit of Dickens, the former stoutly defending him against the Doctor's severe disposition to brush him aside as of no importance. W.'s amusement extreme at the "audacity" of the "youngster." His own feelings towards Dickens "more kind" than the Doctor's.

     He ate slowly as he talked—toast, preserves, coffee (or tea). My enthusiastic description of the day aroused him so that he

Wednesday, April 10, 1889

     10.45 A.M. W. reading the Record. Appearance not well, indeed, though he reports himself "about as well" as he "has been"—which is not very well, of course. Ate very little breakfast. Speaks of taking powders again—significantly showing he must feel very bad: volunteer doctoring only the resort of his extremity. "Epilogue" not yet done. "I am very dilatory. You'll pronounce me as bad as Oldach after awhile. But I shall try my best to let you have it for tomorrow." Title-page he now wholly approved. As to Myrick's suggestions there-with: "I approve of the change if he thinks it advisable to make it." Not only "no mail from O'Connor" this morning, but "no mail at all," his report. Is anxious again as to O'Connor, but tries "to wait patiently." I asked him for a Sarrazin sheet for Mr. Coates, but he said: "Won't it do this evening? The bundle has got spirited away into some corner. I have plenty of them. I wanted one for Tom the other day, but could not find it."

     The day out-of-doors is exceedingly mild. He sat there with his window closed and a blazing wood-fire, which he stirred from time to time, seeming unconscious that it was too warm, whereas the room was stifling. As to getting out-of-doors he is doubtful. "Oh! If only I could!" But just now, "impossible." W. asked me about the Thomas Symphony concert I attended last evening. "I read of the death of his wife. And so he was there? And everything went off well from beginning to end?" They had played Raff's "Lenore" Symphony among other things.

     Evening, 8:00. W. just being helped to chair by Ed as I entered and light put on. Had lain a long while on the bed,

     Excused himself then as to preface. "I have nothing final on it: my head got so bad I put aside, resigned, everything." This is "great misfortune." Our time so limited—"the days, even weeks, passing" and "I still tarrying, doing nothing." Of course not to be helped. I stayed only a few minutes. Our work is blocked by the infelicity of this attack. Though breakfasting but slightly, W. ate quite improved his late dinner between 4 and 5.

     Still "no word at all from Nellie." I kissed him good-bye as I left, and said—"You must not let it slip you, Walt, how much we all think of you." And he answered as he fervently kept my hand—"I shall not, my boy—no—no—not for a minute"—and then "Goodbye! but only for a while: You'll come again—come in the morning?" Talked a little with Mrs. Davis on my way out. Ed had gone for his music lesson. While I was with Walt he opened a letter Ed brought him, which proved to be an elegant request for an autograph, immediately (except for return stamp) consigned to the woodbox.

Thursday, April 11, 1889

     "And something more," he said, after giving me the package, proceeding then among the papers under the table. "But I suppose it is still hopeless. I had hoped to hit upon the Sarrazin sheets before this—but you know things have been put to rights, which means buried, lost! I think there used to be a prize offered in the Philadelphia Press for the man who will put the Jersey news where nobody can find it—and their prize man must have been let loose here, working through our women. There was a time when I could go into the other room there, and, with a little difficulty, get anything I wanted. But now nothing is in its place, or near its place, and I am utterly at sea!" "About here"—motioning toward the several confused but overflowing baskets—"everything is indiscriminately mixed with everything: there has been no taste, no tact, no selection, no nothing!" He was considerably aroused—has been much searching for this bundle, which was large enough, it would seem, not to have been hidden far. "I shall set Ed to work to-day—see what he can do towards finding what we want."

     He had his window thrown up—the air outside was mellow—the fire crackling in the stove. He spoke hopelessly of the thought of getting out. "But give my love to all the ferry boys—to Ed Lindell, to Tommy—Tommy Logan—to Foxy, to Eugene Crosby." I took him a copy of fine photo-engraving from photo of Gruetzner's painting "The Connoisseurs"—I think the finest specimen of process-work of that kind I have ever seen. W. put on his spectacles and studied it a great while, with great and manifest enjoyment. "Everything is impossible—till it is possible!" he said. And yet, "nothing seems impossible to the human critter," once his mind is fairly on the track

     best respects to
Mr. Ferguson
15 North 7th Street
to Mr. Myrick
& to the proof readers
& printers
Phila: ——

arranged just in that way. "This," he said "gets us all under way again. Now we ought to be able to go right ahead: a week done before the hour is better than a week after: and this is a special book, occasion, which should not be achieved when the hour is struck." But the pictures had not yet turned up, nor the Sarrazin sheets—"though Eddy looked about here today some." When I spoke favorably of pictures,—"I like them, too," he exclaimed—"and all the more unfortunate then if they don't appear!"

     I had this afternoon called on Jo Fels at their soap-factory on North 3rd Street, and had been taken by him through the

Friday, April 12, 1889

     7.30 P.M. I was down this forenoon, stopping in just long enough to find that W. was improved. Then to town, taking copy in at Ferguson's and receiving proof later in the day. Which proof I now delivered W. It made just a short page. He had written on margin of copy that if more was required to fairly fill the 2 pages he would "eke it out." F. said now that he would have to "eke it out." Asked me again for Francis Larned's name. Said of his health: "I seem relieved—I seem to have shaken off the torments." Whether "for good" or even "for any time" he "dared not say." Word from friends very scarce. "Nothing at all from Washington—in fact, nothing since last Saturday. Bucke writes again, but his letter has no significance whatever." Speaking of Mrs. Gilchrist's article again—"Yes, that is where 'Going Somewhere' came from. I thought you knew it."

     Asked me—"You folks are to settle the labor question tonight?" This is Contemporary Club Night. "Yet I suppose ever since time was known, or man, this labor question has been agitated, stirring. Probably now it is more on top—is more palpable—than ever before—more palpable as the prevalence of disease is more palpable, in the first place because there are more people—and in the second, because every one people knows what is happening to every other people." Yet he did not discredit it. "I am in favor of agitation—agitation—agitation and agitation: without the questioner, the agitator, the disturber, to hit away at our complacency, we'd get into a pretty pass indeed." We spoke of Henry George's great tour now through England. I said: "The George men are free

     Advised me: "Give my best love to all friends, known and unknown—I mean rather, unknowing , whom you meet tonight." We talked of Dr. Brinton. W. asked: "Is he still in Europe?" Then spoke of his scientific attainments and mental probity, W. denominating this—"the absolute exercise of it"—"extremely rare indeed."

     Another moment: "I suppose that under whatever conditions, we would have botherations—the race would have its struggles, trials, growls, doubts, horrors: all it now asked for achieved, it would then solicit more—more and more: the human critter is just that sort of a being—and best so, no doubt." I hurried off to the meeting to-night. He was affectionate and awake.

Saturday, April 13, 1889

     W. had been much stirred by long accounts in morning papers of the Danmark, abandoned at sea, and come upon by the City of Chester—no life on board, sinking—yet had sailed out with 700, passengers and crew. It was among W.'s first questions: "What of it? What do you think of it?" adding: "It is dreadful—dreadful: yet I cannot think them lost: perhaps 5 or 6 hours will tell a fuller tale—explain." "No word from Washington," he said—"but probably nothing had turned up there: if there had been anything, it surely would have been communicated."

     Asked me of the Club meeting—how had it gone off? I told him of something somebody had heard from Gilchrist—that the speakers were "all duffers" and would not have been listened to in England. W. highly amused. "What did he mean—sure enough! That is more than I could tell." The last speaker of the evening—some French clergyman, whose name I did not catch—saw no resort for social sin but in the "man of Nazareth"—the labor problem to be solved through such efficacy. But "come to Jesus!" seemed to W. a "decidedly novel" nostrum. "It occurs this way to me: that question of questions is this—to give some men who now have no work, work; to give others adequate return for work done: Now, to give that work and that return, such a specific as the man does not have

     We are at a standstill in our work again but I am hopeful it may not be for long.

     7.30 P.M. W.'s room dark on my entrance, he on bed, and alone in my room. He talked well and at some length with me, though saying—"I am not very well—in fact, none of my days any more seem to be good days." But inquired of the clear beautiful night and the lustrous stars, and appeared eager for every word I said thereof. Said: "I have finished the preface, Horace, and you can take it to-day or to-morrow if you wish." Asked me: "Some time when you are about somewhere in town, I wish you would look into—I think the last volume of Appleton's 'Biographical Dictionary'—I think it is called that: look in the 'W's' and see there what is said of me. Kennedy said in a note to me that there was mention of me there—and with it a portrait." I asked: "Whose work is it—Hunter's?" He was dubious—"in fact, I know nothing whatever about it."

     In some way we got into a discussion of portraits. I said at one point: "It is queer, how the passion for steels seems to have gone out." W. explained, "They have gone out because they are not good—because they are not worth staying. Have you seen the steels in Stedman's books? In each volume there are two—and then the others—the wood—these always better than the steels. I think I have been particularly fortunate in my own case—that picture of men inserted there." I expressed myself: "That is because of something in the original," meaning the Linton engraving. W. mistook me and protested "I don't think so—that does not sufficiently—at all explain it: there was a factor present—the potent factor too—beyond or below that altogether—something in the manipulation—something in the engraving itself." I at once exclaimed—"That's

Sunday, April 14, 1889

     7.45 P.M. The room dark. I feared something wrong. Not positively wrong, however, though W. had spent a bad day again. He lay on bed—cried—"Oh! is that you, Ed?" When finding it was me he held out his hand in the dark and cordially invited me to take a seat, which I fumbled for and secured. Asked of the weather, of the great night. "It has been a very bad day with me, all through—a very bad day." Said he had been able to do little—had read some, "wrote a note to O'Connor—one to Doctor"—but that was "about all." "Yet," he said, "it seems to have been a marvelous day out in the sun. What have you been doing with yourself?" This evening I seem to have done most of the talking, as is apt to be the case when something I have seen arouses his hunger for detail, of which he is always a sharp questioner. Among other sights on the way was the photographic exhibition at the Academy. He asked of it: "So you think we have won the sceptre back?"—reference herein to his rather shattered faith that Americans in photography led the world. Most of all was he attracted by the sea-pieces of which I spoke. "You say, active—the very movement of the water itself? Oh! it must be fine, fine —it must utter for one, new great thoughts!" Greatly interested by the fact of Sunday freedom of Academy. "It is one of the best things I hear." Would know of those who went—how they seemed to regard time, place, pictures. "The advance great" in liberty.

     "No more," he said regretfully—"no more about the Danmark.

     I told him I had come for proof and manuscript, and proposed getting it for myself from the table, but after a little hesitation he said, "I will get it for you—I should get up anyhow"—going then first to the chair with my assistance. He leaned very heavily on me—more heavily than I have ever known before—rather by his manner emphasizing my fear that the last month has been pulling hard upon his strength. But of his own trembling self he closed the blinds of the windows and lighted the gas. He had added a goodly paragraph starting with "To-day completing three-score and ten years"—and ending "Probably that is about all,"—and directed on margin "make the above the first paragraph" etc. It is three-quarters in one sentence, yet accurately counted, demonstrating how clear after all are his mental processes, beyond strain as they are. He said to me: "There it is done. Let Myrick put them into pages before sending proof again." On a sheet accompanying he had diagrammed the two pages to precede the Backward Glance preface—the first with title only, the second with copyright announcement. These together he had carefully folded and enclosed in an envelope addressed to Ferguson. "No we should be able to proceed—all but with the pictures." He had again today not felt well enough to attempt with Mrs. Davis a search for these.

     Said he had had no visitors. "Harned—Tom—was here—at least at the door: left me the Tribune." Tom and "little Tommy" here last evening. W. so glad again to see "little Tommy"—"the children always welcome—cheery." I said I

     I examined the Scott portrait downstairs. It seemed to be a photographic reproduction of a steel engraving, but nobly and softly done. But on reverse of little gilt frame was an English imprint. W. said: "I don't remember that—I must look at it again." Really an exquisite print. But no date or name of maker thereon. Nor could W. "guess" at what age it represented Sir Walter. Said he had seen by the papers that Burroughs had been writing something for Wide Awake—"some account of his early life"—"but from John himself, it is now getting a long while again since I have heard. And you hear nothing?" W.'s continued bad condition raises some fears in me. A palpably growing weakness, too. But this may all right itself with the continued fine spring days.

Monday, April 15, 1889

     Referred to Walsh's review of "November Boughs" in March Lippincott's. "If I ever saw it," W. said "(and I suppose I did) it did not impress me, for now even the remembrance of it has flown. I don't know what I did with the magazine: it certainly is not about here now. Lippincott's is one of the affairs I bundle up each month and send out to the Blackwoodtown insane asylum. Perhaps this time I sent it to Doctor—come to think of it, it should have gone to the Doctor anyhow!" Had read papers. Absence of news still of Danmark passengers and crew a painful fact to him. His allusions brief but pathetic.

