I hope you will not consider this letter from an utter stranger a liberty. Indeed, I
hardly feel a stranger to you, nor is this the first letter that I have written to
you. My friend Edward Dowden1 has told me often that you like
new acquaintances or I should rather say friends. And as an old friend I send you an inclosure
loc_gt.00192_large.jpg which may
interest you. Four years ago I wrote the enclosed draft of a letter which I intended
to copy out and send to you2—it has lain in my desk since then—when I had
heard that you were addressed as Mr. Whitman. It speaks
for itself and needs no comment. It is as truly what I wanted to say as that light
is light. The four years which have elapsed have made me love your work four fold
and I can truly say that I have ever spoken as your friend. You know what
loc_gt.00193_large.jpg hostile criticism
your work sometimes evokes here, and I wage a perpetual war with many friends on
your behalf. But I am glad to say that I have been the means of making your work
known to many who were scoffers at first. The years which have passed have not been
uneventful to me, and I have felt and thought and suffered much in them, and I can
truly say that from you I have had much pleasure and much consolation—and
loc_gt.00194_large.jpg I do believe that
your open earnest speech has not been thrown away on me or that my life & thoughts
fail to be marked with its impress—I write thus openly because I feel that with you one
must be open. We have just had tonight a hot debate on your genius at the
Fortnightly Club3 in which I had the privilege of putting
forward my views—I think with success. Do not think me "cheeky" for writing
thus. I only hope we may sometime meet & I shall be able perhaps to say what I
cannot write. Dowden promised to get me a copy of your new edition4—and
I hope that for any other work which you may have you will let me always be an early subscriber.
I am sorry that you are not strong. Many of us were hoping to see you in Ireland.
We had arranged to have a meeting for you—I do not know if you like getting letters. If you do I shall only be too happy to send you news of how thought goes among the men I know—
With truest wishes for your health and happiness believe me Your friend Bram StokerCorrespondent:
Abraham ("Bram") Stoker (1847–1912)
was an Irish writer and the author of the novel Dracula (1897).
Stoker was the personal assistant and secretary to the actor Sir Henry Irving, and
served as the business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in the West End of London, which Iriving owned.