5.30 P.M. W. sat in his black coat, in his own room, reading Symonds' book on Dante, of which he at once spoke to me. "It is a new edition: Symonds has sent it to me. Look at the print—don't you think it handsome? An alluring book: personal, strong—a bit out of John's own big heart. After I am done with it I want you to take it and read it."
Doctor not down to see W. after I left with him yesterday afternoon. Too tired last night. Went to bed at Harned's immediately after supper. This morning gave me a few lines additional to make up his piece for the May Conservator. W. asked: "So you think he has gone away? gone home? [i.e., to Cape May]. Well—I have been sitting half expecting him all day."
I left with him a copy of the Critic. Curious about some Carlyle anecdotes I told him were there. Also left with him a copy of the Conservator which I had. "When will you bring the others?" he asked. And then: "Bring them in the morning—early as you can: then I can put them up at once: there are a lot I want to send off." Out today again. "The carriage was here: we went along up to Pea Shore: you know Pea Shore? And there I got out of the carriage and sat down awhile, looking over the water. Oh! it was a great day! I enjoyed it—breathed it in—bathed in it!"
I told him Doctor thought he [W.] ought to write something for my paper. He laughingly said: "How should I dare? After this, I shall not aspire to write anything—to assume that anybody wants my handiwork. After the Century has gone back on me I must take new bearings—see where I stand." Had he sent the poem to Scribner's? "No, I have done nothing with it." Wished me to point out the new paragraph in Bucke's piece, which I did. Then: "Doctor puts it strong, don't he? But then, as someone has said, when you have a statement to
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make, make it with full vigor, with all its implications: and Doctor seems always able to do that."
Of Rudolf Schmidt and American humor: "He considers it the raciest in the world, and so, often little characteristic bits I come upon I put up and mail to him." I asked W. if he had seen the piece in yesterday's Press. "'Walt Whitman's Grave,' you mean? O yes! It startled me when I first looked at it: I wondered if I was dead and buried!" The idea that London contested for his remains amused him hugely. I told him the fellow had said the lot chosen by W., which he had seen, was thoroughly "characteristic." W. then— "Probably it is: if his article had as much about it that was characteristic it would pass well!"
From Philadelphia Press . . . May 16, 1890:
WALT WHITMAN'S GRAVEWord from Kennedy, he said. "It was addressed to Doctor, but marked, 'Walt open,' which I proceeded to do. Nothing new: he speaks of the birthday—will not be able to get here: is working under great pressure—expects release for a while in July—then will be here for a day or two." I said I thought Kennedy was perhaps injuring his higher powers by this work. W. saying at once in the most earnest way—regarding me intently— "Tell him that! tell him that!" Adding after a pause— "I wish you would: the thought has struck me, too."
As I had not read Thoreau's "A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers," W. thought I should. "You should take my copy—it is on the other side of the table there." I found it. "Though a little mutilated, it will give you the best of Thoreau—which is best indeed."
Gave me a portrait—the Lear—for Jacob Lychenheim: promised him many months ago—but forgotten till today, on my reminder. Had not yet sent the poem to Scribner's. Nor had the check-book turned up yet—I should bring him a National State Bank check from my father.