     Evening, 7:10. W. sitting composedly at the middle window, his face towards the west. It was decidedly chill out of doors. The western sky a cold bronze and grey. W.'s hands linked, his eyes subdued, his whole manner grand and at peace. His head was proudly held and grandly outlined. Ed had told me already downstairs that W. was still as he had been—not at all bettered—yet not complainful. W. is wonderfully candid with himself at all times. Said to me, after his cordial welcome, "I am not having good times any more," then turned the talk by asking, "How is the night out? Chilly, isn't it?" As I have said before, always when W. feels particularly ill, he seems to face the probability of serious issue and is eager to push his work. When better again will say, "let us keep a leisurely pace." Tonight urgent: asked after proof anxiously—seemed disappointed when he found I had only brought him a part of it. "Not the preface?" Well, "waiting in content"—

     I told him I had seen good news of Morse. He "must have it at once." Therefore I went over toward the window, stood in front of him, and in the waning light read aloud this from Unity:

     Chicago.—The Unity Club of All Souls Church had a peculiarly delightful evening when Sidney Morse talked and worked before it. It was the Kenyon evening in the Marble Faun studies, and the sculptor molded a Miriam so full of beauty, power and poise, that when he proposed to change the features into those of a Hilda, the large audience protested, and it is hoped that it will soon find its way into plaster, that others may enjoy it. Mr. Morse has almost completed a bust of Theodore Parker, heroic size, for this church, and has orders for the heads of Channing and Martineau, also, uniform in size with the Emersons and Parker. It is hoped that these heads of the Four Great Masters will find their way eventually into hundred of churches, to add dignity, honesty, liberality and ideality to the worship within.

     When I reached the point at which Kenyon is mentioned W. asked, "Who's that?" and when I explained, said he had never read the Marble Faun. Was greatly happy over Morse's seeming good condition. Several times as I went along he exclaimed: "Good for Sidney!" "The best news yet!" Afterwards adding more fully: "If those fellows out there—enough of them—throw their panoply over him, I don't know but that's the place for him to stay." Then tenderly dwelt upon Morse's long ambition to get West, and its "seeming fruition at last"—his longing to look at the new heads, the enjoyment he would have if he could sit there in an audience and "see Sidney at work." He did not wonder that "Sidney was liked and is"—for it inhered to the man "to make people affect him."

     Then said as to Davidson: "Give him my best regards—tell him, if you get the chance (for me particularly) that I think things are as good as they can be—all right as they are"—here he paused and exclaimed— "including the agitation, including the agitation! especially including the agitation!" He always qualifies his criticisms of the too-eager reformers with a phrase at last that encourages and sustains them, as above. "Indeed, I might think agitation the most important factor of all—the most deeply important: to stir, to question, to suspect, to examine, to denounce!" It is the docta of the universe, he considered. I told the story of Ingersoll's visitor and his everlasting "yes, yes"—and after W. had ceased his laugh over it, he said, "But I guess we have plenty of the 'noes,' too—plenty—under whatever circumstances."

     Rosendale today gave me some interesting account of meetings with Ingersoll—depicting his modesty, brilliancy, fullness of information, scholarship. This I repeated to W., who was greatly interested. Then away, with promise to stop in tomorrow forenoon on my way to Philadelphia.

Tuesday, April 16, 1889

     10 A.M. Stopped in on my way to town. W. reading the Record. He spoke of feeling better. "There is a lull in the torment—yet not much of a lull, either." But looked and talked as if more at east than yesterday.

     Tidings of Kossuth's bad health in papers today. Had he seen K? "Oh yes! And sure enough, he must be a very old man now." Thereupon reference to Lafayette. I asked if he had any vivid remembrance of his contact with the great Frenchman. He replied: "I don't know that you would call it vivid—yet it is quite clear, has quite well persisted all these years. My father

     Took up proof of bastard title from table. "I don't like it," he said. Then reached and put his writing pad on his knee, but stopped again. "No, I shall not. I was going to write out what I think about it, but that is not necessary. It is enough that I don't like it." Would not say how to change it, only change. "I leave it mainly to his taste—to Myrick's: what he may think the best thing, let him do." Had prepared the little note herewith, and now while I sat, he wrote steadily this by way of instruction on foot of same brown sheet:

     *As there are now several editions of
L. of G., different texts and dates,
I wish to say that I prefer and recommend
the present one, 422 pages complete, for
further printing, if there should be any
___________________________________________
Put this in small type for a note at bottom
with a rule over it) on 2d page of the
Backward Glance—I will mark the * on
the proof when I receive it tonight

     Thought also: "It is almost time we are having our pictures printed." Of the several new notes going with the pocket edition he was ready I should have manuscript if I liked. Did not now have them together. One sheet we found was in pencil. W.

     Papers much occupied with invasion of Lower California by American raiders who try to annex it. W. was dubious. "I consider that least of least things among things in the paper." Gave me the Gutekunst picture of the old Emperor William: "Take it along: left here, it will surely get spotted and you might care to save it." With it the Register in which he had read the Larned extract and the Bright piece entire. Said of the last: "I found it quite interesting; it repaid reading." Alluded still to "the quiet at Washington," not a word. Offered me the 5 cents for paper (World) and when I hesitated: "Oh! take it—I should prefer it so!" Added: "I have another mission for you—a mission to Dave's. You remember I have been gunning after two copies of them. I should like three now—Will you stop in and secure them?"

     7 P.M. W. sitting at middle window, much as last evening when I came. We entered at once into an animated talk. I had secured a copy of The World as he had advised, and with it a copy of The Herald (Sunday). In this last found a column of so-called "odd fancies," written up as direct from W. W.'s lips, by that arch-fool Sadakichi Hartmann. They had proved of such a mean stupid, ignorant nature,—bad English, worse thought, unuterrably sad taste—that the idea of having them thrown out as W.'s raised my ire. W. realized at once that I was mad,—asked, "What is it about?" I had said when I shook hands with him: "I am glad to get near the real Walt Whitman again." He asked: "What do you mean?" I said: "It is the Herald there—Sunday's Herald." Then his query: "What is it about?" I described Hartmann's deliverance. To satisfy W. I went across near and in front of him, stood by the table there in the waning light, and read here and there of the "odd fancies" attributed to him by this man. At first he was inclined to laugh—then to condemn. The passage which most

     I digested to W. the substance of a letter I had written S. some time ago, explaining what I thought of W.'s full but affectionate criticism—a criticism the past year grown more and more affectionate. W.: "I am glad you wrote him that, Horace—and will be glad if you write him again. I remember well the incident of the Scribner essay—I was indignant—Stedman seemed to me there (and this was the one point that troubled me) to unjustifiably dwell upon what people call my filth, sexuality, all that—seemed not only to give it undue weight, prominence, but to twist it, as I thought—twist it. I said all this at the time—don't know but I said it to him—at any rate, said it to his friends, and he must have known of it. But I know Stedman has himself modified all that: especially during the past year or so has he come nearer and nearer. I could not say I was at any time drawn towards him—deeply drawn—but that he was a genuine man (body, mind, generosities, affections)—a patriotic American—Oh! patriotic from the core!—and cute (indeed, remarkable in a sense, intellectually) I have never doubted—never doubted at all. That Apollo expression I have somewhere come upon before. Stedman himself heard something of it—mentioned it in his letter—and I think Hartmann offered it to Kennedy." As to Hartmann: "I can see now that he is a dangerous fellow. He has been here to see me—I have met him more than once—I cannot say I ever really disliked him—but when he attempted to that Whitman Club in Boston—you know of it—I put my foot down on him heavily—did this through Baxter and Kennedy, who are the fellows up there now most generously my espousers."

     I read him an amusing Emerson paragraph. He laughed: "I not only never said that, but never thought it—never could have said it that way if I had thought it. As to H.'s Taine's English Literature "is one of the productions of our age," W. laughed—"Of course—so are we all!" "The whole business," he said again, "is projected from the camel of his imagination: indeed, I should not say that—a worse animal than the poor, quiet, contained camel—a worse far! I can see easily enough

     Discussion of policy of American journalism: that it will sacrifice truth for interest. W.: "It seems to my thinking that the papers abroad, though it may be we only get the best of them, are distinctly superior in the respect—more accurate, scrupulous." Instanced the fine little article by Summers (M.P.) last year describing visit to W. W. The World article was of three columns, and by Hinton—distinctly superior to S. H.'s and of course more truthful—rather descriptive and general than a report of conversation. W. looked and laughed at portrait. Asked what was my impression of this report. I gave a more favorable review than of the other. Had not yet read, only glanced over it. Also brought him proofs. He laid all together. As we sat there in the dark Ed came in for mail, which W. groped for on chair and found, handing to Ed. "Three postals and one letter, isn't that the count?"

     W. said again: "We could sum it up in this way, that I am responsible for nothing—nothing whatever—except what I have written by my own hand—what stands there now in the two books." Spoke of his intention to use the Gutekunst phototype pictures in the pocket edition. "I find they will do—will stand the cutting. You know the picture? the picture with the hat on?" I kissed him good-night and left him there, the shadows now darkened into absolute night.

Wednesday, April 17, 1889

     10 A.M. W. in bathroom on my arrival. I sat in his big chair and read till he came back. Ed had to lead him. His lack of strength palpable. But he looked very well—heartily welcomed me. "got you seated," he said, in a phrase he so often uses.

     Postal from Mrs. O'Connor of 15th. Report bad . I asked W.

     Letter from Ingersoll to me this morning, contributing 25 dollars towards the fund: "Let me know Mr. Whitman's condition. We must all see to it that he is taken care of." I spoke of this to W., and he was much touched. "That is good and noble of him—but him. If you write, boy, say for me: Walt Whitman sends his love and regards, tell him you were here and saw me, that you talked with me about it, that I was touched and grateful."

     Returned me the proofs I had brought along last night. Asked me: "Will you leave the American with me?" Desired to read Morris' column there on Browning and Whitman. I inquired if he had read Hinton's World article? "Oh yes! the whole of it." Then after a pause he asked: "How does it appear to you? It seems like three crowded columns of gush. It is no easy task, to work along through all that block of solid matter. Does it not leave you with the feeling—when you are

     7.45 P.M. Down with Kemper, who did not go into W.'s room. Took W. proof, over which at last he expressed his pleasure. "I think it will do now." "I got a letter from Doctor today in which he says someone has sent him the World. So I have taken the copy you brought me and forwarded it to O'Connor." At this, he spoke of the "bad, bad news" from Washington; O'C. not then able to read the letter W. had sent him. "The wife says, the last three or four days were the worst. Poor O'Connor!" Spoke of the portrait with Hinton's article. "From the way he speaks, it is to be inferred it is from one of the Cox portraits—but it is too bad to indicate what it is; indeed, I don't know but one should call it horribly bad, for horribly bad it is!" "I send the Herald up to Doctor, but did not write him at any length about it, only a few words on a postal."

     Returned to me The American containing Morris' article "The Revolution against Taste," and simply remarked of it: "It is slight—seems to have no weight—apparently has nothing to tell." With it he had lain Trubner's Record spoke of the other day. Said W.: "It seems to be devoted to the East—to Asia—and to America: big enough subjects, to be sure, rightly handled, but dry enough handled there. I thought you might be interested in looking over it—not in reading, but in seeing what is there—as with me: for I am a most curious fellow, hungry to know about all that's going about all the books, things, policies of governments." Said he: "I have sent off one of the Bucke books. There was a person over there in England pretty hungry to have a copy, so I sent one in this way—not that alone, but sent along with it a copy of November Boughs." Printer had put "Preface" at top of second page of introductory notice of A Backward Glance. W. promptly excised.

     The heat in W.'s room great, this evening, yet not probably more than comfortable to W. He tells a good story apropos , of two visitors, the first complaining of heat and inducing W. to throw up the sash, the second, entering a few minutes after, complaining of cold, and persuading W. to close it again. "Now," says W. "if people would believe that I understand my own business, we would all get along better!" He always asks me what I think of the temperature in his room, and I always qualify my impression with a "to me." I trust to his own sense for knowing what is best for him . But night before last, despite the blazing wood in the stove and the heat of the atmosphere, his right hand was so cold it rather startled me, and I remarked it to him. But although I found the left , which I took in my own, similarly conditioned, he said he was not at all conscious of cold. Remarked tonight that he had not "for a long time" heard anything from Kennedy that was "notable." And inquired after Morse, too.

Thursday, April 18, 1889

     10.30 A.M. W. was writing an addition to foot-note in preface and had written on top of proof sheet—"After correcting please give me five impressions." He wished to send one or two away. Title page he said would do. "I do not say I am enthusiastic about it, but I am willing to let it go and it will look better in the book than here."

     "The Danmark," he said, "I see there is no word of it still. Oh! that is a fearful probability." Said: "I had a note there from Merrill—Bradford Merrill of the Press. Do you know him?" Merrill had sent him a circular—a symposiate circular again—asking—by number 1 and 2, what most had contributed to his success in life. W. said: "I guess I shall answer

     I wrote Stedman a letter before going to W. Thereupon W. spoke of Hartmann again. I of the transparent falsity of his column. W. said: "There are wise, cute men, who set it down as sufficient disproof of what is called spiritualism that the messages it brings are none of them such as we could not equal and improve upon on earth here." W. said of his health that it was "only so-so"—that he had not go up "in very brilliant condition."

     Clifford had enclosed in a letter to me Swinburne's "March" ode (Nineteenth Century) with the preface: "I have not your Swinburne ear" and this delightful play to follow:

     To talk true, this tone tries to torture terms that tell trifling totals towards the triumphant tautologies therein tossed together, time, tide, today, tomorrow tumbled thus to turn trumpery tunes to ticket the tutelary tyrant that torments the twitterer. Alliteration (all iteration, and damnable, too). Imagine Walt figuring out the alphabet to its possible variations and agreements so!

W. read with great enjoyment and laughter and to Clifford's closing two lines: "Imagine Walt figuring,"&c. "Yes, imagine it!" I stayed only for ten minutes.

