With Walt Whitman in Camden vol. 9 (1996)

     

     To HORACE TRAUBEL
(1858 - 1919)

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

      [Frontispiece]

     HORACE TRAUBEL, 1919. Courtesy Library of Congress, Horace L. Traubel Collection.

      [Following page 240]

     FACSIMILE OF LETTER - WALT WHITMAN TO DR. JOHN JOHNSTON, BOLTON, ENGLAND, FEBRUARY 6 AND 7, 1892. Courtesy Library of Congress, Feinberg Collection.

     WALT WHITMAN, MAY 1891. Four photographs by Thomas Eakins, Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.

     WALT WHITMAN'S TOMB, HARLEIGH CEMETERY, CAMDEN, NEW JERSEY. Courtesy Whitman House, Camden, New Jersey.

      [Facing page 630]

     ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF THE POEM "A THOUGHT OF COLUMBUS", 1892. Courtesy Library of Congress, Feinberg Collection.

LETTERS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

(Including Other Manuscripts of Walt Whitman)

EDITORS' PREFACE

      The publication of this book completes the series, With Walt Whitman in Camden, ninety years after its author, Horace Traubel, published the first volume. Traubel began his records of daily conversations with the poet in 1888, and continued until Whitman's death four years later. In his foreword to Volume 1, he wrote:

      Did Whitman know I was keeping such a record? No. Yet he knew I would write of our experiences together. Now and then he charged me with immortal commissions. He would say: "I want you to speak for me when I am dead." On several occasions I read him my reports. They were very satisfactory. "You do the thing just as I should wish it to be done." He always imposed it upon me to tell the truth about him. The worst truth no less than the best truth.... So I have let Whitman alone. I have let him remain the chief figure in his own story. This book is more his book than my book. It talks his words. It reflects his manner. It is the utterance of his faith. That is why I have not fooled with its text.... It occurs here in the rude dress natural to the incidents that produced it. I had no time then to polish. I have had no disposition since to do what I had no time to do then.... Whitman was not afraid of the man who would make too little of him. He was afraid of the man who would make too much of him.... I have never lost sight of his command of commands: "Whatever you do do not prettify me."

      Like the editors of the previous volumes--Anne Traubel, Gertrude Traubel, Sculley Bradley, and William White--we have presented Traubel's manuscript as it was written. In a few cases, a word or phrase has been inserted in brackets to complete an otherwise unintelligible sentence, and the punctuation has sometimes been adjusted to assist readability.

      The completion of this series has been a collaborative effort on the part of many people over the course of many years. We are deeply indebted to Robert Burton, director of the Fellowship of Friends; to William Bentley, the publisher; to Charles Feinberg, whose splendid collection of Whitman materials, now in the Library of Congress, includes Traubel's manuscript; and to Professor Ed Folsom, who wrote the foreword to this volume. The staff of the Manuscript Room at the Library of Congress were unfailingly helpful. Significant contributions were also made by Peter Bishop, Abraham and Susan Goldman, Judith Grace, Cynthia Hill, Kevin Kelleher, Leigh Morfit, Peter and Paula Ingle, Rosalind Mearns, and Alla Waite.

Apollo, California
July 1996

JEANNE CHAPMAN

ROBERT MACISAAC

FOREWORD

HORACE TRAUBEL
(1858-1919)

      IN HIS MARCH 26, 1892, ENTRY in this final volume of With Walt Whitman in Camden , Horace Traubel wrote that at the moment of Walt Whitman's death "something in my heart seemed to snap and that moment commenced my new life--a luminous conviction lifting me with him into the eternal." His words were prophetic: a new life did start for him, and his name would forever be bound to that of his departed master. Traubel described himself as Whitman's "spirit child" and for the next twenty-seven years he served the poet faithfully. He was the most active of Whitman's three literary executors (the others were Traubel's brother-in-law Thomas Harned and the Canadian psychiatrist Richard Maurice Bucke); he founded, edited, and published The Conservator, a journal dedicated to keeping Whitman's works alive; he issued his own Whitman-inspired poetry and prose in three large volumes; and he carried on a tireless correspondence with Whitman enthusiasts around the world, weaving together an international fellowship of disciples who worked to ensure Whitman's immortality.

      He also began transcribing his notes of daily conversations with Whitman compiled during the final four years of the poet's life, publishing three large volumes of them (in 1906, 1908 and 1914, respectively) before his own death and leaving behind manuscript for six more. His dream of having all of his notes in print--a dream deferred for eighty years--is finally realized with the publication of Volumes 8 and 9, appearing more than a century after they were written.

      Only thirty-three years old at the time of Whitman's death, Traubel had already known the poet for nearly twenty years.

     Horace, you were a mere boy then: we met--don't you remember? Not so often as now--not so intimately: but I remember you so well: you were so slim, so upright, so sort of electrically buoyant. You were like medicine to me--better than medicine: don't you recall those days? down on Steven's Street, out front there, under the trees? You would come along, you were reading like a fiend: you were always telling me about your endless books, books: I would have warned you, look out for books! had I not seen that you were going straight not crooked--that you were safe among books.

     Traubel's own recollections of those early meetings were similar: "My earliest memory of Whitman leads me back to boyhood, when, sitting together on his doorstep, we spent many a late afternoon or evening in review of books we had read."

      In those first talks, Whitman rarely spoke of his own work; he and young Horace discussed instead Byron and Emerson and what Traubel would later call "the details of the lore of the streets." Like the poet, Traubel had stopped going to school by the age of twelve, and thus received much of his advanced education at Whitman's hands. He began to work as a newsboy and errand boy, and on his travels around town he would often meet the poet "strolling along the street, or on the boat," or, frequently, under the shade of the trees in front of George Whitman's house, where the poet occupied a room on the third floor. At first, the boy's relationship with Whitman caused something

      Following in the footsteps of Whitman, Horace spent his teenage years learning the printing trade and newspaper business. He became a typesetter, and employed his compositor's skills throughout his life, often setting the type himself for his various publications. By the time he was sixteen, he had become foreman of the Camden Evening Visitor printing office. After that, he worked in his father's Philadelphia lithographic shop, was a paymaster in a factory, and became the Philadelphia correspondent for the Boston Commonwealth . None of these jobs brought him much money, but they gave him a wealth of experience, confidence in his writing skills, and an intimate understanding of how words could be made public and effective through the labor of printing.

      Whitman's "outlaw" character--his ability to think outside the boundaries of law, convention, and habit--continued to attract the intense young Traubel, who became increasingly involved with radical reformist thought and who persistently urged a reluctant Whitman to admit that Leaves of Grass endorsed a socialist agenda. Traubel was aware that many literary people thought of him as little more than "Walt Whitman's errand boy" and dismissed his writing as simply warmed-over Whitman, but he was no epigone. It is largely because of Traubel's insistence on interpreting Leaves of Grass as politically revolutionary literature that we have inherited Whitman as a radical democratic poet; Traubel was indefatigable in his support of Whitman's work, and he made sure that all the radical leaders of his day read and discussed it. But he also knew that politically he was to the left of Whitman, and by the 1890s he had begun to carve out a distinctive identity as a writer and

      While his own books can be read as socialist refigurings of Whitman's work, Traubel never became an "active revolutionary"; his socialism tended more toward the religious and philosophical than the political. But his journal, The Conservator , which he began two years before Whitman's death and continued until his own death in 1919, was nevertheless an influential organ of radical ideas about everything from women's rights to animal rights. Traubel saw The Conservator as a place where the various liberal societies and clubs could be brought together in active dialogue, and he requested support from everyone "to whom Liberal thought and life are sacred, and sympathy and comradeship supreme factors in religion." Eugene V. Debs, the socialist labor leader and presidential candidate whose supportive statements often appeared in The Conservator , was one of the strongest endorsers of Traubel's work:

      Horace Traubel is one of the supreme liberators and humanitarians of this age. . . . Traubel is not only the pupil of old Walt Whitman but the master democrat of his time and the genius incarnate of human love and world-wide brotherhood.

      Every issue of The Conservator began with one of Traubel's idiosyncratic "Collect" essays. The journal frequently contained one of his Optimos poems, and in virtually every issue there would be essays on Whitman, reviews of books about Whitman, digests of comments relating to Whitman, advertisements for books by and about Whitman. Often, Whitman would be presented as a kind of proto-Ethical Culture thinker, an exponent of vegetarianism or a prophet of modern science.

      Traubel traced his tough-minded liberalism and egalitarian beliefs not only to Whitman but to his hybrid heritage, especially to his Jewish background:

      I am myself racially the result of fusion. My father came of Jewish and my mother came of Christian stock. When I have been about where Jews were outlawed I have been sorry I was not all Jew. . . . Where persecution is, there you should be, there I should be. I love being a Jew in the face of your prejudices and your insults.

      But what he most liked about what he called his "half-breed" status was that it allowed him easily to transcend narrow systems of belief and affirm an expansive democracy: "I guess I'm neither all Christian nor all Jew. I guess I'm simply all human." He always retained his democratic identification with the persecuted and remained a dedicated political and intellectual radical. He kept up correspondence with countless leftist and reformist political and artistic figures, including Felix Adler, Debs, Ella Bloor, Hamlin Garland, Emma Goldman, Jack London, and Upton Sinclair. He was involved with the Arts and Craft movement and helped publish The Artsman from 1903 to 1907, espousing the belief that radical reform in art, design, and production was essential to social reform. His Chants Communal were originally printed in the Socialist newspaper The Worker , and in 1913, the Soviet newspaper Pravda devoted an entire issue to him. Three books about Traubel appeared between 1913 and 1919, all emphasizing his socialist beliefs, and all written by fellow radicals: Mildred Bain's Horace Traubel (1913),

      Traubel's radicalism did not come without cost. His one stable, salaried position was as a clerk in the Philadelphia Farmers' and Mechanics' Bank, a job he began during the last years of Whitman's life and held until 1902. In that year he published an attack on George Frederick Baer, J. P. Morgan's agent and the president of Philadelphia-area railroad and coal companies, who had become a symbol of business arrogance because of his refusal to negotiate with labor unions. Traubel's employers, embarrassed by their employee's attack on the powerful Baer, threatened to dismiss him unless he gave up his writing and editing of The Conservator . Horace resigned and began a life of self-imposed poverty. He had learned from Whitman that the freedom to express unconventional and revolutionary views entailed material sacrifice; as Horace put it, "I have no right to do unpopular things and expect the popular returns." So, like Whitman during the years Traubel knew him, Horace began living on the meager proceeds from his writings and gifts from his supporters.

      Since he had his own family to sustain, his reduced means affected them as well. His small family was a contrast to the large one he grew up in (he was the fifth of seven children). Traubel had married Anne Montgomerie in Whitman's home on May 28, 1891, and their daughter Gertrude was born the following year; her birth in the same year as Whitman's death signalled the remarkable co-joining of commencement and conclusion, birth and death, that Whitman had taught Traubel to expect throughout life. The next year brought the birth of a son, named Wallace in honor of J. W. Wallace, a Whitmanite from

      But the next decade brought harsh trials. In January of 1894 a fire severely damaged the Traubel's house, and Horace was momentarily seized by the fear that all of his Whitman materials, including his notes of his conversations with the poet, had been lost. On February 27, 1898, young Wallace Traubel died of scarlet fever soon after Gertrude had recovered from it; on the front page of that month's Conservator appeared a quotation from Whitman's "Song of Myself": "The little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again." Horace's and Anne's heart-rending letters to J. W. Wallace about their son's illness and death (now housed at the Bolton Metropolitan Library) reveal that, even when facing the horror of their child's death, they sought to learn and to grow from the experience. "Is it only through such agony that consciousness is perfected?" wrote Anne to her English friend, trying to harvest hope from her grief even while admitting, "I am a mother, dear Wallace, and no stoic." The pain continued to mount: three months after Wallace's death, Horace's beloved father Maurice committed suicide. Then, in 1902, just before relinquishing his job at the bank, Traubel received word that his friend and co-executor Dr. Bucke, with whom he had just completed editing the ten-volume Complete Writings of Walt Whitman , had died after suffering a fall on the icy veranda of his home in London, Ontario.

      Horace refused, however, to allow personal tragedy to drain his optimism and energy. He enlisted his wife and remaining child in his causes. If they were going to be poor, they would at least be poor together. Anne recalled that when she had first read Whitman's works in 1889, they "meant nothing" to her, but at Horace's urging she tried again and in 1896 she became

      Traubel founded the Walt Whitman Fellowship International and served as its secretary/treasurer from 1894 until a year before his death. He was instrumental in founding Whitman Fellowships in other cities, and the chapter in Boston became particularly important to him, for there he met Gustave Percival Wiksell, a dentist who was president of the Boston Fellowship.

      Traubel's life was filled with intense friendships, but his relationship with Wiksell, five years his junior, was the most passionate of them all. In a heated correspondence spanning five years (1899-1905), Traubel and Wiksell poured out their love for each other, often expressing themselves in Whitman's "Calamus" terminology: "Percival, darling, my sweet camerado," wrote Traubel in 1902, recalling a recent meeting with his friend:

     We walked together as in a dream--a dream. God in hell! The dream is the real & the real is the dream. Definitely sweet was one hour & the next while we remained there in love's carouse--That day will go with me into all eternities. Send me your words, dear love--your words live. They go into my veins. I do not put you away with a kiss. I hold you close, close, close!

