Sunday, July 8, 1888.

      [See indexical note p433.5] In at W.'s three times today. In the forenoon. At five P.M. In the evening. Day good until afternoon. Osler over in morning. Said: "Well, Mrs. Davis, I think your old man is better." Afterwards O. added: "It looks as though he would go all right through the summer in this way." W. not so sure. Said to Mrs. Davis: "I'm done for, Mary." "But you'll be better tomorrow." "I mean I'm all done for." "Nonsense." "Nonsense? I guess I know." [See indexical note p433.6] Osler is to go away. Will substitute Mitchell, J. K., Weir's son. "Ah! these doctors! after all, Horace, do they know much?" Again: "I love doctors and hate their medicine."

     Tom Donaldson over in the forenoon and saw W. W.

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said: "Eakins, I am told, is quite a Rabelaisian. [See indexical note p434.1] When I get better or well enough—on my feet again—I shall have him come over and talk while I listen. O'Connor, too, is full of Rabelais." I recalled the Stilwell letter. "It is very beautiful—very wholesome," I said. He remarked: "I hope wholesome is the word: I like to feel that the things I do are wholesome. [See indexical note p434.2] So you think the letter is wholesome?" After I had repeated myself he talked of it again: "I did a lot of that work in the hospitals: it was in a sense the most nearly real work of my life. Books are all very well but this sort of thing is so much better—as life is always better than books—as life in life is always superior to life in a book." I read the letter aloud—rather to myself than to him. I noticed that he listened intently. When I was through—parts of it put a shake into my voice—he said fervently: "I thank God for having permitted me to write that letter." [See indexical note p434.3] We were both silent after that. I then said: "I, too, thank God for having permitted you to write that letter—and others thank God, and others, and you could not count them all." "Do you say that, Horace? Thank God again, Horace!" The letter was drafted in pencil on Sanitary Commission paper. It was addressed to Julia Elizabeth Stilwell, South Norwalk, Connecticut, and was memorandumed as having been "sent Oct. 21, '63."

     W. speaks of L. of G. as "ours." Will say, for instance, of some one or other, "he is not our friend," or "he is favorably disposed towards us," or "we must face that criticism and see what it means to us," or "that is wrong—we must brave it down." [See indexical note p435.4] Always talks of "our portion"—ours, us, rarely says, mine. "This affair is our affair, not any one

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man's affair." Even speaks of November Boughs as "our" book. "Leaves of Grass is not one man's book but all men's book." [See indexical note p436.1] He got off on this sort of a strain, too: "You radical young fellows don't see it as I do—don't quite so plainly comprehend, concede, that it is best for any man to be tried by fire, to draw all the shot of the reactionaries, the wise conservatives and the fool conservatives, the asses in authority, the granitic stupidities of the average world. It all has its place—all. I, too, used to grow impatient, angry, about it, but now I want it all to be spoken, heard, passed upon: I want the full fire of the enemy. [See indexical note p436.2] If the work we try to do cannot stand up against the total opposition we may be sure we have gone off on a false scent." As to L. of G.: "It does not seem like my book—it is your book, too: anybody's book who chooses to claim it." "Leaves of Grass stands for a movement—a new-born soul—the Adamic democracy: is significant (if significant at all) as affecting a world, not simply an American, purpose. [See indexical note p436.3] I always contemplated meeting with opposition—I invited it. The other fellows don't understand me or I don't understand them or both. I guess something—a lot—can be said on the conservative side: my contention is not that much cannot be said but that after it is all said I have a bigger option to offer." Again: "Leaves of Grass may be only an indication—a forerunner—a crude offender against the usual canons—a barbaric road-breaker—but it still has a place, a season, I am convinced. [See indexical note p436.4] What is that place? that season? I don't know—I give up guessing." I copy the letter from William Michael Rossetti given me by W. day before yesterday.

      [See indexical note p437.5] "When Burroughs was abroad," said W., "he went once to see Rossetti—the first visit—they did not seem altogether to hit it—were not in the right mood to mix up pleasantly: I could never quite make it out: I know it could not have been John's fault—I know it could not have been Rossetti's fault—probably it was nobody's fault. Sometimes our tem-

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peratures don't exactly get adjusted. [See indexical note p438.1] That Rossetti family was and is a remarkable one—steeped in finished soil—cultivated, rich in its yield—perhaps a little too refined, too delicate, for the brush, break, of this tumultuous world. As I said to you yesterday the best thing about all these fellows—yes, about any fellows—is the noble quality of their love. When some people were here awhile ago and one of them said he was sorry I was poor I made a kick. Who was poor? Not I. [See indexical note p438.2] I thought of just a few of the fellows—William, John, Dowden, Symonds, others: thought of them—the thought of them almost choked me with gladness. Was I poor? Others may be deceived because I have no money in the bank: I am not deceived."

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