This letter was to have been written five days ago; but, like many other things that I project, it had to be put off a while. Lately there have been many small events to break through the usual run of things, &, as you know, I have not a genius for despatch at any time. So letters & other writings have gone to the wall.
Last week my brother, Percy, who is an actor, came up to town with the news that he
was going off to South Africa on a six-months'
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tour. He sails to-morrow afternoon by the "Norham Castle" from Blackwall, &
to-day my Father & Mother, anxious to see the last of their boy, have arrived to
bid him farewell. With them came also two old friends of mine,—Will Dircks,2 who
is now Walter Scotts' right-hand man in the literary part of the publishing, and
Joseph Skipsey,3 poet of north-country mining life, typical in rugged personal
strength & general appearance of the Northumbrian coal-fields. It was a striking
sight to see the crowds of holiday-makers who poured out of the excursion &
other trains, when my brother & I
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went to meet these travellers early this morning. Easter Monday is a great day with
both the Londoners, who go off into the country, and the country-folk, who come to
London, to spend a holiday. Fortunately too, the sun is shining in a way to remind me
of New York & Washington, & the Spring is making great progress in park
& garden. If this sunshine lasts, the trees will soon be in full leaf, &
then—Hey, for the life of the fields. Already—feeling somewhat pent up
here in town—I think of a jaunt to North Wales, there to climb mountains and
make friends with sun & wind & rain!
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Before that, however, there is Paris & the Exhibition to tempt one over the
Channel. It is absurd that I have never yet found my way to France. One feels that
over there one should have plenty of money to spend, and failing this I have waited
& waited. But now there is little excuse for waiting longer, as excursions are
being run at such low rates. So possibly the next letter you have from me will be
dated Paris. In America I became infected somewhat with the itch for travel, &
suppose I shall not rest now till I have wandered all over the globe.
24th April
I take up the thread of this rough and
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ready scribble again, after two days' interval. Yesterday I went down to Blackwall to
see my brother stowed safely on board the "Norham Castle." She is a fine, large
boat, comfortably fitted, & well officered; & there was an interesting lot
of passengers—including the actors & actresses of the Corp. which my brother has
joined: I felt quite inclined to go off too. There is a great rush to South Africa
at present—owing to the contagion of the gold & diamond mining fever.
Several fine young fellows of my acquaintance—engineers &c. have gone out
to Kimberley within the past year.
This morning I have been visiting various studios with Joseph Skipsey. This afternoon
he has gone to see Oscar Wilde.4 It is good fun going about
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town with an outsider, a north-countryman like Skipsey, for he sees everything with
such original eyes,—going into raptures over the flowers in Covent Garden
Market, or the gleaming fish on the fish stalls. It is surely a great thing to have
that fresh & poetic sense of these everyday details—that the over-cultured
London man takes no interest in.
In the same way, it was pleasant to hear Alys Smith5 a few days back, when she had
just returned from Italy & the Riviera, talking about London with as much
enthusiasm as ever. She called the other afternoon, greatly to my sister Edith's
delight, & gave us a characteristic account of her adventures. Logan6 often comes
in too. The other day
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he & his father drove round here, & in my absence carried off Edith, who had
never seen them before, for a long drive in the park. I have not seen Mrs. Costelloe7
of late. She has been rather unwell, ever since the baby's birth, & now she
& her husband8 are staying down in Surrey.
I hear by the House of Parliament clock that is nearly post-time, so I must bring my gossip to an end. Next letter I must try & send you a more solid kind of writing,—but one cannot always be solid.
Logan Smith said that his sister had had a card from you lately. I hope that this means you are getting stronger & easier with the incoming of the Spring. Remembrances to Mrs. Davis,9 Gilchrist10 & all other friends
with love, yours Ernest Rhys24th11 General Boulanger12 arrived in London this afternoon,—another note in the Cosmopolitan symphony. London will get some fun out of him—if nothing else. He seems somewhat doubtfully heroic.
Correspondent:
Ernest Percival Rhys
(1859–1946) was a British author and editor; he founded the Everyman's
Library series of inexpensive reprintings of popular works. He included a volume
of Whitman's poems in the Canterbury Poets series and two volumes of Whitman's
prose in the Camelot series for Walter Scott publishers. For more information
about Rhys, see Joel Myerson, "Rhys, Ernest Percival (1859–1946)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).