      Wiksell and Traubel often met Peter Doyle in Boston and Philadelphia, reconnecting the poet's closest comrade to the Whitman circle, and, upon learning of Doyle's death in 1907,

      For the decade after Traubel quit his bank job, he lived an energetic life. He would read most nights until 4 or 5 a.m., then sleep for four or five hours. Each morning he would take the ferry to Philadelphia and work in his garret office on Chestnut Street, where he would write letters, edit The Conservator , and set type. He met regularly with a group of fellow radicals at a Market Street restaurant, his own version of Pfaff's, Whitman's bohemian beer hall. Like Whitman, he loved crowds, and could often be found at baseball games or concerts or on the ferry, absorbing the energy of the masses. It was while riding the Camden ferry in 1909 that Horace faced his first major physical trauma: he was trampled by a horse and suffered severe rib injuries. By 1914 his health had become a major concern, as rheumatic fever had left him with a weakened heart. The outbreak of the Great War was particularly wrenching for this pacifist and believer in universal brotherhood, and over the next few years he declined steadily, suffering his first heart attack in June of 1917, the night before Gertrude's wedding in New York. He suffered additional heart attacks during the next year, and in the summer of 1918, he had a cerebral hemorrhage and was confined to his home. At this point few of his friends expected him to live more than a few weeks.

      But with the centenary celebration of Whitman's birth on the horizon, Traubel's notorious stubbornness came into play: he refused to die on any but his own terms. He and Anne moved to New York in the spring of 1919 to be close to Gertrude and their new grandson. They stayed in the home of their good friends David and Rose Karsner, whose five-year-old daughter, Walta Whitman Karsner, brightened Traubel's last months. Horace sat at a window looking out on the East River and over to Whitman's Brooklyn. He ate at the very table that his old

      There was yet one more centenary event that Traubel was determined to attend--the August dedication of a mighty three-hundred-foot granite cliff at the Bon Echo estate in Canada, to be named "Old Walt" and inscribed with Whitman's words in giant letters. The dedication had been arranged by the Canadian branch of the Walt Whitman Fellowship, and Traubel saw it as a sign of the growing international reverence for Whitman. The frail Horace sat in a specially constructed chair on a rowboat that took him across a lake to the base of the giant rock, where he and Flora MacDonald Denison, the owner of Bon Echo, placed their hands on the spot where the inscription was to be and intoned the words "Old Walt."

      For the next few days Traubel struggled through dinners, receptions, speeches, and meetings at Bon Echo. He wrote David Karsner in New York: "Here safe. Tired. Hopeful. . . . Tired still. Damned tired. God damned tired." Flora MacDonald Denison wrote that on August 28th Horace, while sitting in a tower room where he could look out on Old Walt, rapped his cane and shouted that Whitman had just appeared above the granite cliff "head and shoulders and hat on, in a golden glory--brilliant and splendid. He reassured me, beckoned to me, and spoke to me. I heard his voice but did not understand all he said, only 'Come on.' " Following this Traubel began to fail quickly, suffering yet another cerebral hemorrhage, and took to his deathbed, nursed continually by Anne. On September 3rd Flora was sitting next

     Afterwards, he had a very tender and beautiful expression, not as if he had less spirit but as if he had more. There was in fact very little flesh left--but he did not look shrunken, or wasted. He looked exceedingly young. Even then as he laid on the bed unmoving he drew love from my heart. Even then he made the great affirmation. He devoted himself to the art that is life--and to the life that is love--and he has made love as common as bread.

     Once again, beginnings and endings fused: Traubel's death one hundred years after Whitman's birth emphatically closed the first Whitman century. But before he departed, Horace left behind a final poem, written for the dedication of Old Walt. In this poem he did what he had done so well for so long, what he had recorded in nine large volumes. He sat down and talked, one last time, with Walt Whitman:

      "As to 'Leaves of Grass' I can say--with all its spirit and naturalness, and as the thing blows--the wind blows--that is not the whole story. Spontaneity--spontaneity: that's the word, yet even that word needing to be used after a new sense. I am quite clear that I have broken a way--that I have indicated a path--a new, superiorally new, travel-road heretofore not trod by man. Some one of the German philosophers had said, life is not an achieved fact, but a becoming. And 'Leaves of Grass' is much like life in that respect."

      W.W. to H.T., November 23, 1891

Thursday, October 1, 1891

Friday, October 2, 1891

     To W.'s on my way home—5:45—but found he had just closed his blinds and meant to lie down. I did not wait—had no mail. Not a letter written. "I doubt if I have written a word for two days." Seemed for some reason not so bright.

     7:55 P.M. To W.'s again. In his room, reading Hedge's "Prose Writers and Poets of Germany." "It is one of my resources." Harned had been in last night. They had talked considerably about Symonds' essays. W. disposed more and more to give them value. Yet Miss Porter asks me, as I read her Symonds' letters, why this difference in temperature, the published as against the private judgment? Was it the consciousness of the critic? W. believes, "Yes, there seems no other way out. For sincerity lurks in both—is present everywhere."

     W. says still, "I hear from Wallace, no less than two letters today. And a letter from Dr. Johnston, too, written from Annan, Carlyle's old place. Oh! There must be a charm in it all! Johnston has gone there to see his parents—was born there. The parents seem quite well-ado—solid, of some local consequence. I enjoy the Doctor's letters, especially some of them. He has at times an objective touch—a daring objectivity—gives description, detail. I am greatly moved by it." Was this letter one of the sort? "No, I can hardly say it is. The letters from the fellows there—from Johnston, Wallace—are mainly made up of thankfulness to me, to my work. Yet Wallace, too, now and then, tells

     Left him a dozen Conservators. "Will send them away." Asked, "And what of the gentle, great Sidney? Is there anything further? No? What a child of nature! How could we but love him! The piece? O yes! I like that— more than like it: it is few but mighty ," playing on a current phrase. "But 'Song of the Open Road' for Sidney? I can't find it anywhere. Very likely we will send him a complete book—that might be best." Salter wrote of his "pleasure" in Morse's "Leaves of Grass" article. W.: "I do not wonder—it is as simple, sweet, as a tale told across the table." W. "doubts" if he can go out tomorrow. Seems able, yet disinclined. More and more withdraws. But we will try. I leave it in Warrie's hands—I to be at 328 a little after five—to go out, if W. is agreeable; not, if not.

     Wallace's letter of 23rd in a grateful strain, no objective eye evident. In letter of 28th, writes of plans of his departure on the morrow.

     Bucke writes (27th), about to go to Montreal. Speaks of J.W.W.'s departure, will miss him, etc. Had no copy of address to send us.

     W. gives me Wallace's letter of 17th to illustrate "the, so-to-speak, inner tones of the man."

Saturday, October 3, 1891

     We spoke of Young (J. R.), W. remarking, "John is a fine make-up: one of the best journalistic samples—German, strong, with a vivid style. He has always made me near his heart—held me close for good words, demonstrations. What I like about his references—well-sampled in that in the piece on Conkling—is his confidence. He makes no apologies—mentions, states, is free and full, says his say, lets there be no doubt about what he means—then stops. Does not appeal, does not argue for, best of all, does not apologize . Which shows not only the true artist-eye, but nature's ." And further, "Shows a true appreciation of the situation," for we are "to be received or rejected and the devil take the rest!"

     Had W. sent the Star to Bucke? I had left copy. "Yes, I sent it. Does he say it never came? Yes? Why, I am sure I have somewhere his acknowledgment of it. And yesterday I sent him the other paper." What other? I knew no other. "Oh! Did I not tell you? I meant to. The Transcript. And I want to say, too, I don't quite get at Kennedy: he is a queer fellow—turns odd corners. Here in the Transcript is a paragraph—undoubtedly written by him—in which he says that the writer has seen a letter written by an American gentleman visiting Europe who had seen Tennyson, etc., and then goes on to give the awful story. Wrong! Yes, wrong! Kennedy is guilty of trespass. It ought to have been clearly understood by my letter and by Doctor's itself that there was to be no publicity given anything which the Doctor had sent us. And yet Kennedy quotes it. It is hard to explain. Not a serious harm, I suppose, but harm —and harm if simply to give a word of it under the circumstances. Probably nothing will come of it—no evil—it may even be buried there. On the other hand we find often enough that some insane little item which never should have been written, travels the world around, into every hamlet, is denied nothing, makes ruin everywhere." And W. reflected, "Kennedy is not a fellow I can understand. At least, not this time. I don't know what Doctor will think of the breach—for breach, trespass, it was. It makes us a caution for the future. In the first flush I was a little angry about it, but I am inclined to let it go now, without a word. It is enough to know the bird is out—escaped—the damage done." Further, "And there was something else in the Transcript—a comment made upon an elegant new edition of Bartlett's quotations—and the question is asked: What is the matter, that Walt Whitman does not appear by a word, a line? I suppose Kennedy wrote that—it shows his mind, if not his hand. You think the journalists favorable to me? A good many, yes. As to magazine editors, they have a dignity to preserve—a professional something or other—and will not unbend to unusual or unpopular events. But the boys in the newspaper clans are of a natural tone, more or less able and willing to say a good word as occasion, freedom, persuades."

     Did he know Barry, actor? Miss Aiken tells me her father and Barry old close friends. W.: "Yes, I remember him. Not thoroughly, not in detail, but as a person, those times. He was a man fitting well in minor parts—one of the walking gentlemen—indispensable, yet not important. There were hosts, the like of him. And sitting here these later days, inactive, having no outlet, memory panoramas the whole past, finding me a character here and there, to live again, whom I had thought gone forever even from the thought of men. The stage? I suppose there's a sense in which it has gone down—lost caste—position. But stars differ in their glory. And all we can say is, that changes have come—perhaps not all of them for the better."

     Had he ever taken any extensive out-doorings with Burroughs? "None at all." Yet was it "a good experience for anyone who could companion John," who was "like a bit out of nature herself, a wild hare, the flower that grows in the wood, the bird in mid-heaven."

     What had I heard last night about "Hamlet"? And then some talk thereon. Long had curiously said, "One of my doubts of Shakespeare is in the fact that no two men seem to agree as to what he meant by the plays." W. put in now, "Well, that would knock out his Bible, too." I then, "That's what I said, and all literature." And I said further, "Shakespeare did not intend to make Hamlet sane or insane, or to make his characters anything: he simply intended to make them, represent them, cutting them vividly out of life, with all their contradictions. For instance, in Hamlet: to show the conflicting conditions that warred about and in him and his resistance," etc. W. exclaimed, "That is fine, and it is 'Leaves of Grass': it is our doctrine—the doctrine we swear by," and more to the same end.

Sunday, October 4, 1891

Monday, October 5, 1891

     5:40 P.M. W. reading papers. But was not well. Spoke of himself as "the same as yesterday—no change," but added, "But for the past ten days I have felt thoroughly bad, have had a bad run." Had he seen Kipling's portrait in Century? "Yes, and it seemed to me the face not of an Englishman. Oh! Did it impress you the same way? It is undoubtedly a strange face—a stranger face. Do you know, Horace, I think this fellow must amount to some thing. There is every indication of power—of a something there—though what I don't know. But he is very young, will probably break up. The precocious, early fellows can't, as a rule, stand the racket. True, there was Keats—poor Keats—went under, as so many thousands we do not even hear of—fragile as delicate-spun glass. I think Sidney hits the nail on the head in his little piece, what he says amounting to this, that polish is pushed to such extreme, it makes me mad. And that, you may say, is Keats. Noble Keats, too—the splendid sweet youth!"

     A couple of packages for Post Office, one for niece, St. Louis, and one for Humphreys, Bolton. I laughed about the fullness of W.'s addresses, he remarking, "My friends always used to do that—do it still. But I think it a measure of safety. Once, many years ago, I sent a package to a fellow in New York, and it came back. I found on examining it that it came back because I had neglected to put 'third story' on it. Which taught me a lesson. You remember my friend in Washington with his stacks of trunks—the Adam Express man? He assured me that a little more care in addresses would have taken fully nine-tenths of the trunks to the proper persons. Now and then I get a foreign letter simply addressed 'Walt Whitman, America,' and it gets here sharply. Some knowing man in New York sends it right on."

     Clifford in to see me. Has taken a reportership in Times. W. asked, "Has he anything in him for that ?" I took the new sheets to McKay—had a long talk with him. He started by saying he thought the idea of the addition "foolish." I put in, "That's not a part of the discussion. They are to go in whether or not that is settled. I am here to discuss how they are to go in—on what terms." We got along amicably enough—a good deal of fencing. He opposed utterly to cheap edition, suggesting two editions: the one for two dollars, present price (autograph facsimile), the other at some larger price, with actual autograph. McKay not averse to green cover—rather favors it. Speaking of the present cover he said, "Walt insisted upon it—wanted it every way just as the Boston edition." "But you know why he wanted it so?" "Yes, I do." "And you know the reason is long since passed?" "Yes, I know that, too. I have no quarrel with the case , either as it is or as it is proposed to change it." McKay goes away tomorrow to New York and Boston and will not return till Monday. Will then be over to see Walt. W. asks, "That means the delay of another week?" "Yes." "It is our luck! But we can only smile." Then, "On first impressions, I would decide in favor of the two-dollar book. I do not insist upon actual autograph: perhaps the facsimile would serve for all." And again, "Our point is of course to add the pages. Whether we make any gain beyond

     Has been reading some of the Shakespeare plays. Not a word to either of us today from Wallace. "But Doctor writes me from Montreal—says the lecture affair was a great success—but not a word about Wallace." Johnston's postal from Annan moved us both. W. says, "I guess it is so. Carlyle always stirs me to the deeps. He was a giant-man, none more so, our time." McKay had called my attention to what was a defect in copyright page—W.'s assertion that in 1919 he might renew. But McKay argued he can't do it because he has no direct family—wife or child. W. however insists, "I think Dave is wrong. I have the copyright laws here and will look it up. But I am sure Dave is essentially wrong." After a pause however, "I don't see that it makes much difference either way. We'll all be dead, some of us long before that. So that it all comes to a point over which we needn't break any bones." Dave said to me, "If Walt insists on these pages, I suppose Mack'll have to take the dose!" To which I, "I'm afraid Mack will ." W. said, "That seems rough, but that's about the amount of it." I found we could produce a paper-covered Walt Whitman for less than 20 cents per copy.