     7.45 P.M. On nearing house, noted darkness in W.'s room. This always arouses my fears. When in once, found indeed that he was in bed, resting, the night almost fully fallen, his room dark. The weather had grown much warmer through the afternoon. One of his windows was thrown clear up. As I groped my way for a chair, after shaking hands with him, I asked how he had spent the day. "Very bad," he said, "it has been a bad day all through—a bad, bad day." As if emphasizing

     He said to me: "I have had a couple of visitors. Harry Bonsall came in—with him Buckwalter. You know Buckwalter, don't you? Buckwalter, of the public schools. We had quite a good talk—they were here about 20 minutes, I should suppose. Both good fellows, too!" I remarked that Buckwalter was a man of more decision of character than Bonsall. W. responded: "I don't know—it is likely. But I like Buckwalter—he is much of a man." I said: "After one gets through his peculiarity of speech, he is much liked." W.: "I am not at all troubled by that—it passes me by—I am used to it. You see, I have known Buckwalter for a long time: besides, that speech matter is the peculiarity—I may say the inevitability—with New England people, it is almost universal with them; even the wise Emerson had it, in some measure; all of them had it, have it;—I can freely say I accept it—never feel resentful towards its use. It is a sort of extreme grammaticism. Yet I confess that when it is made too prominent—when it is indeed insisted upon—when it is too much poked in one's face—I turn my back on it, it offends me." Added: "But I was glad to have the two come in." Visits from good friends, if not prolonged, threw blessed light across the days of his confinement.

     In Standard, out today, Henry George speaks (London letter of 5th) of a drive out with Pearsall Smith. W. was much interested to learn of the affair. He has a way, when he particularly wants to understand what you say, of repeating your explanations after you, to find out if it is rightly caught. He did so now, for this case: "Do I understand you right?—

     W. here said: "I must not let my fire go out"—but when he leaned over to examine it he found it was gone out, practically—at least, only a spark left. And although he flung a log on it, and tried to start it up, his efforts were of no avail. Then surrendered it—threw himself back in his chair. The room was really very warm anyhow. He did not look extra well—I could see that his head trouble was active again. I looked half-scornfully at the stove (our new stove of the Fall) and quoted Hinton's contemptuous description of it—"A sheet-iron stove, rusty." W. laughed most heartily—then said: "I don't think much of Hinton's article, anyhow. He has sent me a copy of the paper himself—it arrived today. It may seem ungracious—even unkind or harsh—to say so (for Dick is my friend and means me well) but his piece impresses me most by its emptiness—impresses me as a big tumor or boil, much swelled, inflamed, bulging, but nothing after all. No! No! I don't like either of them: they seem by no means justified."

     I opened the roll of proofs and indicated which one Myrick wished him to return. Remarked too that I valued his addition to the footnote. Said he "rather liked it himself." Then conversed of plans of procedure. "We are now about in shape to let the printer take it in hand." And he added: "I am figuring out the affair of the portrait—of an order for the plate-printer to go on. I have about settled upon this—perhaps I may change, but for the present this—to use the three-quarter picture, the McKay picture, as frontispiece, to use the steel in its old place, 'The 70th Year,' the Linton: these in addition to the photos. What do you think?" And he proposed, "Going right ahead with the new small edition of November Boughs," which would give him the chance to print the Hicks portrait with more care, by special arrangement, than had been before. "As it shows up in the book there, it disappoints me." Although

     I told W. I had acquainted Stedman in my letter of the forenoon with our intention to issue a pocket edition on W.'s birthday. W. said: "I am glad you did. I have several times today been impelled to write to Stedman myself—a few lines, anent that affair; for considering his handsome, recent treatment of me,—kindness, consideration, generosity—it seems very unhandsome in me to let the matter pass without direct reference. But I have not felt well, and then there is the demon: you know, Socrates had his demon, and that demon made up the whole calendar of life—and my demon today was not altogether persuaded." Perhaps it would be as well to wait and what S. had to say, if anything, in response to my letter. He said: "I know you would like Stedman: he is a quick, all-alive, man—earnest, affectionate, frank." He had often seen in classification, "Stedman and Gilder placed together" but this was "unwarranted" since "Gilder is by no means the man we know Stedman to be—is good, and of course has his abilities—but has not the fine emotional, sympathetic nature that enriches Stedman." Besides, "has not the acumen, the intellectual, the literary, power." "Gilder has written several volumes of poems—I have seen them, but not read them—at least, not read them with any sort of attention."

     Then he spoke feelingly, in reply to my word—"We ought to be glad that so much has been accomplished the past year, when we think of the anxiety of June that nothing would be done"—"Yes indeed—and I am. It was first of all a great victory to have got November Boughs out. And the big book, bound there as it is, with notes, portraits—I am happy, content, for having secured it. And now this—this on the high way to success! We have indeed had a varied but auspicious experience—things nearly all in shape now. Even this book, this edition, seems to me to have a simple, settled, purpose, all its own—to be made distinctly for a place—bound up as it is, the poems and A Backward Glance together, well-cohering, well-belonging in connection." "I cannot just put my finger on the spot—yet am convinced the significance is real"—"I have allowed myself more egotism in these later words—in what I have written the past year or two—especially in connection with these last books—notes, &—than ever before. Yet have accepted the privilege with every consciousness of its dangers, knowing full well that there are a thousand eyes,"—I interrupted, "or thousands"—"Yes,—thousands of eyes, ready and eager to see and announce errors, offenses, whatnot."—"But not fearing results—certainly not wishing to have my friends misunderstand me, I have gone on. The final point anyhow being, that I shall satisfy my own second thought of what should be done and what foregone." He referred again to his joy to thus live to "get together an authenticated volume" to which futurity, if for him futurity be, must come: "for authoritative word"—of him, "if word at all." Much interested in the whole drift of talk.

     I left and went across the room. The misty evening on the water (I had crossed a couple of hours before) engaged him. We spoke of his possible outing—perhaps a trip up Market Street in Philadelphia and down Chestnut in the city to see changes. "How much must have been done since I last wandered that way." But he expressed no hope of such a trip.

     Alluded to Bradford Merrill's statement in letter, that John Burroughs put W. at head of living authors. W. said: "And by the way, John thinks a good deal of Gilder—thinks there is considerable to him. It is a judgment to be weighed." Clifford had seen prefatory note of pocket edition. I met him on the street the other day. He could see no decline of vigor or beauty. Did not know of another now living who could write that way. W. said: "That puts us on our mettle, even in our old age!"

Friday, April 19, 1889

     10.35 A.M. Marvellously clear out of doors—and the air mild as summer. W. sitting in his room by the open window, working on proof. Certain wrong insertions on lines. Asked me: "Isn't it a remarkable day out-of-doors?" He thought it had that look. It inspires him to talk of the chair again. Bonsall and Buckwalter had advised Ed to get a proper chair and let them see about payment.

     "And nothing of the Danmark," said W.—"not a word! not a word!" If no sailing vessel had picked them up, then was "the whole story in"? "I do not quite understand this Azores business, though I suppose it is intelligible enough if one but knew"—the hope, viz., that the Azores would be the first point touched in case they had been picked up by a sailor. "There is one thing to be said of it—if they have gone down—if the whole crew—all the passengers—have simply been drowned—then is the final word spoken—then, as was the case in the Army when a man was killed outright—then need no sympathy be wasted on that. But if not—ah!" and his face assumed its serious aspect.

     He said again: "I got two letters in my mail today—one from Doctor, the other from the Herald. The Herald wants me to send them something for the big racket over there—the constitutional business. Whether I shall do it or not depends entirely

     Here he suddenly asked: "Have you ever thought, Horace—yes, yes you must have thought—how very much of life consists in solidification—how we settle down to the justice of a thing because it has long been—because it has always been so, perhaps—rather than from any reason one could give for its intrinsic value?" Perhaps some of our notions on copyright would fall by such a consideration. W. questioned me somewhat upon the subject of Davidson's "Bonaventure" Tuesday night. He had never heard of the man—asked me: "Was there a man of that name?"—adding that he had always known its "Good Luck!" signification, but never its biographical signification. As to the lore of the mystics, he knew nothing.

     Cannot get the loss of the Danmark out of his thought. The passengers and crew "mostly Dane." "I am always interested on the score of the Scandinavian stock: the Danes, the Norwegians; these and the Scotch. Oh! how great is America's debt to them!"

     7.50 P.M. W. sitting in chair by the middle window, which was open. There was no light in the room. He and Harned I found engaged in animated and earnest talk about Ticknor's "Spanish Literature." Harned's boy was there, also, coming forward in the dark when he heard my voice and informing me, "I am here, Uncle Horace." W. was advising Harned: "You should by all means read it—it is, if not the greatest book, at least one of the greatest—a perfect, inexhaustible mine. Ticknor—George Ticknor—was a Yankee man, a Bostonese; he had lots of money—went to Spain, spent three or four years there, got rid of many thousands of dollars. He hired several Spanish amanuenses, copyists—worked in that way. It is certainly a great and potent book—and fascinating, too. I remember one of the chapters there, relating to the Inquisition, where he says, there's no use cursing, swearing, about it, it was there. What are you doing now to make Inquisitions impossible? That was the aim of it. Ticknor put the work of a life into the book—twenty years of research, labor preparation." W. had more than once read it. Harned afterward got up—said the boy was impatient to go. W. solicitously—"Going already?" and then—"are you going to take a walk?" The "Goodbyes!" then hearty and we were left alone.

     Turned to me—I could see his head against the uncertain flickering reflections without. "What have you seen new today?" Proof only, the sheet now correct. He said: "It was only a casual error—it was such an error, too, as is anytime likely to be made." Ed had come in the dark while Harned remained and brought with him a postal. W. had asked, not seeing, "What is it, Ed—mail?—a letter, paper, postal?" and when he got it—"Postal!"—had for the minute relapsed. But now he desired to see what the postal was, wheeled about in his chair, arose, closed the windows, lighted the gas. In doing this last the matches, several of them, one after another, would not ignite. I could hear his provoked "Psha!" in the dark, and at last laughed at him, he joining. "Once in awhile,"

     I mentioned having been reading John Burroughs' "Fresh Fields." W. did not fairly catch the title—thought I said Presque Isle. Finally he did set himself right. "Oh! Fresh Fields! that book I know. I cannot say intimately, but I have seen it. I thought you said 'Presque Isle' [which probably explains why, when I first spoke of this book some weeks ago, he expressed a desire to read it]. There is a place of that name, and I knew John was soldering together a new book. I did not know but Presque Isle was his name for it." Returned me the Standard. "I have read all that piece about Pearsall Smith. It was very readable." George had said therein that on their drive he had not broached the subject of tariff to Smith. W. remarked hereupon: "I think Pearsall is open enough on that question: I don't believe he is a protectionist by principle—by abstract conviction—but by connivance, because he thinks it is about the thing to be. That would be my understanding of him." W. said he had written to Mary Costelloe today. I asked: "Did you mention the article?" "Oh yes! I said briefly—in a few words, that I had read it." Said he "liked the paper as a whole"—that "it was full of interesting material." A long address therein by John DeWitt Warner on "Our National Life." I supposed he would, if seeing, read: and sure enough he said of it: "I read all that—every word of it—and it was enjoyable, too!" He liked George's style. The London letter "was fascinating"—"his pen is a good one: he writes very easily and attractively—it is like a good dish, a taste of it makes you want more."

     The weather had been extraordinary all day. Seventy-four degrees in the shade between two and three o'clock. It was an anticipation of summer. We spoke of it together—of the possibility of having W. get out. But he put on a very dubious expression

     I had a copy of Bazaar with me. In it a double-page engraving of General Wolseley, at which (its wonderful effect and delicacy) W. looked lingeringly. He called it "a wonderful fine picture"—said: "I never saw his phiz before," and made comment after comment of a general character without the first hint of an estimate of the man himself. "These fellows nowadays seem to get artists, engravers, printers, of the best class. It is wonderful, marvellous, the effects they achieve." Turned over to fashions in head-dress on first page. "Even these are well done—handsomely done, though"—and here he looked at me and laughed—"I despise 'em!" Inside he turned impatiently from a stiff Madonna picture ("Madonna's threads"—a salon picture by Lucas).

     Said by transition to out-of-doors again: "It seems to be perfect summer weather. I had a letter from Doctor today in which

     I do not regard these as good days at all for W. He describes himself as "far, far down"—and that indeed he seems. But we hope on still, at least for generous respite. His bodily temperature is low. The night so warm, yet he closed his windows and stirred the fire. Harned's youngster had sung out in the dark while here (then the window was open) that he was "awful hot—sweating"—and yet W. even then had not warmth enough—had closed out the air altogether. I wrote Ingersoll this evening—so told W., who expressed his pleasure. Baker came in as I sat in parlor talking with Mrs. Davis. He went up to W. and I left.

Saturday, April 20, 1889

     I asked him of his condition, and he called it "nothing to boast of." But had eaten a more or less hearty breakfast. Signed a portrait Mrs. Burleigh had bought at Gutekunst's—a copy of the sitting picture in Bucke's book. But he was mystified how Gutekunst had got a copy of that portrait for sale. I guess there's no mystery, really, but I am not clear about it myself. My stay very brief. I did not desire to do more than get proof. In talking of pictures he asked of me: "What about the printing of steel plates?" And in a rough way I described its method. He said he knew nothing whatever about it, nor about lithography. What I said, particularly of the presses used, greatly interested him—at least, I so judged by his manner and his questions.

     Evening: 7.45. The unlighted room caught me as I came near the house, aroused my apprehension. W. as I expected on his bed. The afternoon had been very warm and sultry. I went for a long stroll in the Park with Kemper. W. said of his condition, that it was bad—"a sick day—one of the sickest." And when I spoke up: "It seems impossible for you to gain any strength," he affirmed: "It is so—in fact, I am losing instead of gaining." For the present he gives up all idea of getting out. "I could not get down stairs—it would be impossible." To Ed who had entered with me, he said he had no mail at all to go to the Post Office. "But I will let you strike a light if you choose." Which Ed did choose, closing room windows in doing so.

