W. in somewhat depressed mood. [See
indexical note p187.4] Physically depressed. He says: "I never get entirely down in the mouth—I do not seem to have any scare in me—but I am wide awake to the fact of my gathering physical disabilities. It don't take an expert weather prophet to see some storms coming." In rather humorous mood, too. For he said: "I have another letter from an adviser today. It's queer how the advisers
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spring up everywhere like mushrooms. I used to think God was everywhere. I was wrong: the adviser is everywhere!" [See
indexical note p188.1] "I suppose the best thing for you to do would be to throw the Leaves all away and make a new start. You might call your advisers together in a sort of parliament: they could instruct you by resolution: then we could have a new Leaves according to order." W. laughed for him a big laugh. He is a quiet laugher as a rule. "That's a striking idea—I can see the solemn assemblage—the big crowd of delegates. [See
indexical note p188.2] Call Walt Whitman to the bar! Here you, Walt Whitman—Know you by this resolution, and so forth, and so forth!" He stopped here and seemed to enjoy the contemplation of the fancy we had mutually conjured. Then he resumed: "That seems like fool talk, on the surface, for both of us—yet underneath it all is the best logic: for fool talk could never be as foolish as the fool adviser who undertakes to shift a serious man out of his determined course of life. Advice! Advice! Advice! It is a confusion of tongues!"
[See
indexical note p188.3] Referring to Stedman W. said: "He is in a sense our most generous man of letters, distinctly so called: he is always helping somebody to something—always: I rarely hear of Stedman but I hear about his good deeds: sometimes I am cross about him—about the writer, Stedman: about the man Stedman I have never had a doubt. I find it hard to say what I think about the fellows without seeming to be extreme or harsh—yet I do not want to be either. My little quarrel with Stedman is not about anything he does but because of something I think he could do, does not do: Stedman never seems to ultimate himself, I may say, if that conveys any meaning to you." He paused. [See
indexical note p188.4] Then added: "Yes, I may say I love Stedman—love him: he has certain nervousnesses, he subjects me to certain irritations, which I find it difficult to bear patiently—but after all that is the small part of any man: a very small part: in a man like
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Stedman, so sterling in the trunk, they count for practically nothing whatever."
W. gave me a letter from Carpenter. [See indexical note p189.1] "It is an old letter, written in 1877. The best of Carpenter is in his humanity: he manages to stay with people: he was a university man, yet managed to save himself in time: plucked himself from the burning. I don't know of another living literary man of like standing who could write a letter like this. So many of them are good fellows—rather sympathize with the struggles of the people—but they are for the most part way off—remote: they only see the battle from afar. [See indexical note p189.2] Carpenter manages to stay in the midst of it." Carpenter's letter was dated December 19th. I said: "That is my birthday." W. smiled and replied: "That coincidence won't hurt the letter or hurt you: the two things are worthy of each other."
I found a memorandum from W. on this letter: "Splendid letter from E. Carpenter Dec 19, '77." [See
indexical note p190.5] I read all the letter to myself except the phase, "they go and hide their misery away—easily enough." This I read aloud. It moved W. greatly.
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He said: "That is a wonderful tribute paid to the common man. How cheap, vulgar, nasty, such heroism makes the heroisms that are most fussed about in histories! [See
indexical note p191.1] 'They go and hide their misery away—easily enough.' It's wonderful—wonderful! It's that sort of thing in men which makes the race safe—which will finally see, assert, demand, produce, the new state, church—the new social compact. I never have any doubts of the future when I look at the common man."
I asked W. about November Boughs. He shook his finger at me. "I was sure you would ask, of course. Well, it's nearly ready—only I play a little for time—I am fencing for another day or two. Don't you remember, I told you I was very slow. I have to be true to my reputation." [See indexical note p191.2] W. just as I was going remarked: "I hear from Bucke right along—I rarely hear from Burroughs. I don't know about John—he stands aloof so much of the time: I have asked myself whether this betokens any change of feeling: I suppose it don't. When John writes things, has occasion to mention me, he seems to be of the old spirit—I can see no signs of retreat or compromise. [See indexical note p191.3] But he don't come round much—he seems to avoid visiting me—which must have its good reasons too. On the simply convivial, social side—at the table, face to face, in the jolly hours when all the fences are down—John is not our sort, anyhow. I miss him a lot."