Tuesday, October 6, 1891

     Book sale, at Thomas' today (Philadelphia). Copy of Bucke's "Whitman," presented by O'Connor to Appleton Morgan, on list. W. said, "I know nothing of Appleton Morgan, except what I gather from O'Connor. But he may have been some shakes among scholars of his kind." What of Winter's new book on Shakespeare? W. said, "I am reminded by it of what Carlyle said of modern poetry. He called it a raking over of old embers. Describes the poets—these times—poking at the old dead or dying fires—inviting them to burn—turning over and over the old ashes, for the spark of life left—finding little, perhaps nothing—chill, north-wind. That was Carlyle, and not to be too severe I would apply it to studies of Shakespeare—to Winter and his degree in particular. The critics of the great dramas all occupied to prove unprovable things—to stir up passions, fires, long gone out—the deceptive embers instinct with nothing. Oh! it is a lifeless sort of business! Yet a fellow hates to be too general, to make the mistake of being unjust. For often life comes, where we had thought of nothing but death."

     W. afterward, "I have laid a letter and a paper out for you. I felt you would be interested. The letter is from the nihilist over there in London—the editor of Free Russia—and the paper will show you what sort of work he is doing. And anyway, keep both. They have an interest and value—show which way the wind blows."

Wednesday, October 7, 1891

     5:10 P.M. To W.'s and a good talk. Neither of us have word from Wallace, but W. says, "He is no doubt all right—prospering somewhere. And though no word came, I expect him here any day now in propria persona . And of course he will be welcome. The English fellows have eminent good heart. There is nothing better." We had been startled by news of Parnell's death. W. much moved, "Now there are three: Balmaceda, Boulanger, Parnell. And all three from excitement, worry—what is called failure. Death and defeat! It is tragic. It brings up many questions."

     We have news that Donnelly will speak in Philadelphia some late day the present month. W. asks, "Do you know what about? No? I often wonder about Donnelly, if he hasn't his career yet to make, or if all has been said that is to be said—can be said? His book? I have known it passably well. To me the first third or half of it is a wonderful statement—a rare, rich mass of

     As to his condition, W. answers, "It is only so-so." Asked me, "Is the general closed-inness of things I see out my window here prevailing in Philadelphia—on the river—as well? I suppose so. It has its curious atmospheric turns. I have been watching, absorbing, tallying it." I put in, "For much of it is mood as well as weather," to which he, "That is just what I meant in another way—with other words—to say: but you say it for me." Remarks himself the increasing distaste for work, writing. Is "glad" for "Mary's change for the better." W. said with rather a laugh, "Wallace sends me a copy of the Bobcaygeon Independent—a queer sheet—nothing being in it. Yet it comes, fragrant with the boy's good will." Gave to me. "I have no use for it," he said. "I wonder if anyone has?"

Thursday, October 8, 1891

     The room full of smoke from the fire, yet he seemed oblivious. Even his smarting eye hardly told him. Yet on my reminder he said, "I did notice something, yet did not know what . Of course, it's bad." Yet would not let me open door or window. Chafes under McKay's delay. "Why the devil couldn't Dave have gone on. We can come to terms anytime, but the book itself ought to be out." Pan-American Congress in Philadelphia next week. "Have you your poem finished?" I asked. "What poem?" "Oh! the one announced last week or week before in the papers." "The papers? Oh! the papers be damned! A big lie in a little paper—or in a few words—will girth the world—go everywhere: the meaner the lie, too, the more perverse will people be to swear to it! But, however, tell me about the Congress, Horace. Is it all fallen through about the Colonel? Will he fail them?" But I insisted, "I am for the present interested in the poem." He then, "But I tell you there's to be no poem—from me . I am interested in the Colonel ," laughing, exclaiming. For, he said, "The Colonel would set them on fire, if he were there—were to let himself out." But the Colonel is not likely to be there.

Friday, October 9, 1891

     W. then asked, "Did you get one of the printed copies of Doctor's Montreal address? Yes? It is a handsome document, don't you think? I started to read it today—did not get very far—yet far enough to see that this is probably Doctor's crowning work, probably the best writing he has ever done. But I could not go straight through it. It is a thing not to be passed lightly over, not to be dashed through with, but must be studied, page by page." And still again, "It displays considerable esprit —is quite professional. But good, apparently, every way."

     I had a note from Garland. Said W., "Good! Good!" as to the first part, then, "I don't know about the book. Sure enough, did he send the money? There's a doubt in my mind! Indeed I had forgot the book—it is not sent. I remember his letter quite well, but remember nothing about the enclosure. But anyhow, I shall send the book—he shall have it." Is this W.'s memory again? It is likely. I had written Garland I would refer his note to Walt.

     W. asked about Clifford, "How does he like his place? Does he fit to it? Make something of it?" Somehow we got talking of O'Connor—I don't know how. W. saying, "I tell you what, Horace, you ought to make out at some length a magazine piece about William. Any magazine ought to be glad to take it—Lippincott's, such. Though, of course, I don't know. To tell the story of William's life—what he seemed here for—what he stood for—the aim, accomplishment: that would be a great pleasure. You would thoroughly enjoy it, once started. And one point, Horace—if you write, caution yourself: do not make much this time of William's connection with me—touch it lightly—pass on. Then again, later, in other ways, have a special article dealing with nothing but that—our meeting—the eternal friendship (yes, eternal —it will, can, have no end—here, elsewhere). Your point would be to tell of that life—go into any details you chose." Someone had spoken of O'Connor as W.'s St. Paul, but

     We spoke of the marked friendliness of newspaper men to Walt Whitman. I quoted a talk I had with McClure last fall, anent the lecture, McClure saying, "I will do anything for either Walt Whitman or the Colonel." W. asked, "Did he say that? Were they his words?" Adding, "I always felt somehow that I could count on Aleck. And you think the newspaper men generally accept, or credit, me, and the literary fellows not ? That has been my own experience. The high-jinks shrink from the issue, but the newspaper boys have no qualms." Miss Porter told me this afternoon that she and Miss Clarke were amusing themselves writing an imaginary conversation between Sidney Lanier and Walt Whitman. W. said, "It ought to amuse them, taken rightly. They might give it a great turn." The two men both patriots, yet with different ideals for America. There the subject at issue. Find the two women strangely and more markedly warm towards Walt. W. says he has sent a postal to Wallace at New York. What of the Rome brothers? "They are both alive—splendid average fellows of their class."

     I have been speaking in notes recently about Pan-American Congress. I should have called it Pan-Republic Congress—a different tribunal from the P.A.C. which met in Washington.

Saturday, October 10, 1891

Sunday, October 11, 1891

     Did not see W. Yet found all reputed well there. Has past fortnight been getting up very late—not till towards noon (twelve). So my seeing him on way to Philadelphia is out of question. Nothing definite yet as to Wallace.

Monday, October 12, 1891

     Wallace in Brooklyn. I heard from him today. W. remarking, "He intended going off to West Hills—may be there this minute. No, the railroads do not go to West Hills. What is called West Hills station is a barren desolate spot. It will not cheer him. The place is quite inaccessible. Wallace will find it rather difficult moving about. He should have gone to see Gilchrist. He will find this West Hills excursion harder than is supposed." And again, "I understood from him, too, that Rome would come along. It has been years since we met—many years."

     He got up from bed by and by—went toilsomely to chair. "You see what a labor it is getting to be: worse and worse—yes, worse! After a while—well, never mind. But I'm not like to get better !" His mail—a letter to Mrs. Heyde, a postal to Johnston. Had been looking over a copy of Once a Week. But, "I am not much interested." I had been in to see McKay, who disappoints us again. Will not see W. till Saturday or Monday. Says W., "It is enough to turn the stomach: delay, delay, delay, then delay again! Postponements—postponements!" W.'s postal to Johnston was American, with a penny stamp plumped on. He said, "Some of our postal habits or laws are better than theirs in England—in any foreign country: more in the hands of the people. And by the way, Horace, the Post Office in Philadelphia issues a sheet of instructions. Will you see to get me one some day soon? I am curious to see it."

     W. asked me about Mr. Hunter. "What do you hear from him? Does Dave hear? Oh! He has been in Philadelphia? And what of him: is he well, and himself? I have been thinking of him today." While he lay on the bed, for some ten minutes he was quiet and I threw out not a word. It was a holy peace—a quiet passing understanding—my memory meanwhile drowsily playing with all the events transpired in this room the past three years. I can say I never elsewhere realized so sudden, so sweet, so entire an abandon to the holiest impulses of reverie.

Tuesday, October 13, 1891

     5:30 P.M. Spent half an hour with W., who seemed greatly better. Had just lighted the gas and sat reading. "Longaker has been over and left a good deal of cheer, if nothing else." Yet still thinks or says he is "blue." Is it the echo of the discussion over the payment of the tomb? Fire burning in stove—room pleasant. "Though I slept better last night, 'twas nothing to brag of." Not downstairs again. "I often feel to go down, yet can't bring myself together to do it." Then, "I have a letter from Wallace—written from West Hills. He went there—filled his fill of things thereabout. Says the country is beautiful—only regrets he can't stay, locate, settle there for a while. His letter is very cheery—the best, on the whole, he has written me. The good weather is gone, otherwise he is in good fortune. He tells me about the people he met—how everybody was hospitable—how he went from this thing to that—peering, absorbing, cherishing. It is a long letter—pages of it—and thoroughly in good temper. Now he says he won't be on here till Thursday—that he will go to New York—back there—spend a couple of days there—then come on with Rome—which in a sense will be to end up his pilgrimage." As to Wallace's books, "They are still in the box there, untouched. I am a great dawdler, these days."

     I quoted Methodist in Ecumenical Council at Washington, speaking of scientists who make the conflict with religion as men who do not know the a-b-c of evidence and are incapable of drawing conclusions. W. remarking, "Whereas the scientists are different from the damned Methodistic snifflers, who know everything , and set down in articles and creeds all the ways of God—all the twists and turns of divine life, labor. Perhaps if these infernal Tom-fools knew more they would be less certain, would know how little is certain, and that the scientific men who are staggered by 'conclusions' give us the wisest conclusion after all. But it is always—has always been—just as we see it with these men: the least knowing, intuitional, pretending to know and see most. It is a lesson, if a fellow can take it." After a pause,

     I asked Longaker, meeting him last night, to see W. today and make a special examination—reporting to me. Hope he has done so. Letter from Bucke (11th) who seems busy about his own affairs and anxious about ours, especially from not hearing from us. But best of all a fine new letter from Baker (11th), which it will delight W.'s heart to see. Intended running in to see W. and show him this but had not time. But did go to see Harned, advising him to consult W. about tomb and discover if everything was straight. Harned consented. I told him all I knew. The contractors push Walt, W. thinks unjustly. But as W. has taken no confidant in this matter, no one knows just what led up to the contract, not even Harned or Bucke. Yet Harned was the natural person to have advised W. from the start. It troubles me to see W. troubled. Harned remarks, "We can't assume any loss of grip in Walt. We know he's as clear and sane as ever he was."

Wednesday, October 14, 1891

     5:30 P.M. Another good half hour with W., who seems himself again. "I hear from Wallace again. He comes on tomorrow with Rome. What a thing it will be to see Rome again, after so many years. He is an old man now, I think older than I am." I said, "The world will have cause to remember him." "For what?" "Why, for 1855." W. smiled and answered, "That will be seen. I wonder, I wonder?" Then went on, "Wallace's letter is very cheery. He seems to have the faculty for pleasure—to see through difficulties to underlying favors—seems to turn a good face to everything—to the people he meets, things that happen—all that. He has seen Gilchrist, spent part of a day there. Says Herbert is well and hearty and was very cordial—indeed, wanted Wallace to stay over for a time, which he could not do. Wallace is now back in New York, determined today to go to see Bush. Has already seen Johnston, Williamson, to more or less satisfaction. He will probably be here towards or a little after noon tomorrow, and Rome with him. He says he intended to see you first. As I understand, Rome is to go home in the evening. This is in effect a wind-up: the last step of the pilgrimage. He says he has seen something of America—is satisfied in a way. And for my part I think he has gone about under fortunate conditions. The weather itself almost unvaryingly fortunate—clear, sunny—though, somehow, bent as Wallace is on being pleased, even foul weather would now be to him fair. What a quality that is, to be pleased, to go about with satisfied temper, not disturbed, immovably in touch with contentment! It ought to do a good deal with him—for his good health, for instance."

     I, too, heard from J.W.W., W. saying, "So he's better than for three years? America has done that for him, anyway—which is something to count for. Good, good—for after all, that is the chief thing—to set him on his physiological feet again." I said to W., "Bucke asks if we've collapsed? He gets so few letters." W. laughed, "Oh! the impatient Doctor! I have just written him a postal—and you write him, don't you? From time to time? He must be patient! Probably some of our mail got in an hour after

     W. calls attention to "an English offer to publish my works abroad—for all England and for English readers everywhere on that side." Did not mention names, nor did I yet ask—but wonders if Forman could not be called on for help in case of need. Which, of course.