     W.'s usual questions, what I had done in town, of course came. I had been to the printer's with proof. He much interested in knowing I had been out for a walk. I spoke of the odor

     On a reference to Harper's Bazaar he exclaimed: "And poor Mary Booth—now you are dead and buried!—and what now?" And when I asked: "Did you know her?" "Only slightly—I have met her." Odor of flowers in the room. Out of the neck of his sherry bottle, now filled with water, white and red roses. How had they come? And he said: "I have had a visitor today, and she brought me the flowers. It was Charlotte Fiske Bates. What a fine healthy girl she is, too—and so hopeful! I should say, not at all old—under 30, of a certainty. How cheery, how helpful! She tells me she is now living in New York. She was in Boston for some years. She teaches school." Had she brought him any news of the friends there? "I would hardly call it news, but she sees Stedman, she says, and gives an interesting account of how he sturdily stands up for me." Had she seen the Herald deliverance? "No—it was news to her when I spoke of it."

     I said: "I see by the papers that Pearson over there in New York [postmaster] is dying." Whitman remarked quietly: "He is dead—he died this morning." I had not seen an afternoon paper. "It seems to me he died with a tumor—a tumor down in the belly; and this tumor, the doctors say, came from over-strain, over-work, too assiduous a regard for the duties of his position there." W. added: "New York certainly has had cause to be congratulated on its postmasters recently—on Pearson, on James—perhaps most on James, the gem of gems among officers. I don't know why, anyhow, such offices do not always go to men simply for moral, business reasons." I said: "These are but secondary, now," and W. responded indignantly: "Secondary? They do not enter at all. It is not a question of fitness but of whether the fellow who is appointed is a good friend of the fellow who appoints him. Even General Grant would appoint

     He spoke of a book. "It is now on the eve of its issue—at least of being printed. I am anxious myself to see it. This book is a book I am getting out, not to please the public, but solely with reference to myself." But of course if the public happened to be pleased in his pleasure, all the better!

     W. had noted in papers today, announcement of publication of book "Emerson in Concord," by Emerson's son Edward—treating of home life of R.W.E. W. looked forward to a treat in its reading. W. spoke of the multitude of art publications nowadays. "America seems of all places the best market for it—the best popular market. It would make good matter for an important article, to know just how this cheap art product is distributed—whether most North, South, East, West. "Some cute fellow ought to take it up for one of the papers." I had a friend who dealt considerably in cheap jewelry. W. was curious to discover how his product was disposed of. "It all has a great importance as determining the standard of our culture, lives."

Sunday, April 21, 1889

     I asked him for a copy of "As a Strong Bird" for Mrs. Fels, whom I went to see this evening. W. said: "Of course—and gladly!" adding—"Go in there; you'll find a copy in Ed's room there in the box"—and calling it "Better still" when I found what I wanted on the shelf instead. He took the book—wiped the dust from it on a robe there on the floor—then took a pen and firmly (though somewhat irregularly, for it was nearly dark) endorsed it; sending it, as he put it there, "With my best wishes"—and advising me: "Tell her for me that that is a hard nut to crack—the hardest nut of all." At my mention deprecatively of "The Mystic Trumpeter," he explained: "I do not mean that—that is exceptional—that is more in the popular vein. I mean 'As a Strong Bird'—that is a great task for anyone to assume to understand." Perhaps the sweetest nut might have the hardest shell? "I do not know—but the poem is a puzzle, anyway."

     I noted that he had taken the photos so far selected and counted them off into fifties, labeling them accordingly. "I found I had plenty of the butterfly pictures. I have put aside there, 305 or over; intended tying them up, but had not the

Monday, April 22, 1889

     5.50 P.M. W. sitting by open middle window, reading Lippincott's, which had come today. He looked well, as he usually does after his dinner, and talked vigorously. In front of him his empty wine-bottle. Why did he not send it up to Harned to be refilled? He deprecated that—"I am ashamed to do so."

     Questioned me about my work at Ferguson's today—spoke particularly of inside margin for book. I had Brown prepare a sheet, indicating his procedure. W. inspected, was pleased, except as saying to margin as above: "I do not wish to lay it down as something for him absolutely to follow, but to suggest to him that he should have a care on that point. I have myself had so much difficulty just there—so much of experience with books, which, to be seen, had to be ripped out of the cover, so"—indicating by a motion of the hands, "and you have too, without a doubt—that now we have this matter in our grip, we may see that it is done right." Ferguson had given me a copy of The Inland Printer to show to W. for its typographical beauty. It had been rolled, and stubbornly resisted being flattened out. W. reflected: "In our printing we will bye and bye come to make up with reference to the mails." To fold was "bad enough," to roll was "despicable." I called his attention to a photo-engraving therein. "I was looking at that," he replied, "it seemed extraordinarily fine: I had that in my mind to say at the start. And the letter-press, too." The picture was of a group of tally-hos. W. remarked: "Such things we don't have at all in this country except as importations

     I told W. I had received a letter from Stedman. He was at once greatly interested—urged me to read it—which I sat down and started to do. But there was suddenly started up a great racket out of doors: it was just six o'clock: the factory whistles were blowing in all quarters of the town. W. reached forward to close the window: could not do it. "I am a little deaf," he explained. I went towards him and lowered the sash. "Now," he suggested, "now let us hear it." So I read the letter, as follows, very deliberately:

April 19th 1889
Good Friday

Dear Mr. Traubel,

     In response to your kind letter of the 17th, I will only remark that this is the second public letter which I have received from you within a year or two, regretting the public appearance of alleged interviews with Walt Whitman, which have not been modified equal publicity.

     The special expressions referred to in the two private letters have certainly been most ingeniously cruel, & recall to mind the predicament of the rejected lover.

"To be sure she'd a right to dissemble her love,

But why did she kick me down stairs!"

     At a time when a few of us are drawing so very near to our old Bard, in the sunset of life, when the roughness of life are over, it is at least a pity that color should still be given, even by vagrant interviewers, to the charge that he expresses unkind, if not unfair, judgments of his brother-writers. I suppose we all of us think that many of our clan are donkeys or popinjays in their minds & methods, but we do not feel it an imperative duty to say so.

Very truly yrs.

E. C. Stedman

Tuesday, April 23, 1889

     Rather despondent about his health. "It's nothing extra—not really good at all." And he looked significantly at his fire in the stove: "It is much colder this morning, isn't it?"—seemingly much surprised that I replied in the negative. Had been reading the papers, specifically what is therein about the Danmark incident. Wishes me to see Billstein and get him a few copies of the three-quarter pictures at once. "I want to see them before having the whole edition printed." Added that he meant to have a hundred extra printed anyhow for his private circulation. "To make assurance doubly sure," he said, he would make up a dummy for Brown, so the method of arrangement "could not possibly be mistaken."

     As to Disraeli's description of Gladstone—"A sophisticated rhetorician, inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity"—W. said: "the damning weakness of that is in its elaborate making-up." Letter from Mr. Coates acknowledging the Sarrazin sheets, "Which," he said, "I am glad to have." W. gratified—said he always "warmed up towards these people."

     Evening 6.45 P.M. W. sitting by open window reading Lippincott's. Asked after "new things," and wondered what I had done in town today. Pleased that Billstein would have us half a dozen of the three-quarter plates by Thursday. Of himself said: "I have practically done nothing—seen nobody: not a stranger the whole day." I spoke up: "Not even Will Carleton?" W. smiled: "oh!—I forgot him. Yes, Will Carleton." I asked him if his days were long—if one day did not often seem two. "I do not know about that; I know today has been a bad

Wednesday, April 24, 1889

     10.30 A.M. W. reading paper. The day fine and much warmer. His fire burning brightly. Did not seem conscious of a too-great heat. Reported his condition: "only so-so." Yet looked well, acted well.

     Said: "I notice that the Captain of the Missouri is being much feted, celebrated. Last night there was even a poem for him—and a good one, too." He looked up his Press and pointed lines out to me—a plain recitative, with no pretense of art—its human touch taking hold of him. "The Captain sails away for Baltimore today, don't he? I am glad to see he bears himself well—worthily." Then he proceeded: "The caves of ocean bear many a gem—many a poem as good as the good,—perhaps the best—and never seen!"

     "And what news have you?" he asked, after a pause, and to my "nothing" he added: "nor have I anything. My mail was small enough: a letter from Bucke—a short one—in which he says his two brothers are still there. But not a word from Washington or anywhere else!" I picked up from the floor a brick-colored pamphlet; "The Church Catholic," by B. F. C. Costelloe M.A. I asked W. if that was our Costelloe, and he said: "Yes—that's the fellow. He's a good Catholic. Take the book along. I don't want it—I have not read it and never shall—I never read such stuff." And again to me: "Don't bring it back again—I don't want to see it again." "I never did read

     Evening 7.40 W. sitting in his room, the fire burning brightly, the odor of wood-smoke pretty thick. It is hard to comprehend that anybody can without suffering remain in such temperature. Yet neither heat nor smoke were obvious to him. He asked me: "Is it too warm?" and of the smoke: "Oh—is that so? That should be attended to—I know it is not good."" He had been reading. Did not, I thought look very well; but said there had been no change, that he felt reasonably good, that at any rate he was better than yesterday.

     He had made up the dummy for Brown. "I was going to propose that you go to Brown yourself and see that he understands it all, but I suppose you intended that anyhow." As I had—my engagement being for tomorrow afternoon. "the corrections," W. said, "are very few indeed—not more than 3 or 4—really a mere pretense, so to say—and none of them urgent." I sometimes get a little anxious lest the book will not get out by the date specified. W. has had such a bad time the past month our work has been often interrupted. The photos for mounting still remain half-collected. A few more days cut out—a bad spell of some kind, disabling him—and we are done for. He remarked this in effect himself this evening. As to "news" today, he said he had none. Everything unwontedly quiet.

     I went to Von Bulow concert at the Academy this afternoon. A great, more of less fashionable audience, but the performance wholly simple and unique: The curtain down, Von B. appearing unattended—appearing with hat (a sailor flat hat) and gloves on—these nervously thrown off on a small round table against the curtain. Two or three times in the

Thursday, April 25, 1889

     10.20 A.M. W. reading his Press. The day much milder. One window thrown wide open. "I supposed it was dusty. And it looks like rain? We ought to be glad to have it come." There are three windows, all opening north, in his room. The west window is rarely opened—not even curtain thrown up—except in warmest weather. Between this and the center window against the wall is a big round table. It is on this table he eats his meals, facing west, and it is the center window by which he which he sits when not doing anything. The third window (the east) has his big square table nearly against it; and this with a box underneath, and chairs about him, is the repository of his working materials. When working he wheels from his center window, his left side against the square table, his back towards the light. Takes a pad on his knee—always writes that way. The east window he will sometimes raise, and fix the blinds for light, but his main dependence is always on the center window. He never throws the shutters open. The blinds he will put at the down-angle if he wishes to look into the street, and at the horizontal or up, if simply studying the sky, or ruminating. Health he reports "about the same" And then: "No news—except this postal from Nellie." Rather bad reports still from O'Connor—his vomitings and sickness thereto continuing. W. said: "I shall mail the postal to Doctor tonight—this afternoon." And reflecting: "It is a sad report, all around: it shows not only that something is badly out of kilter but that something is absolutely gone—absolutely."

     "From unprecedented reasons," he said further along, "the last number of The Critic came Saturday morning." Did not know if he had sent it away or not. Had noted therein this

     Evening 7.50 W. reading a volume of Stedman's big work. It proves of absorbing interest to him. But tonight he did not look well and did not feel well. His room almost insufferably hot. The temperature had anyhow grown higher in the afternoon, which, aiding his fire, made his room almost suffocating. I was in and saw Brown this afternoon. He cannot put the book on press till Tuesday next, anyhow. W. somewhat impatient at this, but must, of course, submit. But Brown explains: "I know this is thin paper and that Mr. Whitman is very particular; I have a certain press and a certain man who I wish to put on the job." Brown is sure the printing can all be done up next week. W. remarked: "I know there is no time to be lost. We must not let Oldach delay us this time. If we fail to get the book out by the date set, it will be ruin!"

     Billstein printed me a few copies of the McKay three-quarter length, which I gave to W. He examined them quite critically, as he had before, and said: "I like it—like it well. It is a little spotted—I notice that—but in effect, result, is all right—entirely satisfactory." He discussed the illustrations for the book. "I have counted six, irrespective of the Sarony picture." I went over the list—for the instant could make but five. W. thereupon (tallying with fingers): "There are six—

     I rose and started off. W. said: "You will be down in the morning? My head is in a bad state tonight. I must not worry it with anything at all." Rather pale—and so I left him. Wagner and Taylor have sent in notice of approaching expiration of insurance (May 8th).

