Your very interesting & valued letter of 30 Jan.y 1 ought to have been answered before now. As you are willing to confess in it, however, to being an irregular correspondent, I gladly avail myself of so tempting an opening for saying that I am the same—& shall feel confident that my delay is pardoned.
I read with much zeal the poem2 you kindly sent me, with its deep sonata–like alternations of emotion.
It was a peculiar pleasure to me to get acquainted with Mr. Bur loc.01889.026_large.jpgroughs,3 to whom w.d you please remember me with great cordiality whenever the chance occurs.
He may have told you—& indeed it cannot have needed telling—that you
were a very principal subject of our discourse, & of my reiterated
enquiries.
It interests me to see in your letter that you have a habit of taking moonlight walks
out of Washington: I used to find walks of this kind highly enjoyable, & have
frequently indulged in them years ago. In my youth I was living in habits of daily
& brotherly intimacy with various painters (Millais,4 Holman
Hunt,5 &c); & from time to time we w.d all sally out, 6 or 7, say towards 11 at
night, & pass the whole
night, & sometimes the succeeding day
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as well, tramping about, &
enjoying the varying effects of night, dawn, &c—studied of course with
peculiar interest, & directness of observation & purpose, by the painters:
sometimes, instead of walking, we w.d row up the river from nightfall to day. There is a goodish deal of
agreeable country round London: but, unless one lives quite out in the suburbs, it
takes miles of walking to get even to the beginning of anything green or rural. I
can easily imagine that to walk out of Washington at night "into Virginia or
Maryland"6 is an experience of a very different sort, in point of grandeur &
impressiveness. Tho' indeed, from some points of view wh. you of all men realize most intensely, nothing surely can be more
impressive than the unmeasured size
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& colossal agglomeration of
life in London—none the less felt thro
the interminable streets when all
are asleep, & scarcely a passenger met athwart one's path. The interval when the
streets are really deserted to this extent is but brief: I suppose from about 2¾ to
4 a.m. is the most vacant time.
What you say about the insulting & in fact ungrateful treatment wh. your poems continue to receive in America is deeply interesting, tho' painful. I suppose it is a very general if not universal experience that
anything that is at once great & extremely novel encounters for some
considerable time much more hostility than acceptance, & so far your experience
is not surprising—rather indeed a testimonial, when properly considered, to
the great intrinsic value of your writings. But certainly
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it does seem that in degree &
duration the obduracy of Americans agst. your work is something abnormal & unworthy—especially
considering the spirit of intense patriotic love & national insight wh. pervades your book thro & thro. That America sh.d be so wanting (in this matter at least) in large receptiveness & quick
intuition is distressing to those who love her—among whom I may humbly but
truly profess myself. It seems as if she were even less
capable than others of appreciating great work vital with the very marrow of her
bones & corpuscles of her blood: perhaps this very affinity is partly the
reason—but at any rate a bad & perverse reason. In this country there are
of course very diverse knots of opinion, & schools of thinking & criticism,
& to several of these your
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works are still an exasperation & an offence: but others
accept & exalt you with all readiness of love & delight, & I think I may
safely say that it is these wh have in their holding the future of English opinion on such matters for
some years to come.—But I will say no more on this tack. For myself (with
others) who believe in you with the certainty of full conviction, all these
considerations are poor & slight: the one thing is the work itself, & the
maker of the work, which has a destiny as assured & as limitless as that of any
other great product of the soul or of nature.
I have not met Prof.r Dowden7 since last summer (or spring perhaps): he is
seldom, I think, out of Ireland.
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What I saw of him I liked
particularly. He seems an uncommonly young man to be a Professor—less than 30
to look at; & is in no common degree good–looking, pleasant, open, &
sound–minded. There are few men, I sh.d say, more likely to have their sympathies in literary matters sane &
right—guided also by the fullest measure of lettered cultivation. Mrs.
Gilchrist8 I dined with not many weeks ago. She seems to
have fairly recovered from a very exhaustive & indeed dangerous illness that
oppressed her of late (say from the early autumn of 1870 to the late summer of
1871)—only that she is not so capable as she used to be of continuous mental
or bodily strain. It was a pleasure to see her surrounded by her family,
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the type of a true mother, guiding & nurturing all aright in her children, mind & body.
The eldest son9 bids fair to have a distinguished &
prosperous career as a mining engineer: a younger son10 is
greatly set on being a painter. One of the daughters11 is just
about grown up, the other,12 I suppose, 10 or 11 years of
age.—Mr. J. A. Symonds13 I don't know personally; but,
about the time when my selection from your Poems14 came out, he
wrote to me (2 or 3 letters) showing himself to have been for some while past one of
your very ardent admirers. Tennyson15 I have known for years,
& like much: I think him deep–hearted & high–minded, tho it may be true (as has often been said, & sometimes not in a kindly
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spirit) that he is somewhat too self–centred, & morbidly sensitive. He hates all the vulgarizing aspects of fame, & some people find him
present a very obtuse exterior to their advances or approaches: for myself, I can
truly say my experience is the direct contrary. I think you & he w.d understand each other, & feel on a very friendly footing. Tennyson (as
I dare say you know) is a remarkably fine manly person to look at, with a noble
mould of face, & very powerful frame. He must be 6 foot 1 in height, I sh.d suppose—but not now so erect as in his prime.—If you do at
any time come to England, to see Tennyson or others, I need not say what a delight
it w.d be to me to know you personally—& several of my friends w.d amply
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share my feeling.
My vol. of Selections from American Poets16 doesn't seem likely to be published yet awhile. It has been completed for mo.s past: but, as it is one vol. of a series, & others of the vol.s are in course of printing, the printer may probably leave it over for a few mo.s to come. I have in the briefest terms dedicated it to you (& hope you won't object). Any other dedication—at least, if to any one on your side of the Atlantic—wd be a fatuity.
Believe me honoured to be called your friend, W. M. RossettiI have no doubt you will have felt sorrow as I did—tho indeed
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sorrow is not fully the right word, nor the right
emotion—at reading lately of the death of Mazzini.17 I,
who am ¾ Italian in blood, have naturally a strong feeling on these subjects:
& I regard Mazzini as the noblest of patriots, & the man to whom more
than any other single person not even excepting Garibaldi,18
the lovers of Italian unity are beholden. It is often a pleasure to me to
reflect that, with all the miserable oppression & depression under wh. she has so long been labouring Italy has after all produced the 3 greatest public men (to my
thinking such) of the last 100 years in Europe—
1. Napoleon I,19 the greatest genius as a conqueror &
ruler (I suppose any one is to be allowed to ad loc.01889.036_large.jpgmire him enormously, whether
one approves him or not—& to call him a Frenchman, or anything save an
Italian, is meaningless)
2. Mazzini, the greatest of ideal statesmen—patriots—
3. Garibaldi, the greatest & most flawless personal hero.
Correspondent:
William Michael Rossetti (1829–1915), brother
of Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti, was an English editor and a champion of
Whitman's work. In 1868, Rossetti edited Whitman's Poems,
selected from the 1867 Leaves of Grass. Whitman referred
to Rossetti's edition as a "horrible dismemberment of my book" in his August 12, 1871, letter to Frederick S. Ellis. Nonetheless,
the edition provided a major boost to Whitman's reputation, and Rossetti would
remain a staunch supporter for the rest of Whitman's life, drawing in
subscribers to the 1876 Leaves of Grass and fundraising
for Whitman in England. For more on Whitman's relationship with Rossetti, see
Sherwood Smith, "Rossetti, William Michael (1829–1915)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).