     Handed W. first a card sent by Aggie for Marion. "Oh! It is from Agnes! And this is the darling new one! How do the little girls come—a whole cluster of them! We will wax fat in the sweet gifts!" Then I gave him Baker's letter to read, and as he took it, "The brave Baker! It is good to hear from him again!" And as he read, "The fellow is a poet, sure enough! Oh! I like all this—it is a word fresh from the mountains!" And as he finished (the sentiment to W. near the end), W. exclaimed, "Thanks! Dear Baker! Thanks! And your friends are all happy to have such an announcement! So he is about cured—about free! It is almost more than could have been hoped for. Yet not more than we can be glad over!"

     Billstein—in New York last week—visited DeKinney, the great Century printer. W. greatly interested in result, and questioned me till I had told him all I could remember of what Billstein had told me. W. thought of some mechanical appliances, "That seems to be the very soul of mechanism!"

     Asked me, afterwards, "What of the Pan-Republic Congress? Tell me." But I knew no more than appears in papers, which he equally sees. "It is a noble object, a splendid purpose. It ought to send out infinite radiant gleams, for the betterment of affairs." I said, "It enlists a lot of men out of business and politics—is good because it shows them there is something beyond and superior to the details of their trade." W.: "That is very strong, vital—that is something, probably, to justify the whole proceeding. Sometimes the thing has struck me as a convention called to declare that two and two are four. Yet I thoroughly endorse its objects. Solidarity—human solidarity—is not that 'Leaves of Grass'?"

     Had W. ever been in any communication with Dante Rossetti? "No, I do not think so. I would have remembered. Dante Rossetti took up—examined—'Leaves of Grass' from too high ground—from a region of ecstasy , so to speak. Was ecstatic himself—regarded everything with that eye. But I do not think 'Leaves of Grass' ever meant much or anything at all to him. I have a cool malignant enemy over there in England—Watts, Theodore Watts—of the Athenaeum. He has no room, patience, for me—no desire to acknowledge me. And Rossetti knew him; they were under more or less easy terms—friendly. And I think came under his influence. Nor Rossetti alone—Swinburne for another. I could not expect anything, against such odds, nor did—nor do . It is a fact—to be acknowledged a fact—then passed. But of William Rossetti I feel certain: he is as warm today as in the long ago—shows no diminution of interest in—loving applause for—'Leaves of Grass.' They say Swinburne spoiled his laureateship by the Russian poem. I don't think so—I don't think he had any chance anyway. And no one else now living there in England, for that matter. Which suggests that the present is a good time to let the fuglery lapse —at least for a while." As to American art, "It wants nothing—asks to be let alone."

     W. gets many letters of curious inquiry, including one from Canada, about an early piece of writing. Bucke writes under date of 13th, of his busy occupations in London—the minutiæ of Asylum life.

Thursday, October 15, 1891

     Harned wrote me the other day that Dr. Johnston had sent him a copy of his "notes" and wishing J.W.W. to accept his hospitalities. Postal (Oct. 7th) from Johnston this forenoon. Also, note from Buxton Forman (Oct. 5th). Forman's requests as to portraits hardly possible to fill up—the diners not available. We expect J.W.W. today. No further word.

     Day opened clouded but cleared beautifully by and by—temperature all mild. Salter writes me, date 11th: "I have just read

     Wallace happy to have had the long talk. "After what you wrote me of his condition, this seemed a great surprise—benefaction, even." He spoke of W.'s giving then the very long audience—doubted if he had not stayed too persistently—dwelt upon W.'s grace, voice, gesture—every turn of the head expressive. Wallace's reverential attitude marked—now greatly, deeply, impressed. At home we talked the whole evening of Whitmanic affairs—indeed, up to one o'clock. Wallace gave us some account of his travels. He had seen Bush, Williamson, Johnston. Bush had asked to lunch with him but they could not arrange. Spent Wednesday evening at Johnston's. Much engaged there with the Hine and Waters portraits. Found Johnston busy (sent a souvenir spoon over to W.). Williamson lives out of town (in Brooklyn somewhere). Remarks that since he has seen W. he thinks more and more of the Morse bust. He had secured a dozen copies or so of one of the Edy pictures in London, Canada. Exhibited—offered to leave a copy. He is every way simple, generous. His baggage has not come yet. Showed him the two Whitmans sent up from Washington by Mrs. O'Connor. Liked both—a copy of one of them he having seen in Johnston's collection. Morse's Carlyle photo he does not like. As to Morse's piece in Conservator, "I confess I was not taken with it." Bought a copy of Burroughs' "Indoor Studies" in New York. Had wanted it. "The last week I have felt distinctly better. But at London, though my general health was good, I did not sleep well—felt so stupid, lethargic, all the time."

     We discussed many things with respect to W. I found myself pretty communicative—perhaps Wallace will set it down to gossip. In course of evening went upstairs among my papers, treasures, and were there till the wee sma' hour. Wallace particularly interested in the manuscripts: "Good-Bye," "Passage to India," etc. Protests, "I only hold a pint." Yet had been all day in leash to new wonderful things. Thought

     "I have not had time to read all my letters, but was impatient to look through them hastily, and did. There are many kind loving messages to you both—Mrs. Traubel and you. I did not think I was neglected, but naturally, when not having letters at all for a couple of weeks, when before you had them every day, you would wonder, some, and wonder if things might not happen." He had designed to sit down tonight and write some account of his talk with W., but was too tired—will defer till morning. "I must take some report of my talks back to the boys. They will expect it. You, who are with Walt every day, a son—in fact, we might say, an only son—ought to take the world in your confidence." Did he suspect I had notes? Had Bucke said anything to him? I think not. Yet I say nothing myself. Displayed all my treasures but these—the greatest treasure of all. Johnston (N.Y.) had a duplicate copy of "Leaves of Grass," first edition, which he gave Wallace (I think for Dr. Johnston—Wallace has a copy bought in Liverpool). Wallace looks much better than when he left—the air is on his face—no longer sea-brown but heart-red, which is a good omen. I have not yet dared to ask how long he proposes to stay, for fear he will mention a date this side of my hope. So I rest in pleasant ignorance.

Friday, October 16, 1891

     I spoke in warm tones of Rome. W. saying, "It is all just as you say—he centers the best brawn, virtue, of the Scottish race. There's no discount to Andrew—he's true blue, however regarded. I hope you will have other chances to see him. It is a good thing to know these simple, intuitional fellows, for whom life expresses best things—and I know no one of Andrew's sort in whom so much is strained, distilled."

     At home I found Wallace busily engaged upon his notes. He still complained of the inadequacy of his memory to serve him as he could wish. But read me some pages of specimen notes, which I consider fine in perception but not quite in touch with W. in the verbal constructive side. Curiously—at tea—Wallace said, "I read some of my notes to Mrs. Traubel and she thinks they are quite like Walt, I believe. But she tells me also, that you are doing this same sort of work, and have been for a long time." I instantly perceived that Anne had left the cat out, so owned up—afterward giving Wallace some specimen pages—reading to him. He was glad it was a fact. Johnston had advised Warrie to do this thing (not of course knowing of my labor). Wallace seemed rather aghast by the extent of my accumulations. He would keep it all shady, however, though I consented to have Johnston. He takes it very easy here—doing little, absorbing a good deal. Speaks of improved mental state. Anne is anxious lest he be overdone. He did not write to Johnston today, though I did not. We went together to Unity Church, where we met Harned and had a good talk, much of it, of course, about W. Wallace speaks of returning Wednesday of next week—on which issue I fought him.

Saturday, October 17, 1891

     As I was about to go, "Horace, if Dave comes Tuesday, as you say, I hope to have a conclusive talk with him. This question of the books ought to be about settled!" And as I left, he came downstairs.

     Evening. Supper at home—Wallace there when I arrived from W.'s making up his own notes. "I have had a grand talk with Walt." Read me some hits out of what he had written. Very satisfactory—true, too. Anne had liked them. Gilbert and wife in shortly and all to tea together. Mrs. G. had brought over some luscious selections of fruit, and a basket—these to be arranged to go to W. I had promised to take them. But we were very late going. By some grace of the girls, the fruit was given to J.W.W. to carry—Gilbert himself along (thus three of us).

     9:15 P.M. Time of starting I felt doubtful about catching W. up—yet we went on and down, reaching the house a trifle after nine and being admitted by Mrs. Davis—from whom we gladly learned that W. was still reading. (Warrie in kitchen, asleep on lounge.) We went upstairs—I ahead—Wallace next, then Gilbert. In the room W. extended hand, "Ah! Welcome again, welcome! And you Wallace—oh! and Mr. Gilbert, too: how do you do?" I plunged at once into the reason of our coming, Wallace putting the heaped basket on his lap—he entering into proud mention of its "beauty"—for it was flowered, the fruits colored more than rainbow's colors. He looked very well—in good flush. Was reading Scott—"Robert of Paris." Though intending to stay but a minute or two, W. let out such a continuous stream of talk that we had no chance to break away (even if we had wished it)—though I stood most of the time, and the other two stood the entire time, of the stay. (I sat on bed next him for a while.) I found a bill of the '89 reception on the floor and gave to W. with remark that Wallace would probably like to have it. W. then, "Then he shall take it, of course." He asked from whom the flowers had come—by whom they had been made up—spoke of them as his "prize"—the "best bequest of days." After he had held it for some time, I offered to take it over to the table, he consenting—even specifying where it should be set down. The group

     W.'s eyes appear strained by the light. I suggested a drop-light—said I would provide one. Wallace gave us an idea of a white light (carbon?) used by him. Would not that serve for W.? Anyhow, the glare ought to be avoided. W. said of the ramshackle burner on the east table, "I used it till it was no longer usable. I found the pipe leaked, so I changed quarters to this side of the room." W. finally said—after hearing us debate—that he referred us to his committee in such matters, quoting an anecdote by the way—some politician's—intimating that he would use whatever we provided. Wallace asked W. twice, "Is Horace your committee?" But W. did not hear him.

     As we were about to go, W. (with the true grace which belongs to him) thought himself that he had given Wallace something, and promised me—and that Gilbert stood neglected. So he got up from his chair, saying to Gilbert, "If I can put my hands on a picture, I want you to have one. Our friend"—turning to me—"has never had anything from us." So went over to his chair at the middle window—toilsomely—picked a bundle from the floor—untied it—and took out and autographed a processed copy of "The Laughing Philosopher." Gilbert grateful, and we

     Wallace says he is getting quite contented with America—is surprised at himself. Will stay over Wednesday. I have had a serious talk with him. He owned up that he had wished to run off on Bucke's advice—that three or four days would be enough for W. I said, "I can see Bucke's reason for saying that. If you went down there a good deal, to worry the old man, I would say—yes, go home—the sooner you sail the better. But if you take my advice—go for half an hour a day—a week more than Wednesday will benefit you a good deal and not hurt him." Wallace replied, "I confess I should like to stay, that there's nothing to hurry me home except Bucke's advice. The personal affairs that I at first thought made it imperative are smoothed out and no longer exist as an argument." A good deal of talk: of W., of affairs of many orders. Wallace, however, too tired to wax fat on them. I wished to hurry him off to bed but he would not go before the rest of us. I find he tells some stories inimitably. Says he has no sense of humor, but contradicts himself by his laugh, and this story-telling faculty.

     Showed W. while with him this evening (as he spoke on Chase), Mrs. Fairchild's letter, and its "delicious sweet message" as W. called it. I had said, "I have a letter from the wife of another secretary of the Treasury."

     W. further said, "I have great friends in the women. My best friends have been women. Put that in your pipe and smoke it." I asked, "What is there better than the friendship of a woman?" W. fervently, "Nothing at all, Horace, nothing—nothing in this whole world!"

     I quoted for W. this afternoon a review of "Good-Bye" from Times. Told him, "The writer says for one thing, you display a very creditable faith in God!" W. blazed out, "I do, do I? Thank him, too, for that . Our friend, oh! Walt Whitman, yes! he is a

Sunday, October 18, 1891

     Up at seven, Wallace about eight, he going to work on his notes at once, I occupying myself about various affairs. Gilbert rather dilatory. But a hearty breakfast all together. Then to Philadelphia. Wallace and Gilbert with me, the girls later—St. George's Hall. Clifford to speak there—did speak. Small audience. Afterward Longaker approached and introduced himself to J.W.W., as did Clifford—talking on both sides (greetings) pleasant. Wallace admitted he was at once attracted towards Longaker. After the meeting, to Camden—G., J.W.W., and H.L.T.—the girls going ahead to Gilbert's to prepare dinner. At W.'s we all went upstairs—about 1:50—and were there the greater part of an hour. Gilbert and Wallace sat at W.'s left, I in front of him. W. in great good trim—doing the most of the talking himself—led on by questions, mainly mine. We had no intention to stay beyond briefest five or ten minutes, but his ready and consuming flood of talk (eloquent, a great deal of it) made us forget time. Wallace seemed astonished and Gilbert pleased and happy. But the room was warm—very warm (a big log burning in the stove), and we all felt its effects. It was four o'clock and after before we got back to Philadelphia and up to French Street, where the Gilberts live.

     What of W.'s talk? It spread over a great field. We had met Ed Lindell at the ferry. I introduced Wallace to him, and we found Ed to be chewing on a bit of calamus root. He had bought it of some negroes crossing the ferry. Broke off a bit for Wallace, who had discovered it was their English sweet-scented flag. Bucke had mystified them in England when they had asked him

     Talk wandered to Canada and Canadians, too—inimitably of French Canada and his experiences there—the Saguenay, the French there, "their patois," ignorance of English, "removed from sophistications of civilized life." The priests, many—he had met them, they treated him well—trained in France—their suavity. W. said then too, "I was never more tickled then when one of the old priests told me that my politeness was different from theirs—that it was better , which I of course knew was nonsense but which nonetheless tickled me."