Friday, April 26, 1889

     10.45 A.M. W. sitting by open window. Evidently better today. Said: "The rain helps me along with much else." Had "nothing further from Washington—in fact, nothing further at all, except a letter for an autograph" and "one of these yesterday, too." Had made up the butterfly picture for me to take, putting on outside of package "photos to be mounted directions inside" (no punctuation) and below "from Walt Whitman 328 Mickle Street Camden N. J." "What is the name of the party?" he asked me: and when I shook my head, not remembering, he said: "I left a place open there to insert it, but it can't be put there if you don't know it." The "directions inside," written in pencil, and pinned to a piece of cardboard and a specimen page of November Boughs was as follows (I observe its punctuation or lack of it):

     Attached to

     This is the size of the leaf and the page—cut your paper to the size of the leaf—mount the photo on abt the same thickness &c this card—of course the photo has not to exceed the printed page size—if necessary trim it to keep in for that purpose (it may be required a little)—

     Of course I shall expect you to make a good handsome little job of it

     W W

     He had divided the 305 in six packages of 50 and one of 5—each of them carefully tied up and endorsed (changed simply as to quantity) in effect on the brown sheet which enclosed them all:

     305 copies
(three hundred and five)
Phillips & Taylors
Butterfly Photo
sitting 2/3d length with hat
outdoor rustic

As will be noted he is not punctilious on the score of commas & in these little messages, but is always singularly clear and explicit. When he gives me a package, I always examine it minutely, and thoroughly master what he wants done, myself, before delivery. But, as he puts it, "for safety's sake, to give assurance to assurance," he addresses packages, often, and minutely describes contents and purposes, as if they were to be simply delivered—sent by boy, mail or express—"without a spoken word."

     This noon I received from Bucke a postal which read:

Asylum, London—Ont— 24 Ap. 89—

     Have just written W. urging that he go to Johns Hopkins Hospital to live. See the letter. Let me know how he takes the proposal & what you think of it. Best accounts from fund. The meter bus. looks bigger and bigger.

Your friend

R. M. Bucke—

     "I have the Tribune you sent me containing an account of the Johns Hopkins Hospital. Walt, if I were in your fix I would think seriously of going there for the next six months of a year (or even longer; but that would depend) as a private patient. They might do you good (they will have the best skill going) and if they did not you would be more comfortable there than anywhere else perhaps in the world. If you would think well of this I would go to Baltimore—make all the arrangements and then take you from Camden to the Hospital. There is no palace in Europe so comfortable for a sick or half sick man as this hospital would be. Think this over seriously (it is worth it) show this letter to Horace and talk it over with him (but H. does not half realize as I do the boom such a change would be to you)." Then in a "P.S.": "I enclose the cutting that you may look over it again if you feel to. The more I think of it the more I think you decidedly ought to go." And still again, in an "N.B."—"I do not suppose the expense would be much more than the present subsidy but if it is we can easily get more money." W. "for the present anyway" had "no inclination to make changes." But would not flout any advice: "only weigh it."

     I took the photos through the fearful rain to the Arch Street concern. W. asked: "Did they understand my note?" Asking additionally: "And what is the name of the party—what sort of a fellow do you deal with?" I laughed and joked with him about his hunger for details, and he laughed, too. "I don't know whether too much or not, but I like to know my men—who they are, what they do. You will bring me a card next time?" And again: "Is this the party you went to inquire about the photographic album for me?" No. "Ah! anyway, this fellow keeps coming don't he?" And after my affirmative: "If I could get a book to suit me, into which I could put the pictures to suit me, I would be happy. I wonder if it could be done?—a book about this size?"—measuring about a foot square. "Not necessarily larger—or larger at all." He had a great mess of pictures around and had often thought to collect them. Thought I could very well order of Billstein the pictures we needed. "The three-quarter length you brought me last night I want 300 or so of, in the small size, then enough to make up 400 in the size he used for the loose copies." He "wondered" about "the 70th year" plate—if he had it or Dave, I saying, the latter, though a little uncertain whether or not returned, now it had been so long. But W.: "I am sure it is on the table there."

     Spoke of his condition as "nothing to brag of" though "in no way worse" than yesterday. When Ed came in for mail, he found several letters and packages. To know if E. gets all, W. invariably enumerates what is there, and E. after him, however distant W. may be from the pile at the moment. W. had read the London World paragraph in the last Critic paying tribute to Whittier, saying of America "she has given us a goodly number of poets whose words the world will not willingly let die," and naming Bryant, Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, and Whittier but never W. W. But W. would make no comment.

     I went in out of the tempestuous rain this afternoon with Kemper and searched the Mercantile Library Shelves till I

Saturday, April 27, 1889

     He talked of Washington—"its malarious tendencies." Was it a distinctly unhealthy city? "I should say so—at least, Washington itself is not. But beyond Washington, around it, are boggy, swampy, immensities—flats. Potomac superficies—great exposures at the out-tide. Probably no city in the world can beat Washington in respect to this malarial curse. Yet the town direct might be considered a fortunate place—fortunate in its soil—sandy, dry, not boggy or welly at all. I should say that Washington, if it continues to be for 50 years (and I am not so sure that it will), might loom up as a great town. It was well-planned—it was the creation of engineers who were not stinted on the money side—who had great ideas of what the city should be—who made everything, as they say vulgarly, bang up." Did he expect Washington to continue as the Capital? "Not at all—I have not the slightest notion that it will. I have no doubt myself, but by and by the capital will go west—somwhere along the Mississippi—the Missouri: that is the natural play of tendencies: eventually something like this result is inevitable."

     On the table in a bottle is a bunch of violets. "They are our own—come out of our yard." Said he had "no mail—no letter—whatever, this morning." Sat a while with the window open, but as he closed it asked: "It has grown markedly cooler, hasn't it?" Afterward deliberately set to work and stirred up his fire—arranging his wood-coals with utmost care and piling new logs on top, soon having a blazing heat.

     Gave me back the Appleton sheet—printed herewith: (note absurd mixtures in detail).

     WALT WHITMAN, OR WALTER, poet——

     His chief work, "Leaves of Grass" (New York, 1855), is a series of poems dealing with moral, social, and political problems, and more especially with the interests involved in 19th century American life and progress. In it he made a new and abrupt departure as to form, casting his thoughts in a mould the style of which is something between rhythmical prose and verse, altogether discarding rhythm and regular meter, but uttering musical thoughts in an unconventional way which is entirely his own. Expecting the opposition and abuse with which his volume was assailed, he speaks of it as a sortie on common literary use and wont, in both spirit and form, adding that a century may elapse before its triumph or failure can be assured. For thirty years Whitman has been correcting and adding to this work, and he says that he looks upon "Leaves of Grass" "now finished, to the end of its opportunities and powers, as my definitive carte visite to the coming generations of the New World, if I may assume to say so." His experiences during this service (1862-5) are vividly recorded in "Drum Taps" (1865) and "Memoranda During the War" (1867). His admirers, especially in England, have been extravagant in their praise of his works, comparing him with the best of the classic writers, and in this country Ralph Waldo Emerson said on the appearance of "Leaves of Grass": "I greet you at the beginning of a great career." On the other hand, the peculiar form of his writings prevents their popularity, and their substance has been widely regarded as of no value. "Leaves of Grass" has been condemned for indecency on account of its outspokenness, and

     After detailing thus, it goes on to say: "besides the works already mentioned, Whitman has published 'Passage to India' (1870); 'After All, not to Create Only' (1871)"—and goes on to name others that have become part of the complete work, ending with this absurd memorandum " 'November Boughs' (1885) ; and 'Sands at Seventy' (1888)."

     "A selection of his poems, by William M. Rosetti, was published (London, 1868). Besides the complete edition of 'Leaves of Grass' that has been mentioned, another, edited by Prof. Edward Dowden, has since been issued (Glasgow, Scotland)." From Appleton's Biographical Journal. Refers as authorities to O'Connor and Burroughs but no others.

     "I read it all—got along very well with it." Had he any idea it had come from Hunter's hand? "Hardly—it is too full of misinformation. If Hunter wrote it, it must have fallen into the hand of the supervising editor before it got into type; you know, there's always a mess when supervising editors get to work." "The article does not impress me—not at all. Did you see how they did us up in the American supplement to the Encyclopedia Brittanica? That I call very good—that is the best yet."

     Thought "the Oklahoma land grab" a "funny affair altogether"—but took no minute interest in it. I returned him Bucke's letter and the Tribune article. We talked somewhat about it. "Nothing has yet come to me, for or against," he said, "I simply let the matter rest and proceed its own way." I asked: "Did you notice, Doctor seems to think I might oppose?" He laughed: "Yes—I noticed: he evidently fears you would say no." And I said then to W. distinctively: "I neither oppose nor favor—I am willing in this thing to defer to those who may know better." W. cried: "Good! good!" And when I said further: "And as to the fund, I shall continue my work for it, whatever turns up, and you should be at ease on

     He advised me: "I see nothing in Brown's way now—he can go right on any time he chooses; he has plates, paper, instructions—nothing remains to delay him." He found on examination that, as I said last night, Dave has not returned us "the 70th year" plate. Must get it from him and take to Billstein. Matters assume better and better shape. W. is rather sensitive about such reports as Hinton's of the almost squalor of his surroundings. He said to Ed (so Ed reports to me—and it sounds like W.) the other day: "Some people think we live in poverty and dirt here—but it is not so; things are a little dusty" &c—but not more. I find Ed rather solicitous (though easily so) over the prospect of removal. But he is of the opinion that W. will not go. I am not certain myself—rather feel the same thing—but W. hearkens to the proposition rather more than I should have supposed he would. He says that when the conclusion comes, whether yes or no, "it will probably come of a sudden—all in a rush." His fondness for the books about him—the strange disorder of it—"I never was very orderly," he says—may outweigh all other considerations. My own hope is, that whatever is denied upon, may be justified in their results.

     We talked of the proposed congressional appropriation to aid in the construction of a flying machine (some fellow with a plausible scheme)—and W. said: "I know many fellows who

     W. W. from life
one hot July forenoon 1855
Brooklyn N Y

in which I wrote on going, in pencil.

     W. much struck with these views, reported of Von Bülow, herewith:

     Von Bülow's Views.—Interviewed by a reported of the Mail and Express as to the relative merits of the various composers, and specially as to his views on Wagner, Dr. Von Bülow said:—"I am not ultra-Wagnerian, and I deprecate the attempt to place his works on a pedestal above many other composers. I knew Richard Wagner well, and helped to advance the Wagnerian school in Germany, but I am sensible and unprejudiced enough to believe there are other composers. I appreciate his greatness and recognize the compliment paid him in America, but I want it distinctly understood that I am not an ultra-Wagnerian.

     I believe that Bach is the father of music, Beethoven is his son, and Brahms I consider its spirit. To Brahms I owe my redemption from the ultra-Wagnerian school. The fact is I renewed my musical youth by his acquaintance. He taught me that there are many composers, many musicians, not one, and I owe him much for bringing me out of the sloughs of prejudice where the one-man worship prevails. He is broad and catholic in his musical views.

     * * * Whom do I consider the master instructor on the piano, now that Liszt is dead? Prof. Henry Ehrlich, of Berlin. He is sixty-four years of age and I consider him the best teacher, musical thinker and writer in Germany. None can approach him. I find the great fault with pianists is that they do not learn to phrase properly. Every pianist should learn to sing and play the violin; then their ears would hear more critically the sound they produce and thereby teach them how to phrase. But the average pianist plays by sight only, and has no ears. He sees the keys, and tries to execute correctly; but the sound he produces, the effect of his work, is not apparent to him. My advice to young pianists—old ones won't take advice—is to cultivate their ears and strive to obtain beauty and expression in what we term phrasing. It is the real beginning to greatness as a performer."

     "Oh! how grand that is—a keyword—the keyword—word inclusive of all other words. I don't know but the explication of the highest art—literature. Expression! Expression! Oh! the

     I left with him a copy of Scribners and copy of Bazaar. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "what a day I'll have tomorrow! I'm laying in a fine store!" And on looking at an English shore piece in the magazine—a marvellous photo-engraving reproduction: "Will they never stop—will they never stop?" Secured the 70th year cut from McKay and took it to Billstein. Told B. to hold it till I inquired of W. if there was any inscription intended for either cut. W. now: "I never thought of it." And after turning it over in a few minutes of silence: "Now I do think of it, I am disposed to let 'em go plain."

Sunday, April 28, 1889

     8.10 P.M. W. reading Tribune. Said his health was "half and half." I asked: "Like the weather?" And he answered: "Yes, just that"—for today had been raining and clear by turns. Had made up a copy of the big book to send to Will Carleton at Brooklyn. "No news at all today," he reported, "not a letter." Had read papers—Press, Tribune, &c. "I suppose the Tribune came from Tom," he explained; "he must have stopped at the door but did not come up." Returned me the Bazaar. Had "carefully scanned" both it and Scribners; said of the latter, "it is wonderful, the wealth of its illustrations." It had been "a great joy" to him to inspect—"I went all through with it." Cauffman had spoken to the Cliffords as though the English exhibit at the photographic exhibition was superior. Cauffman—a man of fine and practiced tastes art-ward—paints, photographs, himself. W., as always, greatly taken by the topic. Was greatly interested anyhow in my Germantown trip—in my description of greens—the rain-freshened landscape.

     I had referred the Stedman matter to Clifford, asking his judgment. He thought S.'s letter "almost tragic" in tone—

     Ever since the note from Bucke proposing the removal, W.'s demeanor towards me has been more tender and marked. This has been decidedly palpable—so much so as to strike me peculiarly. What it means—whether stay or departure—I should not dare to attempt stating. Tonight he said nothing directly touching the subject. I had with me an Emerson volume containing "The Poet," and opened it at the closing paragraph, handing it then to W. He remarked: "It is not new to me—I have seen it, read it, of course." But made no comment which either resented or accepted its application to him. He read the matter marked—read this book, too, as if he liked it. "Paper, print, type,—it is all good for the eye—and then it's a first edition, too, isn't it? 1866?" He did not think that edition "was ever beaten" typographically. I said of "The Poet" quote—"If you last, that describes you; if not, that's not your name!" He laughed greatly, but said not a word.

