The worry of Ruskin1—he has at various times sent to me for six sets of my ($10, two Vol. ) centennial Edition2—& sent the money for them—with Leaves of Grass is that they are too personal, too emotional, launched from the fires of myself, my spinal passions, joys, yearnings, doubts, appetites &c &c.—which is really what the book is mainly for, (as a type however for those passions, joys, workings &c in all the race, at least as shown under modern & especially American auspices)—Then I think he winces at what seems to him the Democratic brag of L. of G.—I have heard from R several times through English visitor friends of his—It is quite certain that he has intended writing to me at length—& has doubtless made draughts of such writing—but defers & fears—& has not yet written—R like a true Englishman evidently believes in the high poetic art of (only) making abstract works, poems, of some fine plot or subject, stirring, beautiful, very noble, completed within their own centre & radius, & nothing to do with the poet's special personality, nor exhibiting the least trace of it—like Shakspere's great unsurpassable dramas. But I have dashed at the greater drama going on within myself & every human being—that is what I have been after3—
P.S. William, (as you seem to be destin'd to defend the banner) I say here once for all you have my permission to make any extracts, at any time, should you so like from any of my letters—
W W