With Walt Whitman in Camden vol. 5 (1964)

     

EDITOR'S PREFACE

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

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

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

GERTRUDE TRAUBEL

Germantown, Philadelphia
May, 1963

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

     [ Frontispiece ]

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

     [ Between pages 242-243 ]

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

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

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

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

     Gabriel Sarrazin
Courtesy of Bernard Sarrazin

     Hamlin Garland
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Alice (Alys) Smith
Courtesy of Mrs. Barbara Halpern

     Robert Pearsall Smith
From the collection of Charles E. Feinberg

     Edward Wilkins
Courtesy of Gertrude Traubel

     Geoffrey Buckwalter
Courtesy of Mrs. Ruth S. Evans

LETTERS CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME

(Including Other Manuscripts of Walt Whitman)

Monday, April 8, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, April 9, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, April 10, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, April 11, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, April 12, 1889

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

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

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

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

Saturday, April 13, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, April 14, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, April 15, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, April 16, 1889

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

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

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

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

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

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

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