     Dr. Furness preached for Clifford this forenoon. He is

Monday, April 29, 1889

     Railroad accident occurred already, to pleasure seekers for the affair in New York [Celebration of centenary of ratification of the constitution]. W. expressed pain therefore. Then laughed at report in papers that in deference to Harrison's religious sentiment, his train last night, though boarded before 12, was not started till Monday was on &c. W. said: "That was just like him." Then reflected: "I suppose there will be a lot of people all along who will want to shake hands with the President—would with any president. It strikes me it would be a wise thing to have a big log and saw it into bits, let the people shake that! It is in such a suggestion as that we find the old Greek log story—and good, fitting, applicable, it is too!" I referred to Howard (the correspondent) and his argument once, that it were as well to shake legs as hands, (or something to that effect) so little sensible is this last. W. asked: "Jo Howard? Oh! I know him. Jo must be old now—quite as old as I am I should say. He is a cute, witty fellow—one of a group of fellows—bright, happy, necessary, just the men for the places they occupy. George Alfred Townsend is another I know—'Gath'—and he is good too. Both of them surface—indeed, all surface—of course, but important men, without a doubt." Z. L. White did not know. "He was a Washington fellow, too. But now he is dead! And Ramsdell is dead, too! Poor Ramsdell! I knew him—he was owner of the Republic there at Washington: is the Republic in existence yet?—and worked hard. Ramsdell was a department man—was ousted by Cleveland." Clouds still go scurrying across the sky, though it has not rained today. W. said: "The weather still seems unsettled. It will be a bitter dose if rains hits the celebration."

     McKay asked through me on Saturday for W.'s bottom

     Asked me as is his wont: "Where bound to? tell me!" Tonight Tom Davidson's last lecture—this on "Savanarola." W. said: "Savanarola? I know little about him—very little—too little. What was his date? He was one of the olders, was he not? long before our century?" And after my reply—"He was a priest then?" I asked him if he had not read George Eliot's "Romola." "Yes, I have read it, in a fashion—probably skipped half of it—it did not take hold of me." I said: "You must have skipped the Savanarola portion, for I do not think you would have forgotten that if you had once read it." And so he questioned me further. I said I understood that Miss Repplier and Morris would be there together. W. smiled—thought I would "probably meet Miss Repplier" and when I looked dubious, said: "It is a good and safe rule, always to take care to be introduced to the fellow you don't expect, or don't want to meet. These do us the most good. It is not a man's friends from whom he gets the most benefit—of course you know that as well as I do—but often the man who despises you, won't have you on any terms, is most rich in benefits." And yet he laughed, confessed it was true, meetings had their own best natural course, anyhow—and as for the denouncers, "certainly they come anyhow, asked, sought or not."

     His interest in the New York celebration immense—his allusions frequent. I have not heard him express a single regret in words that he cannot be present, but his whole absorption in it and the tone of his talk indicate that had he his body, the occasion would not be missed. "I see," he said to my more ignorant self—"I see by the Camden papers that the naval affair came off all right—the weather fair—not a rain today at all, was there?" And after a pause and my confession that I had not seen an afternoon paper: "It was from 9 on this morning—and successful, thoroughly. I am glad. The weather

     Ed came in—got postal for Will Carleton and several papers for others. W. desired Ed to buy him ten foreign postal cards, wheeling his chair about to the other table in search of the money he had there laid out for them. I asked Morris today who it was among Frank Williams' folks was dead, describing Curtis' few words last week. It seemed that Mrs. Williams' mother had been subjected to some surgical operation which proved fatal—this in the presence of Frank himself. When I went over this story for Walt he exclaimed: "Poor Frank!—Poor Frank! I know how he must have suffered. I did not know the Mother, but have somehow gathered the impression that she came of uppish stock: how I came by it, I do not know—that they have wealth too,—people of a high place—standards, as it is called,—in Society." And then it was "Poor Frank! Poor Frank!" again, and a word or two more of solicitude. And goodbye and out!

Tuesday, April 30, 1889

     "'I don't care if he is Ex-President of Heaven,' the fellow replied. "He shan't squeeze my girl.'" The lawyers howled, and Chauncey had obviously made one of the hits of the Centennial.

     Clifford had thought W. W. should have been called on for the poem. W. however was "sure it is best as it is," for, "Walt Whitman himself is glad enough he was not called on."

     Baker graduates tomorrow—will probably settle in Duluth. Asks from my sister a letter of introduction to the Strykers. Baker will probably be over, partly to see me, tonight, but as I am compelled to be away, I left a little message with W. Baker will probably go west immediately after the examination. W. spoke affectionately of him—of his service here and the liking for him and the hope and belief in his ultimate success. Complained of his mail: "No Critic yet." Had I seen it? "What was in it?—anything special?" I quoted a review of Florian's Montaigne: " 'Myselfe am the groundworke of my booke': such were the Whitmanesque words with which old Montaigne concluded the preface to his immortal essays just 309 years ago, and such the reason of their perennial freshness and charm." W. said at first: "I do not recognize

     Some item in a newspaper had excited W.'s curiosity over Alcott. "Are they to publish his Journals? I have heard somewhere there were volumes of them." Alcott had "always had the idea of a mission," and part of his mission was "to keep these Journals." Wondered in what guise "he would appear in these extensive journals," if at all. I had with me a copy of George Haven Putnam's analysis of Pearsall Smith's scheme of international copyright. W. said: "I have not read it. Pearsall came to me with his scheme—was very anxious to have me endorse it—but I did not—was not disposed to accept it." And he reflected—the number of "endorsements" solicited of him in his time by friends alone was enormous—but he had always kept his own path, espousing none. The one pamphlet recalled another. Reached over to his piled box under the table. "This is the latest—this is from Edward Carpenter. And I think it may interest you—perhaps Clifford, too: send it to Clifford when you are done with it." A leaflet of four pages—"Our Parish and Our Duke: a letter to the Parishioners of Holmesfield, in Derbyshire," starting "Fellow Parishioners," and signed "Edward Carpenter," with "Millthorpe, Holmesfield, March 1889" in the left corner. An examination, with a home illustration, of the land question—the nationalization of the land. W. said: "Yes, Edward is a Socialist." And when I asked: "Has he ever—or anyone—in any way indicated William Morris' feelings toward you?" He answered: "No—I know nothing on that point." Yet Carpenter and Morris often came in contact, probably—even Rhys with him. As to the latter W. said: "I see Ernest is writing letters now to the Boston Transcript—literary letters." W. always read these with "personal as well as general" interest.

     Someone had asked W. to write his name in one of the Burroughs books on him and he refused. "I always object," he

Wednesday, May 1, 1889

     Had been reading the accounts of yesterday's celebration. "I found the best report in the Record—it seemed to me the more accurate. Did you see Whittier's portrait there in the Press? It was rather good. I have never seen Whittier in person—never met him." Had he read the poem? "Oh yes! and you? have you? What do you think of it?" Afterwards stating: "It is good—smoothly written—very Whittieresque. I see for one thing, he gets a dig in at slavery: that seems inevitable with him."—"I have carefully examined—looked over—the oration—Chauncey Depew's. It has its merits. The best report of that, too, in the Record. The Press purports to give it all, but"—And then he said—"It is full of sweetness, ease: it is the last dish at the dinner—the dinner given you all sweets, all sugars, and sugar in this last dish brought in cloyingly at the last hour." He missed strong presentation. Had noted markedly and commented on "an evident enthusiasm" at the appearance of Cleveland.

     "No word from Washington," he said, "and strangely, too," he added, shaking his head, "I don't know what it means. But here are letters—perhaps you would like to see them: one from Doctor—one from Kennedy." I stood and read. Bucke is making new reading of L. of G. to hit possible errors, but reports none other than those already sent. W.: "Happy" that "the book seems so near complete typographically."

     Then he asked: "And what of our affairs in town—what do you know new?" We talked of my interview with McKay yesterday afternoon. I had instructed McKay to this effect; that W. did not insist but would prefer to have his big book go abroad cover and all—that he should write Gardner to that effect—using as argument that W. himself was wholly responsible for it as it stood, not another hand intervening—or planning—that in fact this might as well be the burden of the domestic canvas. McKay assented in the main. W. asked me:

     I saw Brown yesterday, and he had not yet been able to put our book in press: would however, positively do so Thursday—would then give me a sample sheet. W. said: "I am not so particular about the sample sheet as I am about the whole book—about any full sets." But then: "A day or two—provided it is not longer—does not trouble us—I do not mind that. Though we must be careful of any real delay." And of cover: "I suppose much will hinge upon cost: morocco is rare and costly; it may be beyond our power, as it is: if so, we must find something else that will serve." He had already promised copies—one to Kennedy, who welcomed the thought of it. Had read the Jefferson, Adams, and the other letters in Unity—"and with a certain kind of interest, too." But they had not impressed him as of great weight.

     7.30 P.M. The room dark, W. on bed. "Ah Horace! Is that you?" Somehow distinguished me even in the shadows. Was he unwell, that he was thus lying down? "Oh no! I am pretty well—I do not count these very bad days." I heard a sheet crumpled in the dark, and knew Ed had brought his mail and given it him there as he lay. Questioned me: "What have you learned new in town today?"—the usual words with which he inaugurates business. But I had learned nothing except that our work proceeded. I had given McKay the little book and had his thanks for it. Then W. asked: "And how is the weather? I suppose they finished up things in New York today—and after all, it was a pretty good day, wasn't it?"

     I read all the speeches this afternoon except Depew's and spoke of their dullness. W. asked in regard to Lowell's: "Was

     Literature has been put somewhat low on the list of toasts, doubtless in deference to necessity of arrangement, but perhaps the place assigned to it here may be taken as roughly indicating that which it occupies in the general estimation. And yet I venture to claim for it an influence (whether for good or evil) more durable and more widely operative than that exerted by any other form in which human genius has found expression.

     W. was "glad" Lowell had "courageously" said that: "It is true—true: he well-maintained it there—was wise to make free of it." Had read Cleveland's speech, and Harrison's—called the latter a "lot of platitudes"—adding: "What a vast descent from Washington to Harrison! a terrific descent, indeed!" Bishop Potter spoke among other things of "that steadily deteriorating process against whose dangers a great thinker of our generation warned his countrymen just fifty years ago"—the influx of "the lowest orders of people from abroad"—& quoting from the Press today. W. exclaimed: "Poor devil! Little does he know America! And yet he has a following. I don't know, either, but that he is consistent with protection America. But protection America—what is it consistent with? I read at least a part of the Bishop's speech but I didn't come to what you quote. It was all distasteful to me—all: couched in a form I cordially dislike—so I stopped. The Bishop stood there yesterday—made his speech there—as the representative of respectable high-falutins—I might say, of anti-democracy. But you must not wonder or feel disappointed, the speeches being commonplace: they were—but the note-worthy thing in this celebration lies just here: that there were such men a century ago, that now there is a fourth generation to celebrate them. That is the prime fact, and we must not lose sight of it." As to Whittier's perfunctory poem:

     W. struggled into sitting posture on the bed, groped for his cane and found it, and went across the room, I taking his left arm. He arranged the windows himself and lighted his gas. Then after he had sat down: "And how is it you are here tonight anyhow? Why are you not at the circus? Ed has gone." Then he resumed his general talk—referring again to Bishop Potter—"the Cathedral man," he called him. Potter's advocating the grand Cathedral for New York city. "The truth is, Potter is one of the old stock—there's quite a class of them in New York—friends of Kings, Queens, aristocrats: aristocrats themselves—became so in spirit if not inheritedly—people in whom the old feelings have persisted. You probably don't know them as well as I do. It is not the Dutch stock: the Dutch stock was mostly of a truer, stauncher kind." Here he suddenly brought himself to: looked for his crumpled mail—a postal simply—which he had brought from the bed and laid on his table. Put on his glasses, "Oh! it is from Washington!" and turning it over "and the 30th, too—yesterday." Then reading aloud to me: O'Connor had been respited for 48 hours—now the vomiting trouble on again: he therefore weak and in bed. W. exclaimed: "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" Mrs. O'C. expressed disappointment there had not been better weather for the great celebration. W. commented: "I think it has been very good anyhow, they must have had more rain at Washington." Then reflected: "It is sad news—sad news—looks bad for him." As to O'Connor's eating, W. thought: "He should eat whatever he feels to eat—there is no wise plan, even for a man in his condition."

     Had not received Critic yet. Did he hunger for it enough to want mine? He laughed. "I should not put it that way—probably not. Yet I might see it. Anything coming in here relieves the painful, dreadful, never-ending, monotony of this life. It is with the paper as with my dinner and breakfast: if

Thursday, May 2, 1889

     Speaking of a building at the foot of Federal Street erected on pilings W. said: "New Orleans affords plenty of examples of that—plenty. I know much about it—was there—have known experts: they sink a heavy log, a number of feet wide—down in the mud—and plant the foundation on that. As long as not exposed to the air, the wood will not corrode—rot, I should say." Spoke of Hollandish ability &c. in this direction. Takes the Pearson matter in New York much to heart. Alluded to entrance of Van Cott to duties as Postmaster in New York. As to Harrison's historic position W. said: "Take due note of my prophecy: it will come true." Then interestedly: "You will go to see Brown today? I rely upon you to keep things moving. Our time is getting short."