     Spoke in midst of his other talk of his headache, "Yet I like you to come—it lifts me out of this lethargy and discomfort." Giving me letter for Forman and postal for Bucke to mail, said of Forman he had given him power to treat with Balestier, "to act as my ambassador, representative," to illustrate quoting inimitably and in speech and gesture, Richelieu, as he exacts power from the king from the midst of the king's troubles. W. in voice and power striking and beautiful at this. To Wallace, "Have you never seen the play? I should advise you to take the first chance." Then, "Bulwer has made his title clear by several of his plays, if no way else: by this, by 'The Maid of Lyons,' by 'Money'—'Richelieu' the best without a doubt—though all of them vital, triumphant. 'Richelieu' not a work of genius but of first-rate talent—with dashes of genius—with great situations." He had given Forman such power—such "absolute authority" as depicted in Richelieu, "Yet I hope he will not abuse it in exerting it!" Referred to Fanny Kemble as supreme among the artists he had seen. Spoke of Alboni, the Italian opera—no being more than Alboni had moved and possessed him. "She roused whirlwinds of feeling within me." And to him, "After all the Italian opera has gone deepest, probably

     It was all in this strain—an atmosphere thrown out, crimsoned with good blood and sympathy.

     After we had retired I went back an instant to ask about the Emerson letters. He said, "I have forgotten—let it be till tomorrow."

     Afternoon and evening then at Gilbert's.

Monday, October 19, 1891

     W. said, "I wonder if our park here is ever to come? Camden is in a sad hole, by her own insane stupidity. I see that Judge Garrison has appointed Park Commissioners." I said, "That is a good sign! It shows they are thinking about it!" But W., "Yes, but the danger is, that it may end in thought! I don't suppose there's a town in America in a worse plight than ours—ruled by a worse crew. This damned Mayor Pratt! What could be lower—meaner. All our mayors have been low, but this one beats every previous chapter in the story. A temperance man, so-called—that is, a bigot. And one out of the low end of the temperance procession. A man who knows nothing of life, nothing of experience, nothing (of real account) of decency, even, yet hobnobs with churches and prudes—sets down all our evil, horror, to the charge of the corner saloon." We need to rescue Camden from such a dominion. "We will never get our park—well, till we get, I suppose they'll potter, potter, potter—then in the end pay twice as much for their whistle as they would be called on to pay now."

     Had W. yet examined the Emerson letters? "No, I have forgot, sure enough. But you shall have them, Horace—they will be yours." I asked, "You often speak of your own, O'Connor's and Gurowski's immediate espousal of Lincoln—but how about Burroughs?" W.: "John was not there immediately. When he came he was in a miserable sickly condition. And he debated with himself what he should do: it seemed a life or death. And he stood between two temptations: should he go into the army or take a clerkship?—his friends telling him at once—if you go to the front, that surely will mean death. So he stayed, and we came to have our association with him. But then John never was as warm as the rest of us—never as hot for Abe, never—the grand Abe! I suppose, partly because he was sickly, partly for

     H.L.T.: "Wallace protests that he has no sense of humor, yet tells a splendid story." "Is that so? Isn't it queer to hear the fellows with the best humor spoken of as having none at all! William O'Connor ought to be here to hear that! Wouldn't he storm, rage! To think of the great times we have had together—the almost boundless fun, wit, humor, by-play, what-not!"

     I left him Saturday a large Gutekunst photo for autograph. Brought me by Falkenan, from his mother. One of F.'s brothers dramatic and musical critic on Chicago Herald. His Cornell graduating thesis on Walt Whitman. W. now asks, "He must be close to George Horton. It would appear we have good friends there on that paper."

     I find Morris takes W.'s regret for the errors in book kindly. Came in Bank yesterday, jubilant, to show me W.'s post card—not knowing I had already seen it.

     As I was leaving and after W. had shaken hands and said "good-bye" to me, he counselled, "You will go right home? And Anne and Wallace will be there? Well, give them my love—tell them you left me here on the bed, in as good condition as the law will allow. Tell them they are remembered and must remember!"

     I leaned over the bed—kissed him good-bye. "God be with you, boy! Yes, God is with you!"

Tuesday, October 20, 1891

     W. had put a noble autograph on the Falkenan picture. (I took it along.) Someone had given me an announcement of a book which starts to prove Lincoln a spiritualist. W. greatly amused, "Lincoln is like the Bible—you can read anything in him. One man will say, 'Here, here, Uncle Abe was so and so—I have the text for it,' and another with an opposite notion will say, 'See, he was with us : I have the text for it.'" "And good books, good men, the universe, prove too much for specialists!" "You are right, Horace. Lincoln was boundless—his character would furnish arguments for any good thing under the sun!"

     I told W. about our wanderings today. He was pleased—and especially pleased to find I had set myself in Wallace's way and against his home-going. As to O'Donovan, "There is a mystery about all that. O'Donovan has not been here for weeks. I have suspected he was disgruntled about something—but what can it be?" Bust evidently so far fiasco. "Yes, it must be. Do I like him as a man? Yes and no—I don't like him, I don't dislike him—if inclined any way I was inclined to like him. But I was moved to give him the opportunities he asked to make the bust—to put nothing in his way."

     I left with him postal from Mrs. Fels ordering two copies of the complete Whitman and giving names for inscription: Mila F. Tupper, a Unitarian woman preacher in the West, and a Miss Wilson, New York I took a blue pencil from my pocket and underscored the names. He asked quickly, "What's that? Is that a blue pencil?" "Yes." "Why don't you get me a pencil like that?" "I will—a dozen of them if you say so." "Well, I do say so. Let me try it." And try it he did. "Just the thing I am after! You know where to get them?" And from pure delight he scribbled and wrote all about the edge of a newspaper which he picked up. "Splendid—splendid! It is the very thing we were in search for and never could deliberately find. Now it comes by accident—if we can call it that!"

     He apologized, his way, for not giving me the Emerson letter. "You shall surely have it tomorrow. And I'll strike a bargain with you, Horace: you bring me the plate and the pencils tomorrow and I'll give you the Emerson letter! Fair? Eh?" and laughed. "I'll try to bring the plate." "Well, try! I guess we won't quarrel about the rest." Touching again upon war times, "That peculiar phase of life down there—the struggle over Lincoln—the doubt, espousal, the murk, smirk, hypocrisy (courage, too, holy heroism), those early years—have never been told. I often think to take up pencil and tell it—or hint, suggest it—my own, William's, part in it. For it has intense meaning, interest, and belongs with the history of

     Spent rest of evening at home with J.W.W. We read proofs of Conservator together. Wallace's eyes easily gave out. Anne likes him greatly. Modest, quiet. As yet, no signs of creative powers. But they may come. Splendid faculty, absorption—to appreciate, accept, take in.

     W. said, "I do not forget the old man who came with Dave. He seemed disillusioned."

Wednesday, October 21, 1891

     Secretary of State Is it not vibrant—spontaneous—corroborant of the earlier, 1855, letter? As to this, it is still in its original red-stamped envelope, addressed to "Walter Whitman Esq. Care of Fowlers and Wells 308 Broadway New York" (envelope all crushed, torn, discolored) and forwarded from them to "Walt Whitman 91 1/2 Classon St. Brooklyn." W. had at some time written on this in large hand, pencil: "Emerson's Letter" and again, in ink, and more delicately, the same thing. W. says of these, "They establish

     Wallace says, "I feel that my mission is about done. I might go home now, as well as later." Yet he will stay for a week yet, anyhow. W. says, "We are glad in him—glad in him. Let him feel at rest on that point." Wallace has several times said, "I am sure Walt is glad I came, that he appreciates the feeling with which I came, and my agency, exercised for the group there in Bolton."

     A question I feel about the Seward letter: was not W. cute enough not to deliver it, because he knew it would stand in confirmation of the 1855 letter—ought to be retained—yet, once in official hands, would probably be filed and lost? I shall ask him. Its non-delivery seems as if all eyes for future necessities.

Thursday, October 22, 1891

     8:10 P.M. W. reading Scott. What of the day? "Bad, bad. Wallace was here, but only for a little while. En route , I think, for somewhere. Do you know where?" Some one-time Bolton neighbor now living in Creamer's Hill. W. then, "Anyway, he was here—I was glad to see him. But I have had a head inhabited by a hundred devils all the day, so I guess he did not find me very bright. He brought down the Canadian picture. It is not the one I thought it was, and not so bad, either—in fact, good in one particular or two, which on the whole is about all that can be expected for a photo—often a child of speculation, chance, so far as human agency is concerned." He had given J.W.W. the bundle of phototype prints. "I think we may reasonably regard them as good —with distinct virtues." As to the Gutekunst card photo Wallace had brought yesterday, "I don't like that , at all. I admit it is elegant—all Gutekunst's work has a title to be called that. But this is in fact too elegant, that's what spoils it. They have touched it into vacuity, almost—touched all sense, even sight, out of the eyes. The eyes would be my main criticism."

     Then W., "Wallace has decided to go to Timber Creek Sunday—proposes to walk down. Yes, says it is your wish to have him go then—that you have him engaged for Friday and Saturday nights." I reminding W. of our plans—his tone seeming a little doubtful—whereat, "No, it is all right, you are right—I am sure of it. I want him to see all of our fellows he can. And once he is back home, he will not be sorry, however it may seem unimportant to him now."

     I asked W. indirectly, "I wondered about the Seward letter, why it was never delivered?" Very frankly W. said, "For a number of reasons, probably—for one, I did not altogether like it." What was there astray? "I don't remember, I only remember my impression: there seemed something awry, not just as I felt for the best." No idea at all what that point was? "None, not the least. Probably it was an impression , not to set down and point out reasons . I kept it, therefore, from that feeling, for one

     I told W., "We stopped in front of Parry's the other evening. I said to Wallace, 'This is where Walt and Bucke get their good gray hats!'" Wallace exclaimed, "Ah! Is it so?" and looked with a curious eye, saying to me with a smile afterwards, "If I should go back to England with a suit of gray and a gray hat, would they then think I was a thorough-going Whitmanite?" I laughed—he had such a tone—whereat he continued, "But I am more concerned to be a Whitmanite inside than out." Which I told to W. as "good doctrine," and which he said was that, "if Whitmanism itself was a part of good doctrine, which a few people seem to doubt!" placing an amusing emphasis on the "few." I find by various indications that Wallace bears this notion out—accepts W. not as a conclusion but as forerunner, as beginning a line, perhaps, certainly not ending one—averse to having comrades die as disciples, or Whitmanism expressed in clothes. (Why are not Whitmanic articles of faith as foreign to "Leaves of Grass" as any other? I ask, and Wallace grants. To write verses, or wear coats, merely to shape like W.—it is poor tribute—runs the stream dry almost at its source.)

     After leaving W.'s went to Harned's, where I met Wallace. We were there till eleven, Wallace and Tom talking, Anna and I playing euchre at a little table nearby. Before we left, W.'s

     Then up and hence and some further talk and preparations for the morrow. Wallace had seen W. was not in good shape and had not tarried today. He meets me at Press office 4:15 tomorrow. I wish him to see Talcott Williams. Then will come our supper together. As to this, I have written Clifford, Law and Buckwalter and sent word to Bonsall. Harned goes to Washington forenoon but hopes to get back to join us. Wallace speaks of returning 28th. Will make inquiry tomorrow. But I made him promise not to engage passage without my knowledge. Is embarrassed by Bucke's counsel. Wallace continues his notes. I shall sorrow when he turns his face east again. And he says to me, "It is heartache, almost, for me to think to go," yet probably heartache to stay, too. Impulses conflict—but duty? Alas!

Friday, October 23, 1891

     Morning: Clifford writes—will join us if his Times work will allow. Law cannot come. I announced to W. yesterday, "Morris says the omissions in the book are his fault— he read the proofs!" W. raised his finger admonitorily, "Oh Harrison! Harrison! The devil's in you , too!" Then his odd sentence died in the affectionate question, "And how does Harrison keep these days? Is he pretty much always well?" I said, "He is cautious—is tied to the necessities of a family!" "Good for him! And he braces up to it?" "Yes, nobly." "Good again for him! How much it means for a young girl or fellow to tie up with a purpose!"

     Met J. W.W. at 4:15 and with him first to see Talcott Williams, at Press, who was fortunately in and with whom we talked for some time—first about W.'s condition, then about American municipal and social development. Williams much at home here—Wallace little to say in way of dispute—nothing at all, in

Saturday, October 24, 1891

     Wallace stopped in at W.'s with me on the way to Penn Club reception. I went upstairs first, Wallace staying in parlor. W.'s hall door locked, I going then through Warrie's room. "I've been washing—that was the reason, and I forgot to unlock things after. I feel better for my brush with the water." Not "a good day on the whole," however. Wallace downstairs? "Bring him up—tell him he might as well come up." I going out to head of stairs and calling, Wallace then appearing and W. greeting him again. Sturdy fire in stove. W. asked Wallace, "Is it too warm here?" Then to me, "Is it for you?" I smiled and he asked further, "Is it?" "It is too warm for me but probably not for you." "Well, leave the door open." As we left (some time after) asked me to close it again (after I assured him we did not need its light, there being a faint light in the hall below).

