Sunday, January 6, 1889.

Sunday, January 6, 1889.

2 P. M. Stopped in on my way to the city. All well there. W. sitting up writing "Critic Jan. 5, '89" on a number of the slips of poem to send off. Gave me one for Clifford, one for myself. On a book near the floor a bulky letter addressed to Kennedy. "I have been writing Sloane: sent a slip along: now am preparing one for Dr. Bucke." Speaking of poem: "I make no pretensions for it: I have not endeavored to pile on the agony: it must go for its own worth, much or little—no doubt little." W. said: "No art for arts sake." Then: "Let nature flow her own way: then leave the rest." Some one had wondered whether W. was "able to write". He laughed: "We might as well ask, can a duck swim?" Read the papers this morning. Handed me back The Stage. "I have gone through it from beginning to end." Also read Press and Record. Had been "thinking over memo for binder" but had "not achieved it yet." Would put out Dave's book so I could get it on my way over to the city to-morrow morning. Where was I going? Still storming: mist, rain: temperature mild. "As the book says, give my love to all inquiring friends." Alluded to a metal plate on the mantel. "It is a card-reciever: someone thought I should have a card-receiver and gave me that: the stamping is Rip Van Winkle—one of the episodes of the story: very good of its kind I suppose: of course I never used it—only put it on the mantel piece—kept it there." Took him back Kennedy's letter and Herald. W. said: "Sylvester did us up proud: we would not have done better ourselves." Was it getting colder? I thought so—very gradually, though mild now. "Anyhow I am prepared: just yesterday I laid in another cord of wood: a man with a cord of wood need not despair—need he?" Then: "I believe these rascally dealers in wood cut us short every time. A cord of wood lasted me nearly all last winter: this winter I have already used over a cord." He forgot that he lived downstairs last winter where he had a coal fire. But he resented my explanation. Insisted that the cords were short. Would give me copy of L. of G. for free library in Clifford's church. Harned has said nothing to me regarding the will—nor has W. I doubt if W. knows H. has it. W. probably thinks it there in the welter still if he thinks of it at all.

Found myself kicking an envelope about the floor: picked it up: marked Attorney General's Office"—date, 1865. W.: "Ah! that is very important. It is some notes on the Harlan matter—long preserved: I came across it again to-day." I said to W.: "They won't seem so important if they get kicked about the floor a few more years." He laughed—then was serious: "That 's sure enough: they should be put in some secure place." Then: "I'll put them away: see that they don't drift onto the floor again." I put in: "There 's only one secure place: you have no secure place here." "What do you mean?" I did not answer. He looked at me inquiringly. "Oh! I see: you mean you are the only secure place." He stopped. I still did not say anything. He spoke up again: "You ain't usually so infernal slow to say what you mean. I suppose you think you need n't say what I already know."

I was looking the documents over. There were four or five envelopes indicating his appointments under the government at Washington. W. said again: "Horace, I 've a mind to adopt you—to take you at your word: it looks to me, too, now, shaky as I am, uncertain as I am about the future, near the wind-up as I am: it looks to me, too, as if maybe it would be best for you to take this stuff and put it where you have put all the rest." "Do you supposed you 'll ever have an use for it?" He was very grave. "No—never: the time is rapidly coming when I'll have no use for anything." I said: "It would be a shame to have anything happen to this old document—your own story of the Harlan business: it would be a shame." W. nodded: "Probably, though you of course attach more importance to it than I do. Still, I can see how more or less valuable it is, going along as it may with the history of those times—with the fortuitous career of Leaves of Grass." Finally he said: "you will find in these envelopes a pretty clear account of my appointments and depointments—of my jobs, one after another, of the salaries attached, of dismissals, and so forth and so forth: most of it all is formally there. I don't know but you had best take it: but you must keep it within reach, so that if anything comes up that demands that stuff in evi- dence—the chance of it is remote—you can trot it out instanter." I was hoping he would say more. He only added: "I wish you would just arrange the documents in the order of their dates and read them to me."

I was in a hurry to get away. But rather than run the chance of putting the thing off to another time and having the precious letters lost again, maybe for good, I sat right down and commenced to read. I had a devil of a time with W.'s Otto story, it was so much interlined. The rest went along smoothly. W. interrupted me some as I proceeded. He said for one thing: "I would not have been mortal if I had not felt some resentment over my discharge at the time: but when a man like Harlan does a thing like that we find generally that he is sincere, often deadly sincere, though a fiercely impossible bigot. Humanistically speaking the Bible and Leaves of Grass are in every way compatible." "But between the Bible as a book used to put chains on people and Leaves of Grass as a book to take them off there is no compatibility whatever," I said. W. shook his forefinger at me: "It seems to me that whenever I start to say a good thing you take it right out of my mouth. It is your very worst habit: it gives my vanity, complacency, many a jar!" Then I said: "Well, do you want me to read or don't you?" "I want you to read, certainly: go ahead: read." So I went through the nine different papers in their order. W. said: "There may be several more papers that belong in that batch: indeed, I think they are: I don't know where they can be now: if, when, they turn up I will see that they are laid aside for you."

I asked W.: "Are they all the documents in the matter?" He said: "Yes: practically all: there may be an item or so which I have not tied together here. If they turn up I' ll see that they are given to you for preservation. One thing, Horace, about that Harlan matter: it 's history now: you don't need my story: another thing, Horace: don't ever assail Harlan as if he was a scoundrel: he wasn't: he was only a fool: there was only a dim light in his noodle: he had to steer by that light: what else could he do? Then, Horace, remember this too—that he was afterwards sorry for it: I have been told so by newspaper men: they knew him: out in the west—in his own country: he told them he thought it was a mistake: he was a bigot—that was all: yet he had the courage of his convictions: he did n't allow Ashton's eloquence to shake him: he threw me out: his heart said, throw Walt Whitman out: so out I went: I have always had a latent sneaking admiration for his cowardly despicable act"—he laughed: "After all, the meanest feature of it all was not his dismissal of me but his rooting in my desk in the dead of the night looking for evidence against me. What instinct ever drove him to my desk? He must have had some intimation from some one that I was what I was." As I left W. said: "We 'll talk of this again: be sure you put the documents in your safest place!"

This was one of the unusual occasions upon which I could see W. W. by daylight. Looked rosier than for some time: hand firmer, more vigorous: eye clearer. I did not stay after I had read the letters: was on my way to Philadelphia.