     7.45 P.M. W. was just preparing a light when I came in. He did not hear me, and I stood off in the shadows watching till he was done. He is quite weak. After fixing windows (he always closes the blinds fast) he sat down on the chair. It was still very dark—and I could hear him breathe heavily. Then he wheeled around and lighted the gas. At once he heard me and saw me: "Ah! Horace! I am just lighting up—have been sitting here for a long time in the twilight. It has all been very fine." And he questioned me: "How is the night—cool? And the moon?" The wind northwest and the moon quite new. W.: "I supposed as much." Had he thrust his head out the window he could have seen the moon easily, for now it sat direct west. "Bryant wrote a fine verse about the waning moon. He was very good in that thing—the best, undoubtedly, of all our men—had a genuine ear which never failed him—and taste. Some would call his taste Wordsworthian, I suppose—but that is not necessary." I knew that Bucke had a high opinion of some of Arnold's early poetry, but W. himself

     "I see," he said again, "that the celebration is well over." "And well," I said, "all except the ball." The ball had ended in an orgy. W. smiled: "Oh! we won't mind that—that was an ebullition of human nature. And you must remember the part the reporters had in it, too: we know well enough how to take them. Events never fail by their telling them." "I have read the Critic," he remarked, handing the paper to me, "and I don't know but you may as well take it with you now." As to the reference therein, quoted the other day, "I saw it—it is all right—though I don't know if I should say it just that way." Left him with copy of the Home Journal, with a column extracted from Myers and headed "The Ecstacy of Tennyson." W. knew the print before he had seen the name of the paper. Expressed his joy to see the article. "It is one thing to lighten up the gloom here."

     W. asked for details about my visit to Shillaber with Morse. "I have always had an idea," W. said, "that Shillaber looked like our Mr. Hunter. Was it justified?" On my description W. very readily perceived the differences. At W.'s urging I detailed the house & so far as I remembered. I could recall well a reference to Emerson, in which Shillaber talked of Emerson's "idiotic smile." W. was struck with the infelicity of this. "I should accept the word, however—accept it in some

Friday, May 3, 1889

     10.45 A.M. W. reading his papers. Did not "feel very bad—nor yet very good." Is really now enjoying a respite. "I had no mail this morning except a couple of autograph letters. They come and come—they are inevitable." I had brought him several papers to look over—two copies of Harper's Weekly and a copy of last week's American containing my signed piece—"They Cry of Forgotten Philadelphia." Looked at portrait of Pearson: "Oh! a handsome, noble fellow! and face, too!" And then in comment on the engraving itself: "They are doing wonderful, fine work now—wonderful, effective work!" And sighed of Pearson: "so young, too!"

     I met John Curley on the boat last evening after leaving Whitman. Seems he was one of the two Record boys who did the reporting in New York. He assured me the accounts of the ball were not unfair. W. listened to all I thus repeated to him. "I can see—but I don't think it exceptional at all. Balls are more or less free and easy anyhow—they used to be so when I was a young man, anyhow." But these were the Elite of New York? W. answered: "Elite or not—put them at a ball and put some liquor in them and it's all one!" Some of the reporters had lost their coats and hats in the scramble. W. said: "That explains it—that explains it!" Curley had been deeply impressed with the ill appearance of Harrison. W. asked me: "And is it true the Bishop—Bishop Potter—is out in some kind of an explanation of his speech?" There was some such report abroad.

     Talk then of night-cars &c. W. asked: "What is the peculiar nature of a night-car?" And when learning asked again: "It involves the abolition of all law, does it?" I rehearsed experiences, in which he was intensely interested. "What a thing it

     I gave W. a sentence I had hit on in Emerson today: "Nature never rhymes her children,"—and he repeated it over and over again, as if in huge enjoyment of its import.

     7.35 P.M. Found W. sitting alone in his darkened room, his usual window open, and he, as he said, "meditating and not unhappy." Keeps well—sat much as I found him all the time of my stay. These days he is able to do considerable reading. His mind is in far better condition than for a month past. He does not encourage visitors—does not eat much—gains no strength—but is comfortable, for him, and more hopeful. Edwin Stafford in to see him tonight. Harry Wright was over, but coming while I was upstairs, did not ask to see W. Billstein did not have the pictures ready for me today, but promises them absolutely for tomorrow. W. was satisfied. Wants to send some of the three-quarter pictures away.

     Dr. Abell spoke to me today rather contemptuously of Harrison in the course of a talk over affairs. W. remarked

     Someone had raised the question in a circle—what so far as America's most distinctive and effective creations? While everyone else spoke of the concrete results, I said, in my turn: "Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, perhaps Abe Lincoln!" W. asked: "Did they take that as something novel and starting?" And then he referred to Lowell's touch the other day in New York. "I was glad for it, too—it was a grand thing to him to say there." I said to W. further: "I do not believe any man in history, having such friends as you have had—received by such men as have received you—ever failed of immortality." W. said: "That sounds grand—seems like a solemn thought—but"—and of course he would say no more as to that. But when I said: "The fight about you is now 30 years old—you are better received, more recognized, today than ever before." W. acknowledged: "That is true—of course—I must see that."

     Ed came in with the mail, asking: "Shall I put on the light for you?" But W. negatived: "No—Ed—no: I will do it myself: it can easily be done." And he started to do it as I left. I alluded to going to the city to Mrs. Fels'. W. said: "Ah! our good people who sent me the soap? You must give them my best regards—tell them I use the soap every day—that it is good for me—smells good, feels good, is good—and a remembrancer too!" Although not able to find Joe Adams himself, I had found out today in town that he was yet alive and at work on the line, though no longer a starter. But forgot to tell W. in hurry of other talk. He is anxious to have me see the Vereshtchagin pictures. "You mean to go, don't you?" If he "could get about" that would be a mission, he says, among first missions, this week.

Saturday, May 4, 1889

     10 A.M. W. had just finished his breakfast. Had got up feeling very well, and now was engaged with the papers. Seemed in unusually happy mood. Called my attention to several matters, and as I sat down and read he pored over the papers—patiently handled the Press, laid it down, took up the Record. "I see," he said, "that Harrison has been speaking again—welcoming the new British minister." But the speech was, as he thought, "without merit." Returned me the copies of Harpers Weekly with some general word of appreciation. But would "keep" Current Literature, unless I was in a hurry for it—as of course I was not. I spoke to him of Joe Adams—told him what I had heard, but that as he was flitting all along the road I should be compelled to take my chances about meeting him. Said W.: "Well—the main point of your errand is accomplished—you have found that he is alive. That is chiefly what I wanted to know."

     "I have a book here," he said suddenly, laying down his paper an instant—"at last—the Sarrazin book—it came this

     Suddenly he turned to his table again. "No word from Washington this morning, but this with the Sarrazin book"—passing over a copy of The Literary News adding: "and somebody has been doing us up big there, I think Mrs. Leypold." After a pause: "Though there are things there which people would say a woman is not likely to write." Full two pages of close matter, really of most favorable quality. A passage there in which it was said W. "occupied" himself at a certain age with "making disciples," excited him to great laughter. He thought if he had ever been guiltless of any one thing, it was of any endeavor to develop "disciples." Said: "I knew Mrs. Leypold's husband—he is dead now. I only surmise, of course, that she wrote that piece." As I left W.'s last words were: "Be sure you get the pictures"—adding slowly, knowing our frequent disappointments—"if they are done!"

     7.35 P.M. With W. about an hour tonight. Found him writing a letter, the pad on his knee. "Go on," I said, "you'll want to send it by this evening's mail—finish it—it will wait." But he said: "Never mind—I'll lay it aside now—'tis only for Doctor—and I mean to put the finishing touch on it tomorrow any how." Then as I came near and shook hands with him—he advised: "See this—I'm trying to show Doctor what sort of book Sarrazin has sent us—puts us in." Had transcribed carefully in ink on a loose slip (the letter proper in pencil) the full title of the book. I leaned forward, found the dubious name Coleridge's instead of Byron's (see A.M. notes) and remarked what had been my doubt. W. said: "That is so—why not Byron? I had been looking for him myself." Then reflectively: "There are several of them here, his contemporaries—Shelley, Coleridge, Wordsworth." But when I said: "I suppose he chose them for purposes of giving different phrases," W. assented—"I suppose that is the explanation."

     Apropos of the letter to Bucke, I remarked that I thought, from what he said that Bucke had seven or eight hundred of them in his possession. W. appeared startled—looked at me in mock horror. "Can that be? It seems impossible! I am as bad as Carlyle himself. That is doing pretty good for a fellow who prided himself on writing few letters—for one whose early printer predilection for a letter on one sheet only and one side only of that sheet still persists." Then he asked: "Do you suppose Doctor keeps them all?" And when I nodded—he exclaimed—"Good! Good!": I said I hoped he had given us all a good character in 'em, and he laughed. "I did not know that of the Doctor. I can quite understand it of O'Connor. O'Connor is very sensitive to the magnetism of presence, contact, the spiritual forces. I can realize that he would love to take my postals, hold them, keep them in his hands long and long, look at the address in the big spread it makes." I said I thought all his postals to O'Connor were preserved: Mrs. O'Connor had shown me a pile of them on his desk when I was down there.

     I had brought him the long-desired pictures. They proved to be excellently printed with much softness and effect. I could see at once that he was pleased. He asked of it: "Don't you think this should go in as frontispiece?" Adding after my assent: "That is my conviction too. Here was Leaves of Grass in gestation. Nothing could more fitly preface it." And as to the minute reproductions of even the scratches of the photograph—"I can readily see them—but they don't affect me, except for good. You know, a man may be so dressed, combed, he looks too damned nice. We have to look out for that." He signed a couple of the pictures for me "Walt Whitman 1849" saying: "That must have been the time—I should say from 1846 to 1849. What did I sign Dave's?" Put the two dates on Dave's—1850 and 1849. It seems to me that the 70th year picture has been injured by its trip to N. Y. but W. said: "I notice no difference—it seems to me about the same."

     The Critic said today, reviewing the Authors at Home volume: "Much is told us by an intimate friend of Walt Whitman's, whose head of silver and heart of gold gleam in these sympathetic pages as never before." When I gave this to W., he would have me repeat it—he saying them after me—"head of silver and heart of gold, eh? That sounds very friendly—very warm. We cannot turn from a good work like that." But when I quoted from Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' Forum paper on "The Christianity of Christ" the phrase "in all uninspired

Sunday, May 5, 1889

     1.30 P.M. Found W. just struggling towards his chair. Spoke of his own condition as "quite good today." Explaining: "I have just got up—was lying down for some time there on the bed." And he asked me after settling in his chair: "Isn't the day wonderfully beautiful out of doors? I have been sitting here by the open window." Out beyond, the green trees, birds singing, the plaint of an organ somewhere on the street. W. remarked the dullness of the papers today. "That is so, there is nothing in them. I have just written the Doctor that we seem to be passing through a period in art, literature, science, of absolute dead water. It does indeed seem so." Asked me where I was going this afternoon and when learning of a trip off on P. W. & B. road, exclaimed—"Oh! how I wish it were eligible for you to step in for an hour on O'Connor himself on your walks this afternoon! Poor fellow! Poor fellow!"

     This morning I read several passages of "Democratic Vistas" to a group of young people, who seemed much struck therewith. W. said: "Democratic Vistas? I remember—it was a year ago, perhaps two—the Doctor wrote me that he had a sinking—that Democratic Vistas had sunk in deep water for him—had vastly lessened in his esteem. But then he wrote

     Said he had examined the picture by daylight. "I am thoroughly satisfied with it!" Finished letter to Dr. Bucke. Adler spoke on "The Character of Washington" this forenoon. I was present. W. inquired after it with interest. As I was going he waved his hand—"My best wishes attend you, boy!" Did not stay long. Had only limited time for getting across the river to the train.

Monday, May 6, 1889

     Bucke had again written as follows about the hospital project:

     I had no thought of W. going to Baltimore until after the book was published. At least if he continued tolerably well. I was only "afraid" (rather inclined to think) that you would oppose the move just as most folk oppose their friends going to Hospitals and Asylums from a feeling against it. At such a hospital as this (especially with Osler at the head of it—he being really a friend of W.'s) W. would be infinitely better off than where he is. His surroundings would be unexceptionable and all that modern medicine could do to increase his comfort and improve his condition would be brought into requisition. It is simply monstrous that such a man as W. with friends who are willing to do anything to assist him and with some means and income of his own should live on as he is doing at present. Poor O'Connor is evidently going down and except for the shock it would give W. I would gladly have him go, for his life must be a burden to him, poor fellow. I am glad to hear that the book is likely to be "on time."

     W. remarked of it: "I have had no output whatever on that subject yet—am not inclined in the least to move." I spoke of the absence of sun from this room—my regret that it was so. "You should be on the other side of the street," I said—and he: "Yes—I can see how that might be well." Then I argued for his going out of doors—getting his chair and attempting it, anyhow. Did he think he could not get downstairs? He feels so well just now, he accepts my confidence. I talked with him

     I had brought him over the several copies of the Butterfly picture. Was in to see McCollin today. Pictures are all mounted, well done. W. at once expressed his own liking for them. "Are they all like this?" he asked, adding: "If they are, I shall be thoroughly satisfied." And he looked at it long and critically, for five minutes saying scarcely a word. Then: "Have you found any dubiety about that?"—pointing to the moth—"Do people generally look at it with dubiety? I have found there is often a doubt what it is: yet to me there don't seem as if there should be: which, I suppose, is because I am so familiar with it—know it so well—myself." I left bill. The price had been put at four dollars per hundred. "I expect to have a good many more to mount," he explained.