     "If you go down to Timber Creek, Wallace," W. said, at one moment, thrusting his fingers in his vest pocket and drawing forth a silver dollar, "you will see the children: Amy has two children—a little boy, a little girl. Take this dollar—give it to Amy—tell her half is for the boy, half for the girl. And you must see Harry Stafford. They are poor—yes, poor—but" and this ended, as if word died in reflection. And again, "Let me give you some advice, Wallace: if you go to Timber Creek, go like a wise man—make no plans, indulge no speculations, expect nothing—go prepared for whatever may turn up, for good, bad. That may spare you a good deal." While Wallace was downstairs W. had remarked, "Jeannette Gilder—Jennie—was here today, with some beautiful girls. She is large, splendid, frank, manly —yes, she should have been a man." And after, "I was glad to see her. She refreshed me—and the girls, they too. The Gilders have stood by me now through the better part of 20 years, which is something to say—both Joe and Jennie—though Jennie, I think, with more warmth, with nearest to fervor. A cousin of Watson's? No, I thought Jennie was a sister—that was always my impression—but I may mistake the truth." I remarked, "Harry Bonsall is one of your old journalistic friends—he stuck by you even in the days of the New Republic." W. thereupon, "Yes, I know. There is Harry—he has always been loyal, loyal with fervid loyalty, too. Long ago, there was George B. Corse— General Corse—you met him?" To J.W.W., "He was an army officer with a lot of toploftical ideas—ideas such as military men are apt to get: glory, spreadeagle, show, gilt, bluster—a splurgey sort of fellow, George, but with good points, too. He and Bonsall were partners. I happened in the office often at that time, mostly by his invitation, suggestion. There I would meet Harry. They were good days." Then suddenly, "But you fellows are awful late. What's up? I thought you were already over the river." And after some explanations, "You ought to meet Horace Howard Furness. Yes, he will be there—is a great attender of such affairs. His deafness? It don't abash him—he goes anyhow—there is so much of that side to him. I seem to get along with him very well—we hear, are heard."

     I had told W. the other day that Miss Anne Wharton had somewhere written of W. that he was after all distinctly a man's poet, not for women, at the best. W. asked, "Where did she say that?" But I did not know. Now, however, having found it was in Brains (Boston), I told W., who made merry over the article and the paper. I had suggested that Guts rather than the other thing distinguished the paper. W. then, "That is Herbert! His word—though he puts it to other meanings—'What do you think of this picture, poem, what-not, Mr. Gilchrist,' and perhaps it has line, color, beauty, and Herbert may say so—and may add, 'It has all these but it has no guts !' which is a word open to a world of significance!" Inquired then, "Will you take the Bazar now?" But I thought not—would leave till tomorrow. W. then, in comment on the Dutch picture, "We have a good deal to learn from this—oh! a good deal. It is refreshing, after the old tiresome emphasis placed upon Greek ideals of beauty—certain this, that, the other, a tradition—to strike upon such as this, to find such breadth of treatment. And the face itself, heroically made, accepted—touched with such mass (by master's hand)—such a face handled in such decision (some people would call it coarse, bloody)—the singular, latent power suggested, the character—and such work, such a personage, such momentum—as if with a solid bottom . And I tell you, bottoms are not in the world to be dispeged , as—who was it?—one of Dickens' characters—oh yes! Sary Gamp—would say."

     After our good-bye to W. we went across to Philadelphia to the Penn Club. Frank Williams there—later Jastrow—later still Morris. Met there Esling, local poet and writer, who had traveled much and was replete with story or fable. Williams told me this. Lincoln Eyre's mother, Mrs. Wilson Eyre, though to that time ignorant of or opposed to "Leaves of Grass," in the summer took the book up and more carefully read it than before (if ever read before) and imbibed a certain sort of enthusiasm for parts of it—the other evening surprising a whole company of people by saying she would "recite something from Walt Whitman," whereto

     Exhibited Emerson letters to Jastrow. Much pleased and studious over them.

     Leaving Penn Club late it was one o'clock before we got home. Wallace's impression of Jastrow: "He is an odd little fellow," confessing that he felt disturbed to find that Jastrow knew so little about Walt Whitman. Liked Williams immensely. On way to Philadelphia we made notes on boat. But Wallace complains that he cannot collect himself.

Sunday, October 25, 1891

     1:20 P.M. To meeting, forenoon, to hear Royce (of Harvard) speak—after which to Camden with Gilbert, reaching W.'s without delay and spending half an hour, or a little less, with him, and then going back to Philadelphia to dine with the Gilberts and to take a long afternoon walk.

     W. in very good condition. Gilbert would not go up. Day superb—cloudless sky—air pure, bracing—quiet, peace, everywhere. Wallace started for Timber Creek towards eleven, intending to and I suppose did walk. W. at once spoke to me of "the beauty of the day" and Wallace's "good luck in it." I said, "He took 'Specimen Days' along with him, but what specimen days like these he is living through?" W. to that, "You are right—they are better than a fortune. And when he gets back to England, he, too, will believe what I say." He had been on the bed but insisted on rising by and by. Meanwhile, however, he talked recumbent. Gave him message from Frank Williams. He was intensely interested, at once saying, "He shall have the

     Quoted from Young in yesterday's Star. Discussing Geneva tribunal Young says: "The most striking figure was Jacob Stæmpfli, the Swiss arbitrator, our strenuous friend, more American if perhaps less judicious than Mr. Adams—dominant, brusque, something of the Bismarck about him, a Demo who would have bewitched Whitman into another stanza on Democracy." Then, farewell and the trip across the Delaware. "Give my love to Frank when you see him"—this the parting shot as I passed out the door.

Monday, October 26, 1891

     Conveyed to W. Frank Williams' grateful words for the book, which he will send to Mrs. Eyre, who is now in New York. W. responding, "Never mind, Frank—that's but a part of the evidence of my good will. I believe in doing all I can to brighten the planet, and Frank has done me well—oh! handsomely—many's the time!" I had this again to say to W., "Frank said to me Saturday night that he had since the spring been making a close study of Hawthorne and that especially in reading the notebooks he was constantly reminded of you, by some indefinable touch, spirit." W. looked, "Did Frank say that?" "Yes, but I contested it—at least said, a man is known by the atmosphere he keeps and that Hawthorne and Walt Whitman certainly occupied entirely distinct spheres." W. then, "I guess Frank—often think Frank (yes, and many of the other good fellows over the river there)—can hardly realize the 'Leaves'—do not reach the tapstone—face its physiological, concrete—might almost call it, its brutal, bloody—background, base. And what fact, factor, more important to know, to bargain for?" Again, "There are parts, features, faculties, detached bits, beauties, perhaps—these the fellows got—but the unitariness, the uncompromising physiology, backing, upholding, all—that they do not see, do not catch the first glimpse of."

Tuesday, October 27, 1891

     After leaving Miss Porter we went down Broad Street—I taking Wallace to show him the Art Club (where W. spoke April 1890)—to Academy (reminding him of the history of our refusal)—to Horticultural Hall. Wallace thoroughly attentive, liking to see and to have his store of practical Whitmaniana increased. On the river remarked the beauty of the night. Stars ascendant, a bit of mist and cloud—everything warmed and enlivened by the lights from the city. Remarked this as characteristic of our climate. "Nothing so much impressed me when I first got in America as the absence of smoke—to travel hundreds of miles, here and in Canada, and to see no smoke. Of course I have made up my ideas of towns mainly from Bolton, which is the only one I really know, and is very dirty. What most made me marvel just now from the top of that building was the clear air hanging over the whole place—the whole big city. There was hardly a sign of smoke."

     We went straight home and had supper, after the meal I going off to see W. and do some other errands by the way, and Wallace to stay home and work over and fix his camera. I reached home from W.'s about 9:50. Wallace and Anne in dining room, Wallace writing on his notes, Anne laughing over Puck. Talk and discussion of various orders—mainly, with this question: should

     Williams came in to see me yesterday, after I had taken him the books, to ask if the autograph on the portrait was genuine. It was beautifully turned and the ink as black as the print above it, and Frank was in doubt. When I assured him of its genuineness he exclaimed, "It is a marvellous autograph. I could not be certain about it. How it will all please Mrs. Eyre!" W. asks now, "Did I give it any such touch? I could not have thought it myself." I picked up a picture off the floor—a copy of the same plate, autographed very much in the same way—saying to W., "See! Here is one—it is remarkably like the other." And the thing seemed rather to impress him. "That is a fortunate head all through—is mystic—a touch of shadow, of indefinability." Was touched to have me repeat some things said by Miss Porter. "It lifts us way up—it makes us feel our rights!" Nothing found in Herald yet. W. "satisfied either way." Record paltry and not amounting to anything definite. Yet W. insists, "It is substantially true—though it has a bit of black."

     We were speaking of the use of foreign words. "They seem to give a music we do not always or mainly get in the English. Amy—that is from a French name—A-M-I-E"—spelling—"and fine, that way, with the e syllabled." I hit upon Marie, and W. continued, "Yes, that too! The Germans use that, and not them alone—in Russia they speak of Roos-see-a, which I think full of music. Italia? Certainly, that also, and the Italian, anyway, top to bottom." Then again, "I believe in adopting all we can—music and all. If I have the trick of music —verbal music—at all, I owe it to the great singers, actors: they were my teachers—I sat under their influence. Have I adopted many? Am I accused of many? I don't think many . There is camerado, and my great word, Presidentiad"—with a laugh—"which some don't think

     We spoke of impressive hours at theater and opera. W. saying, "You know 'Lucia' well—I am sure you do. You remember Edgardo (isn't it Edgardo?)—how, when he has the scene with her over the letter, the promise of marriage—and he grasps her by the wrist, holds her at arm's length—asks her if she wrote the letter. It is thrilling. And she is so frightened by his display of passion, she hesitates—and he then the more stirred, continuing his hold with one hand and exhibiting the letter in the other." Here W. leaned way out of his chair—his gray hair shaken, his eye bright with fire, his voice deep and full of music. "And then he says to her several times—only the one word: 'Respondez! Respondez!' And she thereupon admits, 'I wrote it! Yes! I wrote it!' Then the bag bursts—he turns about and sings the very devil's rage, sorrow." W. ending in a laugh, resuming thus, "But it is so, in a word often, that the whole act is vibrant!" I had been saying that Italian was music even where a word was not understood and W. asseverated, "It is! It is! And no one with more memory and conviction of it than Walt Whitman!" Then I described to him the opening scene of Salvini's "Gladiator," W. exclaiming, as if moved by my recital, "Vital, throbbing, with the very rush, flow, flood—yes, blood of life! Oh! I see it—see it all!"

Wednesday, October 28, 1891

     Bucke forwards me letters from Ingersoll and Baker. W. says of the first, "How strong, manly, direct, that is! Like a sweep of wind: straight to its mission! The Colonel dashes off his work as if mines and mines backed it up—as indeed they must. And health abounds in him—not a word but that is vital and to its aim. That may be called model letter-writing, if model comes in anywhere." And pleased to hear the Colonel's praise of Bucke's address because he had himself flattered and told Bucke that this was Bucke's best piece of work so far. And as to Baker's letter, "That is a beauty, too. And brings us the best news. I am glad to have seen them—both of them." And W. remarks, "It is wonderful how these fellows preserve their nature, individuality, in the very swim and surge of conventionality and affairs." W.'s fire throwing out flames and odor (the flame playing its game of hide-and-seek on the western wall), and the pile of wood reduced some already. "I feel the medicine of the wood. It is the next best thing to being in the forest." W. asked, "You have not seen Wallace this afternoon?" "No, but Warrie tells me he is in the kitchen, sipping his tea, waiting for me." W.: "Is he? Why, that's natural and pretty of him! The good Wallace!" Then, "You will go up together? Yes? And I have given him his books for the boys—all autographed, endorsed." A few words about tariff again, "I endorse all that anybody can say against it"—provoked by feeling that Wallace may have to pay some duty in England on his books. And in a laughing protesting way, "Wallace says you have driven your stakes around him, so he can't sail till Wednesday of next week. He will find plenty to do here, his few extra days."

     Monday evening I dictated to Wallace a number of notes about W.'s friends whose names (and names alone) the Bolton fellows mainly know. Wallace pleased—I shall continue them. W. himself expresses his "gratification"—advises me to "go on, pack him full—when he gets home, not a line but he'll cherish!" Edwin Arnold lectures in Philadelphia next week. Did W. expect him over? "I wonder? I wonder?" he reflected (as if not to me, particularly), but would not say more, except in the way of inquiry as to his subject, etc. He complained a good deal of his "bad day" and of the fact that somehow he felt "a growing lethargy, deathiness." As I left, W. gave me a brief postal to mail to Bucke.

     I did not stay to worry him. Off with J.W.W. to 537. He is in very happy mood. The sunset and its after-glow (after-gold, and the cloudless blue sky) moved him to admiration—yes, adoration. They did not have such nights in England. "We have our own sunsets, but they are not like these. I watched the sky from the boat while coming over this afternoon." After tea I had to go to Philadelphia to Ethical Culture Society meeting, and left Wallace to do his work and will about home as he chose. He will absolutely go on Wednesday.

     When I returned, towards midnight, I heard J.W.W. snoring lustily.

Thursday, October 29, 1891

     4:40 P.M. W. yesterday said to me, "Yes, go to the Ledger building—take Wallace—meet Childs if you can. I won't give you a letter, but you can say you are from me—and you may give him my good word and tell him he is often in my thoughts as I sit here in my den."

     Today as I entered (his dinner finished) he was reading local papers. In very good mood. Wallace had taken lunch with Morris, Anne and me at the Bullitt Building—there telling me he had been in to see W. in the morning and found him not very well. Enjoyed dinner every way—Anne and J.W.W. leaving

     Then away—later on to Tioga (the Fels) where I found Wallace and Anne—who, with Mrs. Fels and Mrs. Gilbert had quite a drive from which Wallace was much exhilarated. Home and to bed midnight. Wallace showed me yesterday's notes. Very interesting. We talked matters over—for instance, this: whether we would say anything to Johnston about my notes—thought he would , yet having some doubt still. I gave him caution. Wallace wants to have W. drive out but considers it doubtful. Desires to see Pea Shore. I shall try to take him.

