Walt Whitman.
Your card of the 24th came two days ago,2 not a little to my relief. I was beginning to fear lest you were not so well again. This year ought to treat you well, and give you the wind and weather and everything that you love, seeing that in it you attain three score and ten. If good wishes of friends were of any direct use, physically, I mean, as well as in other ways, it would be the happiest year of your life. It seems very right and fit that in it you should publish the edition definitive in this vol. of your "complete works,"3 which we all so eagerly expect.
The last few weeks have brought nothing perhaps that is very remarkable to the surface here. I have been jogging along quietly enough,—but absorbing always a great deal humanly from the endlessly wonderful life of this great London. One of the most striking episodes I have lately had any share in was the midnight meeting of the unemployed of London on Christmas eve. It was held at the foot of Cleopatra's Needle, round the base of which the various speakers were grouped, faced by the motley throng of men, who cheered hoarsely with hungry throats as the speechifying went on. Through the day it had been wet and foggy in turn, but now the sky was of an American clearness, the half moon shining bright behind the shaft of Cleopatra's Needle, contrasting strangely with the red torches held to light the orators. Altogether an impressive scene; and when the Christmas bells rang out, and one of the speakers called out—"Peace on earth, good will towards men! If Jesus were in London today would he be in those churches?"—and the crowd shouted back, "No! he'd be here!—here with us!"—the effect was dramatic in the extreme.
When I had been standing in the crowd for some time, I discovered Jo Pennell,4 the artist, standing near me, and we presently went home together. He lives in the next street to Cowley Street, from which, by the way, I may have to move shortly, as a sister (whom you know) is coming up to town to study music at the Academy.
I am writing this at the reading room of the British Museum. I must end it rather hurriedly. Don't let me forget to tell you that last night I saw Edward Carpenter5—the first time in three years—at a meeting of the Fabian Society,6 where he lectured. He looks older than he did—more nervous lines in his face. As he is staying in town we shall probably meet again.
The Scottish Art Review wants me to write an article on The Portraits of Walt Whitman,7 with portrait reproductions. Can you send any new pictures of yourself? For the present time, so long!
Ernest RhysCorrespondent:
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).