     Speaking of the horse railroad anti-Sunday affair again: "I do not believe the Methodists did it: they may think they did, but they didn't. I see Armstrong is their counsel and that he is in favor or Sunday cars. That is very significant, too, because he is Presbyterian." I interposed, "Baptist." W. then: "Well—Baptist: it is the same thing for my purposes. The church people themselves would be in favor of it if they knew anything, which generally they do not. In cities where Sunday is free—the cars run—they avail themselves of all opportunities."

     We talked this evening somewhat about the fund, W. expressing

     Alluded to the current slang—one phrase of it: "He's not built that way." W. said: "I think that very good—very good, should think it would last, I should be willing to use it myself. Years ago in New York there was an expression similar"—here he stopped a minute—"but that was indelicate. The phrase was, 'He does not hang that way.' You can see its import. Of course that could not find adoption, especially in literature. It was vulgar, had its brief day, is gone." I did not stay long, though W. was in very good mood. My sister afterwards went down, taking him some flowers, and from me Lounsbery's "Cooper." She saw and talked with him some little while. He spoke about getting out, what kind of a chair was advisable—spoke also a great deal about Tom and the family. The weather continues beautiful beyond words. I go to Germantown in forenoon, tomorrow. W. gave me copies of the three-quarter portrait for Mrs. Baldwin and J. H. Clifford, signing them "Walt Whitman in 1849."

Tuesday, May 7, 1889

     Had he found the advertisement for the chair? "Yes—I found it. I was in hopes you would come in today. You won't go till afternoon tomorrow? Well—then, anyhow." And he reached forward to his loaded chair. "I made this out for you to be guided by," he said, handing me a card on which he had pasted a sheet containing these instructions:

     "Wanted:

     "A strong first-rate out-door chair for an old 200 lb. invalid—to be pushed or pulled along the sidewalks and on the ferry boats—roomy chair, back high—ratan or reed seating and back (no cushions or stuffing)

     "Go to Wanamaker's first and interview the charge of the chair &c. Department and show his this card—

     "Then to Luburg's 145 North 8th Street"

     The above just as he punctuated it—and down in the corner his address, part written and part printed. "Put that in your pocket," he said, "and tomorrow at the proper time use it."

     I was in at Ferguson's today—instructed the correction for title page. Brown somewhat put out, but it was their error unmistakably and they saw it. W. had been today examining more carefully the sheet I gave him, and criticized it in a way precisely like mine to Brown when I first saw the specimen. "I don't think much of the printing, so far as I have seen it—it has a blotchy appearance—it is by no means what I had hoped it would be. But I suppose the sheet I had was but an isolated sheet and not to be taken as a sample. If the whole book had this same appearance, I should not be at all satisfied. But Brown must know—must know full as well as we do and better." I am prepared for some disappointment. His skepticism is justified. Yet he could say later on: "I think that if

     Harned came in and was heartily greeted. W. inquired after Tom, after the family. "How is Anna?" he asked, "I got a sort of suspicion, from words said here and there, that she was not very well." Afterwards Harned said he had witnessed a base-ball match this afternoon. W. then asked: "Tell me, Tom—I want to ask you a question: in base-ball, is it the rule that the fellow who pitches the ball aims to pitch it in such a way the batter cannot hit it? Gives it a twist—what not—so it slides off, or won't be struck fairly?" And on Tom's affirmative—"Eh? that's the modern rule then, is it? I thought something of the kind—I read the papers about it—it seemed to indicate that there." Then he denounced the custom roundly. "The wolf, the snake, the cur, the sneak, all seem entered into the modern sportsman—though I ought not to say that, for the snake is snake because he is born so, and the man the snake for other reasons, it may be said." And again he went over the catalogue—"I should call it everything that is damnable." Harned greatly amused at W.'s feeling in the matter. W. again: "I have made it a point to put that same question to several fellows lately. There certainly seems no doubt but that your version is right, for that is the version everyone gives me."

     Harned here said that his mission tonight was another than base-ball. Then described a plan of citizens of Camden (Buckwalter and Harry Bonsall and T. B. H. heading), to give W. a testimonial on his birthday. They wished to keep open house at 328, have refreshments there, let the public come, and have W. receive them in such a way as he cared. We all discussed the question, running into great detail. At first W. was reluctant. "You must remember, Tom—must have it understood—I am all banged up, unable to get out, to move around." Adding: "I am starting now to get a chair. Whether

     Has had acknowledgment of book from Carleton. Tom asked him if he wanted anything further in his bottles there. W. said frankly enough: "Yes, I do, Tom—that bottle there." Tom started to denominate what he had, and W. put in: "Nothing but sherry, Tom—nothing but sherry. Whiskey I could not stand, though should I like to!" Inquired after the boy—"that fine boy"—the baby. Talking of getting to the ferry, W. said: "I don't know about that—don't know if I can stand it: it will be a great trip at first and for me!" And as Harned was going out the door, W. called again—"Remember, Tom—I only hold a pint!" Harned asks me to get up a card which he proposes to have engraved.

     As to anything the public thought adverse to his career, W. said tonight: "I should not retort in the words of Vanderbilt—not so severely as that—but can say there is nothing in the world I care so little about—that so little worries me—as what the public may think, say." W. said to Tom of Bucke: "There was a letter came today. Doctor was off Saturday and Sunday to Sarnia. You know about Pardee there—he is very sick—almost dead—dying. This dying a long process, often—but dying he is."

Wednesday, May 8, 1889

     Talked for some time over book matters—stamping, cover, &c. W. said he had no "arbitrary notion" as to how it should be stamped, but was "disposed to have the lettering adopted in the title page reproduced—indicating, along with Leaves of Grass, that A Backward Glance is included." Finally settled that I should advise with Oldach about it. We ought to have copies here by his birthday: if people then come in numbers, some may be sold. W. said: "I can see—and we may easily have copies by that time." "I have a pretty good idea now just where I am to place the portraits. There is nothing in the way of procedure. Do you think you will get the folded sets today?" Brown had promised to have the sheets ready for delivery by tomorrow forenoon.

     I said to W.: "People who see the three-quarter picture think it incredible that that is you at 30." W. replied: "But it is me. I must confess, I am more and more satisfied with that picture—what it indicates. All my intimate friends who have known me for many years—know well enough that that appearance of age came on early. Some have said to me that I look younger now than I did in my youth. The grey was there just as you see it as early as 30. The steel is combed, I know—looks different: but the steel is all smoothed off—that is to be remembered. Of all the pictures I know, that new one most fills and satisfies me—and whatever people may say and think, I am content with it just as it stands."

     Ingram described the country—its glorious spring-time dress—fruits, grasses, &c. Was enthusiastic. Said jokingly, if heaven was as good as that he'd like to go there. W. bantered with him: "You will get a good apron—a nice clean white apron—and be given a harp or what-not—and so take your place." But Ingram protested, whereat W. said: "Oh! they won't have you there if you don't do as they want you to!" Then murmured—"But this world is good enough: what could be grander than to get off in the country somewhere these days,"&c. Ingram inquired after Dr. Bucke. W.: "I do not think so—don't think he is likely to be on here very soon." Ingram had to catch a train at one o'clock, so did not prolong his stay.

     W. gave me back the "Cooper." "I have read it all—the whole book—and liked it too: was extremely interested." Had a pamphlet there by Elizabeth Porter Gould—"John Adams as a Schoolmaster"—which he handed to me. "Would you like to have it, or take it to your father? That is the great John Adams. The little pamphlet is very good, too—not abstract, the philosophy of the matter—but direct—without pretense—reported only—like a newspaper article." Miss Gould had written on it with purple ink—"Walt Whitman—With the good wishes of the author."

     Asked me about our going to town. I made arrangements with Ed to meet me this afternoon at ferry. W. said: "You have my card?—make use of it!" How did he account for it that Herbert Gilchrist seemed to dislike all the more characteristic portraits of W. W.? W. said: "It might be thought in some sense a mystery, though it is hardly that. In may respects Herbert is a complete reaction from his Mother. Mrs. Gilchrist, with all her supreme cultivation, was gifted in a rare degree with a necessary don't-care-a-damn-ativeness. In fact, this was so marked in her that it was often thought she

     W. keeps a vigilant eye ever upon the local papers. He said to Harned last evening: "You must be very busy. I see you down for a great number of cases." And to me again: "Is it Björnson at the next meeting of the Club?" I said: "Boyesen." "Oh! Boyesen! I am quite apt to get the names mixed." Again going back to "magnetism"—"and Alboni's voice! What a joy, a grandeur, an illimitable inspiration! Yet who could tell by what it all came?"

     5.35 P.M. I met Ed as per appointment at the ferry about two o'clock. Thence we went to Philadelphia in search of a chair. At Wanamaker's we hit upon a chair which Ed fell in love with. The result at Luburg's not so good. On the way back Ed stopped at Post office, but Bonsall was not there. Furlong, however, spoke to Ed about an informal meeting in W. W.'s interest to be held tomorrow to plan for the birthday event. When we arrived home, found W. eating his dinner. We talked with him of affairs, he in the meantime eating on. As to any chair for self-wheeling, W. remarked: "That would not do at all. If I live, I shall probably get weaker, much weaker. I am preparing for that now." And afterwards: "It seems to me from the description you fellows give, as though you had struck the right thing." He questioned us a great deal about what we had seen. Asked Ed: "How could you handle the chair?" And asked me: "What about the price?" And laughed heartily when I told him the salesman who waited on us was numbered 1827. Altogether was gratified with the result of our quest. "I want no cushions," he repeated. And again: "You fellows went off on a speculation, didn't you?" The day had been so fine again. "Oh! if a fellow could only get out into the free air!" How had the river appeared?—and so on. Yet was cheerful—looked better, too, than in the forenoon.

     Had consulted with Oldach as to stamping and cover. For

     When I went to Brown today and told him that W. had said the printing would not be satisfactory if it was throughout like the sheet sent to Camden, Brown got enraged and said: "Well—we are doing the work our best way, and if you don't like it you don't need to take it. I don't want people to come here and criticise it when the work is nearly done," &c. All in a tone which I resented and which Ferguson himself afterwards told me was entirely uncalled for and unjustifiable. W. himself was aroused, but only said, calmly: "I do not say it positively—do not set it down at all—yet feel that such a remark is uncalled for if not absolutely impertinent. We are supposed to see, and to tell what we see, in a business transaction involving what that does to us." Then however: "But I am inclined to take the happier view—to believe that the book as a whole is to be far better than the sample of it we saw—that we hit upon one of the first sheets." At any rate "we can but wait" and "tomorrow or next day will solve our doubts." Brown thought he would finish our sheets by tomorrow evening.

     W. had been dwelling much upon O'Connor. "But there is no further word." He feared some fatal termination any time. Worked today at arranging the pictures for book. As he feels now, will after all not use the 1849 picture for frontispiece—in its stead the butterfly. W. sat there and we measured chair &. He joked of his helplessness and the doubt whether after all he could get out when he did secure the chair. "It is questionable anyhow whether I'll ever be able to do more than go around the block." I ordered insurance renewed

Thursday, May 9, 1889

     10:45 A.M. Mrs. Mapes just came out of the room as I went up stairs. W. not doing anything at the moment. Ed had gone to Bonsall this morning. Bonsall said we had best leave matters as to the chair till Saturday. But our fears lest the one chair we wished would go before that date constrained protest. W. at first said: "Let it be done their way." But afterwards: "I think the chair you describe is just the chair I want—should not like to lose it. What do you think?" And then again: "You go to Harry yourself and explain—take Ed with you. Then Ed can go right across the river and have it sent." W. spoke of the day, of the desire to get out. I argued: "I hate to miss all these fine days"—but he smiled—"Oh! well—there are plenty more to come!" He speaks to everyone of the possibility of getting out at last. Pointed to flowers in a glass on the table. "Little Anna Harned was down—brought me these—wisteria. Oh! how tender and beautiful!—I have never known any of them more so!" Outside the door, on the floor, was a pitcher of lilacs. I had seen them on entering. Now went out and brought them in. "Are they condemned?" I asked. He said pleasantly, "Oh! no indeed! I put them out there last night—I thought them too heavy for a sleeping room—now I will have them back on the table there. They were brought me yesterday by Mrs. Allen—you don't know her? They have an unusually strong odor—that is distinctly the case with some of them. I cannot imagine any odor more delicious than this in sunlight, in an open room: but at night—the room closed—they seem out of place."

     Said: "No word from Washington this morning—nor from Bucke—indeed, no word from anybody." Spoke of Brown and the book. "If you don't get the sheet today [I do not expect

     I received a letter from Gilder this morning, enclosing one from Bush. I read these to W., who was visibly touched. " 'Lachine Falls'—yes—I know the place—have been near it." And then of "the unknown friends" who everywhere in his old age "seem to be given voice to greet" him. He said to me: "You should write—or Gilder—you more properly." I called his attention to Gilder's note again. "He has already advised Bush to write to me." W. hereupon: "Oh yes! then wait." Someone spoke to Clifford the other day as if adverse words on W. W. were written in Edward Emerson's book. W. curious. "It would be well to see the book in a library first—wouldn't it?" he asked, when I suggested I might buy a copy. Yet he looked forward to seeing it himself.

     After leaving W. I went down to Bonsall—talked with him—and he gave me an order on Wanamaker for chair—only, asked that I go over with or instead of Ed and explain. Asked me to attend a meeting at 4:30 this afternoon at which preliminaries for the celebration are to be arranged. They seem to have some idea of getting W. to a hall, but that would be impossible. Still nothing is formulated. Possibly there won't be a dinner. I suggested a wholesale purchase of W.'s anniversary book to be issued that day. Bonsall did not think it a bad idea.

     Early Evening: 5.45 W. sitting—had just finished his