Friday, October 30, 1891

     After leaving W. I took haste to Harned's. W. had said, "Give them all my love there—the baby and all. Yes, my dearest love. And tell Tom, anyhow, to come and see me."

     Harned not home to tea. I to Philadelphia at 7:30 and back by 10:45—and from this hour till 12 sat with Wallace going on with the Whitman vignettes.

     Morris took W. peaches today.

     W. said, "Yes, I knew John Bigelow—met and talked with him quite often—a big fellow."

Saturday, October 31, 1891

     Last night Miss Porter asked me for some address to the study class of the Browning Club (Philadelphia) on the naturalism of Walt Whitman. I left the matter open—would not absolutely reject, neither say the "yes" she wished. But I am tempted to try my hand on the question. Miss Porter has been solicitous to use my Whitman-Lowell paper. Wrote me about it—date 27th. But I have it in rough notes and could not meet her ideas of time. She is willing to let it lay over.

     Law wrote me (16th) [re a letter from James W. R. Collins requesting all the editions of Whitman's Burns articles, to be sent to W. C. Angus, the "great Burns man in Glasgow"]. But as there are no varied or complex editions of the Burns, Law, advising with me, later, one day where I met him, made up his mind to so report. Johnston writes me very lovingly (14th)—announces sending me copies of Great Thoughts for Wallace, W. and H.L.T. Gave them about as advised. W.: "Glad to see it, if for no more than to know what it offers. One does not, must not, take all offerings." I also have a letter from Johnston dated 21st—much of it about Wallace—and seemingly bright with hope and love for him and gladness that he prolonged his stay:

     Out, rapidly stopping by the way at Harned's. Thomas not home. He had expected to go with us. Some talk with T.B.H. with whom we engaged to dine Monday afternoon. Then to the country—arriving at Pea Shore about nightfall—the sun casting its last red light. The waters still—licking up the sand—the light receding—the day about done. We gazed out on the broad waters with silent lips. I recalled a long past—then broke into some reminiscence concerning W. We gathered some grasses standing at the shore-side. Solemn thought—the shadows thickened. Wallace said by and by, "The red is all gone out." We turned with moved hearts from the scene and drove home through the arriving night. Wallace wrapt in the hour, the occasion. Wallace and Warren took a drive down for the packing-box. When Wallace was back we went on for an hour with the vignettes.

Sunday, November 1, 1891

     Wallace went with us to hear Salter. Mrs. Gilbert and Joe over all night. Salter late—audience dismissed. So finally reading his beautiful lecture to about fifty people. Wallace much attracted—thought the address eloquent, noble. As a postscript I introduced J.W.W. and Salter and they had some pleasant chat together—Wallace remarking his interest in Salter through the Conservator and Salter his in Wallace through the Lippincott's report. It was a very happy meeting—the two such good faces. Were to have a walk in the afternoon. Went to Dooner's for dinner—Wallace, Gilbert and H.L.T. Talk of the trip—of the plans. I advised Wallace to go Tuesday early and try to get a glimpse of Ingersoll. I would give him a note of introduction. From Dooner's to Camden and W.'s.

     2:15 P.M. Reached W.'s. Warrie not home. Upstairs immediately. Mrs. Davis had admitted us. I had these words on my lips as I entered, "Here are all the pilgrims!" W. looked up from his paper, "Welcome pilgrims! Welcome Horace! And you, Wallace, too. Ah! and you, sir," to Gilbert, whom he then saw and whose

     I told W. I wished Wallace to step in and meet Ingersoll—that I would give him a letter. W. thereupon, "Yes, do so." Then turning to Wallace to say, "You ought to see him in one of his great splurges—in his speechifying, on the platform. It is a sight—yes, a hearing—to remember!" Then with a warmth and fire of convicting speech went on to this effect, "Ingersoll? Oh! He's a great growth—a superb, natural specimen—in humanity, in literature, in criticism, in speculation, in outright expression, mobility (yes, in the use of English itself—the pure stream!), in thought, in progress, in all that go with, belong to, these, his the top of the heap, the top of all heaps. His ideals and ideas of civilization are magnificent beyond comparison. I know no other anywhere to even come in sight of it. Magnificence—yes, with here and there a horrible whim, fancy, humor, the devil's own! His spirit is vast, expansive, expanding. It lifts you, it is like a mighty stream, like a geyser at Yosemite, giving everything, in a great flood—good, bad, everything—a wealth of vision, music, in him, too, and freedom —freedom to say all he thinks, sees, believes. In these directions, in his manhood—his port, personality—probably, undoubtedly, incomparable. Most of our fellows give of what they imbibe from libraries, books—what men have written, said. Ingersoll? No, never that —nothing of the kind. Ingersoll is vast, big—as a tree, a great plant. Probably there nowhere exists a rounder, saner sample, a more vehement spirit, than Bob Ingersoll—full of faults, mistakes—full of splendor, justice, truth—sweet to me, to us, by the rich out-throw of his manhood—his superb, all-breathing health—physiological, spiritual—a delver not in books, fancies, but in natural processes, elements."

     We were greatly moved by this outburst. Wallace remarked that he had never read anything of Ingersoll's except the Whitman lecture. W. as to that (with a laughing merry musical tone), "That's largely a pouring out of his emotional nature—

     Wallace spoke to W. about a possible ride tomorrow. W. said, "We will have to wait till tomorrow comes—to wait to see what it will bring with it. Sometimes it is the worst ." Then turning to me, "The New York papers have me dead—or substantially so. They have been driving hot and fast in each other with dark stories: the worst of which is, that the prospects ahead are not cheery." I announced, "I am already preparing for your next birthday." W. seriously, "I would not do so. By next birthday I shall occupy the house out there"—throwing his hand east, as if to welcome Harleigh and its asylum. Still we laughed down his fears and said we would go on. "The college is to send a representative," I remarked, Wallace then protesting mildly and W. saying, "We will not be complete without them." Still inquiring about O'Connor's book. Not out at date.

     W. offered to mix us some porter sang, which he did skillfully. Put some water in jug—washed it—had me pour contents into the bowl. Mixed the drink with a pencil—tasted it twice right out of the jug. Finally it was passed around, a loving cup: Whitman, Wallace, Gilbert, H.L.T. I was going to leave a bit for J.W.W. but W. exclaimed, "No, you finish it, Horace." Laughed a good deal when reminded of the drink he had mixed for Morris.

     He held the mug up. "See this? Isn't it nice? Warrie gave this to me—it was a present from Warrie," and he lifted and dropped the hinged cover to show us its manipulation. "Many a good brew in this ," he said. "It was Egg Harbor I just gave you." I told him that in Reisser's Rathskellar were hundreds such mugs spread up the wall. My description as I went on moved him. "What a good place to go to! You ought to take Wallace there." "I would if he had time." "Well," with a twinkle, looking towards Wallace, "well, there are good boats next Saturday!" Wallace, however, "I have my passage engaged, Mr. Whitman—I have put it off long enough." Yet was amused and laughing himself. Finally we had to say our good-bye. We were out for a long walk, W. saying, "I enviges you!" This reminded me to say, "Wallace tells me you used enviges on a postal or in a letter and they took it for a French word!" This excited W. to great merriment, "To think of that! Don't you know your own authors? You have been neglected, sure enough!" We wished he could go along. "So do I—if I did go, I would be the wildest, gayest of you all!"

     Out and away. Reached Morris' at 3:45. Longaker already there. Off at once—into the Park—up to the Falls bridge east—across and down the western side—fine talk by the way and brisk walk. Wallace along with the liveliest—taking supper at Gilbert's (Mrs. G., Anne, Wallace, Gilbert, H.L.T.). A merry time. Wallace increasedly good at story-telling. Not to bed, Camden, till midnight. Wallace says, "I have given up hope of full rest till I get off to sea."

     Note: W. spoke of Rome to Wallace. "He is one of the best Scotch samples—rugged, true, temperate, sane, simple—every way." Circumstantially spoke, too, of one of his old companions, "Hop John—a good fellow, out of German stock."

Monday, November 2, 1891

     W. remarks now, "Horace, I am opposed to Warrie's going over with Wallace. Wallace ought to go alone—ought to be free of all that—anything like encumbrances. With Warrie with him, he would feel tied, if only out of simple courtesy— both would in fact feel this. Wallace will go to the Colonel—will want to be alone. Yes! I am in favor of his seeing Colonel Bob—only, he must not expect too much of it. It will glimpse him something, no more. To see a man like that first, once, is like getting a first look at the sea: it may fill you, but you barely take it in. Nevertheless Wallace will wake to some new things if he has a chance at the Colonel—even a few minutes." Adding that "of course the Colonel, with his luminous speech, is more apt to reveal a part of himself, first lick, than an inarticulate fellow."

     At one moment he had great difficulty in hearing me and said, "My deafness increases—I seem to get worse and worse—almost a daily change perceptible."

     Told W. I hoped to gather some of the fellows at Penn Club reception and take them away to give J.W.W. a good-bye. "A splendid idea! If only I could be with you! I'd be the wildest one of the lot!" And after a slight pause, "Good will! That is the word. If I were with you I should toast: 'Our friend Wallace here is here in demonstration first of all of good will: international good will.

     7:40 P.M. Evening. Supper at Harned's—a good time. Anne and Wallace coming in rather late—delayed in their packing. Wallace said his farewell to W.—had kissed him and rushed out, as he said, crying so that "people on the streets must have thought I was an idiot." From this time on, blue—or a streak bluish—yet full of his grateful cheer, for all things said and done for him. I gave him the Record—read them the passage, which they thought rather remarkable, certainly happy. Wallace much amused at the Post's mention of him as an English literary light. "That is the best thing yet—I should like to take that home as a curiosity." He had been in to see Bonsall and "had a good talk, though not a long one." Wallace much liking Harned. "He is a frank, manly man," and his straightforward ways a charm. We left for Philadelphia about 7:30—stopping in by the way at W.'s—going straight to Brinton's (2041 Chestnut—now his townhouse) where we spent a full hour, talking about Russia—the Russian treatment of the Jews—questions of freedom in Europe. Brinton full of ideas—loaded with information. Had things to say about Col. Eglitz's book of which he had written me from Berlin. Will give us ideas of that before Ethical Society. Afterward to Penn Club together—along with us Captain Nelson, I was told one of Stanley's lieutenants in Africa (staying with Brinton for a season).

     At Club introduced Wallace to Eakins, O'Donovan, Stoddart, Stoddart's son, Eyre. Arnold escaped before we could get forward for a word—a great jam. The Mayor (Stuart) there—

     Stoddart wishes to get over to see W. I told Stoddart I would soon have a manuscript ready for him. He responded, "Bring it along." Find him not abandoning the idea of the new magazine. Discussed Julian Hawthorne, Stoddart thinking as I did that Julian was handicapped by Nathaniel's fame. All these fellows strangely loyal to Walt Whitman, but, I notice, none of them rating Sir Edwin very high. Sir E. very busy with reporters: looks as if he liked to talk himself into notice.

     Wallace is packing goods. We discussed the details of his trip. Are trying to arrange a cipher for cable. He will take my O'Connor picture, reproduce it there. Sunday used four plates on us as a group in the backyard—Anne, Mrs. Gilbert, Joe, H.L.T. Has photo of the house and of W.'s two Steven Street houses. Has accumulated a lot of books. Warrie's "sailor" box sturdy enough, with hinges, lid and key. Warrie had brought a thick rope which will not be needed. Wallace tells me how his notes have failed him, day by day, their necessary completeness.

     A few words here about our run in on W. on the way to Philadelphia (evening). I upstairs first. Wallace rather averse, having said his good-bye, but I called it his "annex" farewell, which excited W.'s hearty laughter. W. himself called out, "Come up, Tom! Come up, Wallace!" Wallace waited in the hallway a minute to talk with Warrie about tomorrow's trip and found W. had already settled it with Warrie that he had better stay at home. Supreme delicacy! Wallace relieved. It saved him from having anything on his own part to say to Warren. Meantime Tom was in the room and W. questioning him about business, etc. Tom had given the boy up there a set of Cooper. W. exclaimed, "Good, Tom! It will do him good! Cooper is an influence, like a breath off the sea, like a fresh wind, like the

     We all shook hands and went out in the hallway. I turned quickly to J.W.W. "Go back—kiss him." "I said good-bye this afternoon." "Go again—go kiss him." He looked at me a flash, then darted back in the room, I closing the door and leaving him alone with W. Harned and I started off at once and before we reached the third street corner, Wallace came running after. He whispered to me—his voice full of feeling, "I did it. But I did it this afternoon, too!"

Tuesday, November 3, 1891

     W. "wondered" if J.W.W. would be "breaking out into speech" over there in England. "If he had a voice," said W., "he might be able to do some good work over there. He has gone back with substantial fruits. But he has no voice, no voice at all: his voice is always husky, hollow." But he could tell a good story, I insisted. "No doubt—his quickness, perception, is all right, very cute. And his language is unexceptionable. All that would be in his favor, if he had a way of benefitting by it, but the voice—oh! it is against him, every way." Told W. the name of the paper I am asked to read at one of the Browning Club meetings: "The Naturalism of Walt Whitman." W. exclaimed, "I would like to hear about that myself! That is one of the mysteries." And asked me, "You will do it for them?" "Perhaps." "I should say—do it." "But it is rather out of my line." "What, to speak?" "Yes." "Oh! jump overboard. I notice you always do swim."

