For so you seem to me just like a grandfather whom I once knew years ago, but who lives in my memory as a childish recollection. No, I have never seen you with my physical eyes, but I feel as though I had, and it is my love for your work, and through that for yourself that prompts me to write you and declare it. I long thought of stretching out my hands across the water in greeting to you, but that diffidence I had lest I might be intruding unwarrantably upon your quiet has hitherto prevented me. This has now passed away through the kindness of a new-found friend—Dr Johnston2 of Bolton—who tells me he has sent you a copy of "Great Thoughts"3 containing my small addition to the literature appreciative of your prophetic messages and high-souled loc.03263.002.jpg songs. May this be my excuse for thrusting my small personality into the path of your Kingly one.
It is now about five years ago, (when I was 21, and looked something like the photograph I enclose) since I first remember reading any of your poems, and that was in a small anthology. From that time I wished to read more of them, and, making discoveries for myself, I at last found "Leaves of Grass"—one of the late editions—and rejoiced as over a discovery of hid treasure. Needless to tell you, I read it through, and lost no time in buying "Specimen Days."4
It does not need an Indian to find my trail through the "Leaves of Grass." It is broad and thick. Thumb marks, ink scratches, pencil notes, and dear old stains—each one has its history, and is looked upon as an old friend. Even my Bible is not so bemarked.
loc.03263.003.jpgYour volume holds a princely place in my ranks of 600; for to it I owe so much of what is now mine, and a never-ceasing interest in all that appertains to life. My eyes have been opened to a truer view of the Bible, of Shakespeare—yea, of all the great minds that have enriched mankind. And for all this—this that makes life so truly happy I thank you.
I need hardly say how gratified I should be if it pleased you to write to me, if only a line.
We may never meet on this earth, and I would like to be as near to you as possible in the next way—by a personal letter—In the after-days we shall surely meet—somehow, somewhere; and then we shall see, and know, and understand.
To you—of all of the best that ever God has divined here and hereafter—love, honour, glory and loc.03263.004.jpg power.
Good bye my master and my friend!
Think that I grasp your hand as long as all may or even so little longer.
Goodbye, and again my thanks—as yours, "a soldier's traveller's thanks."5
Au revoir! et à Dieu! Ever sincerely Edmund Mercer.Walt Whitman Esq.
loc.03263.005.jpg loc.03263.006.jpgCorrespondent:
Edmund Mercer
(1865–1945) was from Manchester, England, one of five children born to
Thomas Mercer (1836–1893)—a silk manufacturer—and Alice Holden
(1837–1921). In 1899, he married Helena Harriet Tippins (1872–1939)
and the couple had two children, Geoffrey Edmund (1901–1981) and Robert
Osborn (1909–1995). English census data record Mercer as a solicitor
living in Manchester. His sonnet "Blue and Gold" appeared in the August 24,
1889, issue of Chambers's Journal (544); he also
regularly contributed essays to the Manchester Quarterly,
published by the Manchester Literary Club, of which he was at one time a Council
Member. When Mercer died in 1945, he was working for the firm of Maurice Rubin
and Company, and his obituary in volume eleven of The Law
Times claims that he was "reputed to be the oldest practicing solicitor
in Manchester" (202).