     World reporter in to see W. today, W. thinking, "I am reported over in New York about at my last gasp—yes, about at the last. But here I am. But Julius Chambers has sent their Philadelphia man (I think it is the Philadelphia man) to inquire." Then with a twinkle of the eye, "I suppose when the time does come for me to slip cable, it will be to surprise them

     Telling W. that O'Donovan had asked Stoddart up to see the bust, I told him also of a little talk I had with Stoddart about it. Stoddart remarked, "How would it do for us to chip in and buy it?" "You haven't seen it?" "No." "Don't you think it would be wise to see it before you buy it?" He laughed, "Then you don't like it?" "I didn't like it a month ago. I haven't seen it since." W. laughed heartily, "That was very bright—a splendid reply, conclusive, I should say, Horace—and the right word, too, in the right place. Yes, I think Joe had better see it before he buys it!" And as to all our transactions with Wallace, "It was a good send-off: he will remember it more than a few days. It is a good deal merely to have met Brinton."

     Harned tells us of reporters—two of them—who rung him up out of his bed Saturday to ask about the rumor of a dark turn in Walt Whitman's condition. They remarked that a carriage had driven madly to the door and away again—for doctors, etc., it was presumed. Harned had replied, "I know all about that carriage, for I was invited to take a ride in it—and besides, it was here at my door for some time. As for Whitman, why, he even intended going with us, but at the last moment decided not." This all excited W.'s laughter—the heartiest. "You see, they will have me dead or dying, whatever I may do."

     Stoddart has another girl to bring over to see W., who says, "Let them come, I am here to receive them—it is about all I can do these days."

Wednesday, November 4, 1891

     I told W. I had the idea to make my new piece—"Walt Whitman and Some of His Comrades." He then, "A good idea, very good. And a good lick for William in it? William O'Connor?" Did he think the New England Magazine article too personal, revelative? "Oh! No! I felt no trespass whatever. Go on in that strain and I shall not object—may even help you." And now, "Wallace did not see the Colonel. I regret it, for his sake. But it cannot be helped. Election day knocked it all out." I wondered if W. had carefully read today's papers (election, etc.) and found he had. "I did not vote"—with a twinkle. "My time is completely over. I am too much of age ."

     Had he seen this in the Post?

     Walt Whitman doesn't run to rhyme, yet Sir Edwin Arnold in his visit here told his brother bard that he had translated and printed the

     Called my attention to a letter from Kennedy. "Sloane complains I do not write. I suppose I do not. But he deserves my best good will." And on another tack, "I intended sending Bucke the Record but have lost it. But I sent one applausive San Francisco paper. Oh! This was warm as any—from an unknown hand." I promised to get W. copy of Record and send to Doctor. Reference to Emerson, "He was wonderful in his many-sided vision: would see everything, every person, in a complete series of experience, from all points of view."

Thursday, November 5, 1891

     8:00 P.M. Light up full—W. on bed. Talked with usual voice—seemed interested—yet remained in bed while I stayed. Fire nearly out—room comfortable enough, however. W. asked me to "stir up the embers," which I did, and soon secured a roaring flame and excess of heat. But he had no idea there was any extreme in this, nor can he have felt it. Warrie in and to and fro as we talked. I got copy of big book for McKay, whom I saw and who ordered same; and took it home and numbered it. No numbered copies remaining with W. I am keeping accounts of these books now. W. reminded that a copy sent for a week ago had been sent and no item of it given me. Took now. W. greatly interested in Stoddart's proposed magazine—new one. "I should like to get a fly at it at the new prices." I had a letter from Henry George. W. admired "the simple plain hand," it showing "a direct mind"—bursting then into a laugh, "I would not like to assert that connection always."

     Wallace leagues off. "A good start," says W., "a great lift of sea already passed." Woodhullclaften [?] people have been sending him more pamphlets. "I did no more than open them. I am like to be drowned down by literary odds and ends. Everybody unloads on me." Some news of disturbance in Brazil, but W. says, "I am not afraid it is serious, though to be sure I wince at

     Jastrow tells me more about Strong (London)—a co-worker with Müller and Renan—an enthusiastic Orientalist and Whitmanite. W. asks, "And he said Strong cottoned to us?" Clifford remarks the tendency in exchanges got at Times to joke over W.'s tomb. W. says, "It has a grim background. But before long it will justify its builder." What did he mean? I wanted to hear more. He only said, "It is a thing not to be disputed about, of course," and left it.

     McKay tells me Brinton was surprised (upon asking) to find how small was the sale of Walt Whitman's book. McKay wishes to bring his children over to see W., saying W. always asks, "Well, how about the babies, Dave? You have never brought them to see me yet." As to Scott's visit long ago Dave explained, "The reason for his silence was in something I said." What was that? "Oh! When we got there we found that Walt had been in bad condition. Scott at first protested that he would not go up at all, but finally went, on my assurance that he might as well go up and sit there and see the old man while we did our business together." It shows the force and aim of W.'s intuition that he knew something was up with the visitor. Wished me to get an order from Dave and go to Bennerman for a set of sheets of new pages. "I have met both the Bennermans—the father and son. Like the son better than the father—he is more obliging, more apt to look after your comfort. Would give a fellow greater freedom. But both are good: I must not complain." Of Dave and their several troubles over the book, "Dave deleted a couple of copies from our last settlement—declared he knew nothing about them, and I guess he did not. But I am as sure I gave them to him, that he owed me for them, as that we are here together

     James Wallace, an English gentleman who has just returned home after visiting Walt Whitman, expresses the utmost enthusiasm over our exhilarating fall weather. It was a revelation to him, and to use his own exclamation, filled him with a sense of lightness and brightness he will recall whenever he remembers America. We don't know what good things we have here until strangers acquaint and impress us with our physical advantages.
W. said, "Harry is steadfast—gives evidence of it, day by day."

Friday, November 6, 1891

     I told W. that no one at McKay's remembered the book last week. First he asked, "Is that so?" After which he remarked, "Then it must have been a dream," adding, "But if it was a dream it was a real one." Said he had sent the book to Prof. Hale (the Garland book) "care of Garland."

     Wallace up, W. "hoping" he is safe. Counted on his fingers, "Let's see, he's been out one, two—oh! nearly three days—it means a great deal." He had a letter from Johnston, "but it did not seem to give us any new points." I asked him more specifically about the Cooper novels he had touched upon Monday. "Yes, I meant 'The Prairie,' 'The Pilot,' 'The Spy,' 'The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish,' yes, with 'The Last of the Mohicans' added to make a fifth. 'The Pathfinder'—do you remember that? It is descriptive enough, but devilish dull. Did you find it so? But Cooper is always a stirring breath of fresh air, full of buoyant worth, genius." Spoke of George Sand as "a wonderful woman, cute beyond her time."

Saturday, November 7, 1891

     Longaker over today. W. asked when we got up to leave, "Are you going right home? Ah! I wish I had something here to send to Anne!" Looked about—brushed his hand on the papers on the table. "I guess I'll have to pass her this time, darling girl! All the fruitses and candies are gone, and everything else! Give her my love, anyway."

Sunday, November 8, 1891

     Did not see W. today. Several notes left out yesterday. Spoke tenderly of Wallace and of his trip and some hope that "things would all go right." Curiously always addresses Gilbert as "Sir." Room fearfully hot, and when I remarked it, W. said, "I am not in the least conscious of it." No doubt was not. Warrie said last night, "He had his room so hot, and it made me so drowsy, that I almost fell asleep while I was rubbing him."

     W. said to me of Young, "I would get to know him. He is a healthy influence—a fine specimen, every way, with instincts of a man. I find myself having a warm pull for such men." He described Major Pond to me as "large, of a more or less impressive look," but demonstrated no warmth. Remarked Arnold's description of the Japanese, "Perhaps the most important fact in that connection is Young's agreement: John has fully as warm an admiration of the Japanese as Arnold."

Monday, November 9, 1891

     Speaking about the beauty of the days, W. added, "Isn't it a touch of Indian summer? And yet I haven't seen the haze —that beautifullest accompaniment!" And so he talked of that in a poetic, almost pathetic, strain for a little while. After which, as I was about to go, he called out, "Wait a minute, Horace—I have written Dave to say, if it is not too late, I should like him to wipe out 1891-2 from the title-page and put in its stead 1892 simply. The thing as I had it did well enough three months ago but now has a queer look, the whole thing having lally-gagged so horribly, for no apparent reason, and bringing us, anyhow, practically right upon the new year. And if you can get the sheets tomorrow, get them (the new sheets). In my prison here"—W. laughed merrily—"every message brought me these days has an interest—even the letters of the autographers. And these sheets will particularly gratify me, for they will finally, at the last, make me feel secure in my last plans. But I need not get garrulous with you, and about this—you who have travelled all these ways with me and know them as well as I do." But as I closed the doors I heard his voice, "Get the sheets, if you can!"

Tuesday, November 10, 1891

     Bush writes me of some long Whitman matter in Sunday's Herald. W. knew nothing of this, but "Joe Howard has sent me a big batch of stuff from the Recorder—his own: taking up three jolly men, or good-natured men (I think that's it!), Walt Whitman being one of them. I am getting into all sorts of masquerades, you see. And not always in the way of the imbecilities." I can see that he is annoyed by the Press story more and more. "It is one of the misfortunes I have learned to bear, but I hate it like the devil." But "life is not all bad, not all good—is bundled close, a mass of passions, lights, shades." Here, for example, was "an old Brooklynite—an anti-slavery man, I think—Thaddeus Hyatt," who had sent him today $25. "I have written him an acknowledgment. Noble, noble man! These are flowers—tender, appealing salutations, as we go along—aromas of true hearts." And again, "It touched me, the sweet unsolicited remembrance."

     Warrie came in while I sat there, took up the mail from the table—but at W.'s suggestion gave it to me. "Horace will as well take it—is going up that way." Two letters (one for Mrs. Heyde, the other Hyatt's)—two papers. I went over to the washstand—groped about for a match—but just as I did so, the fire in the stove shot out increased light. I laid down the match—went to the middle of the room. "I have a letter to read you, Walt!" "Eh! Who from?" "From the Colonel—from him to Bucke. Bucke

     Suggestions picturesque. Several times W. interrupted, asked me to re-read lines (I could see him on the bed—his eyes open). When I was done exclaiming, "How magnificent that is! How the Colonel is coming out in his old days. I need not say, I do not agree with it, but it is splendid, yes, splendid. Full of heart—vibrant. And conclusive, too, starting from his individuality. I can see how necessary that view is—how infinitely it carried weight and meaning with it. I am more and more impressed with the enrichening of the Colonel's nature, with the conviction that he grows—grows—grows with every day, sending feelers out into richer soils, under deeper seas. I want you to send him my love for that letter when you write." And he said something about "Ingersoll's splendid affirmations." I laughed slightly. He asked, "What do you laugh at?" "Why, everybody else, all the pious bodies and even broad-clothed liberals declare there's no affirmation in Ingersoll." W. took the thread up with vigor, "Bosh! All bosh, I can assure 'em. I remember that man Richardson, at London. We sat one day on Doctor's porch there. Richardson vehemently condemning Ingersoll. What! Would I apologize for Ingersoll, for his heresies, for his rough hand—the hand which would rob the world of its best comforts, its shrines, all it had to yield left any value—and give no substitutes, nothing but emptiness, vacancy—would I, Walt Whitman, enter the lists for this ? Which he seemed to think conclusive—and perhaps new—unanswerable, anyway. But after thrust and parry and play and a good deal of real fire, my own wind up was positive enough. Namely this: But, Mr. Richardson, after all we can say—you or I, or anyone—isn't the real question whether your doctrines are true, not whether they are comfortable ? And isn't our friend, the Colonel—'Bob' Ingersoll—isn't he after truth, with the rest of us: what else is his question but my question and yours?"

     Johnston's World question had been to ask whether it was true that W. could not even rise without the assistance of a nurse? "Shall I tell Johnston that when we can no more rise, we

     I read W. a letter from Mrs. Fairchild. "What a noble cheery woman—she always lifts me way up, sort 'o in loving arms—what a birth is the care of woman!"

     Of Bush's Sunday note W. had many pleasant words to say—of Bush's "simple ways," again and of "the reminder of brother Jeff—dear Jeff."

     Was to see "The Rivals" tonight—Jefferson, Florence, Mrs. Drew in cast. W. exclaimed, "That will be glad, that takes me back in my past—into the New York days—the Park (old Park) Theatre!" And, "I wish I could go with you: it would stretch my old legs!" I had sheets of new pages for him, and left them. He was pleased. Asked me if I thought Ingersoll would deliver his Shakespeare lecture here? I hoped he would. Would W. go? He was bright instantly, "If I could! If I could! Do you know, Horace, I feel somehow as if I must get out of this room: I sleep in it, wake in it. I live my days through here—get nowhere (to the washroom, nowhere else). Here is light and darkness—no sunshine but the little that creeps in here in spite of the walls. And it is a curious question, problem. I am between two fires. I don't feel inclined to go out yet want to go—if you can understand such a contradiction." He laughed, "Anyway, it is a puzzle: I don't give it up, neither do I settle it."

     Is inquiring again about William Swinton, "I wish I could hear a little about him, and about John, too. William is a complex fellow—has swayed over to the side of worldliness long and long—is confirmed there (dropt there). But a healthy, solid sort of nature, too. And lovable, however you put it." "William suffers from insomnia," I said to W. "That English horror!" exclaimed W. "I think it is more persistent there than here, even." And when I spoke of dreamless nights my own, W. exclaimed, "How grand! It is a report, the best! None nowhere, nohow, better!"

     Among papers to mail, stamp came from one—blew off on street. I picked it up. Clerk at Post Office said, "I'll put it on

Wednesday, November 11, 1891