7:48 P.M. I entered the room with the big envelopes under my arm. W. laid down the book he was reading (the Catlin Indian book from Donaldson), took off his glasses, exclaimed, "And here is Horace! And with my big envelopes along, too!" I assented, "Yes, and I want a picture of Walt Whitman or one of Walt Whitman's books for this man Cohen—for he would not take a cent for this work and we ought to recognize it!" I commencing to untie the package and W. acquiescing at once, "You are right—we must—it was a handsome gift." When I exhibited the envelopes W. took one and turned it over and over like a child, making all sorts of admiring comments: "Oh! the beauty! and look at this board, too!" tapping it with his knuckle. "And
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a perfect piece of work throughout!" Cohen had said to me he could not charge. He was proud of Walt Whitman; wished this to go as his mite, etc. "He is a Philadelphian with the rest of us: we owe a good deal to him." All touched W., for it was a faithful job, exactly fulfilling W.'s desires. And so he directed me to a bundle on the floor marked as containing six copies '82 edition "Leaves of Grass"—author's edition—from which he took one (I re-wrapping and tying the rest), inscribing it as I looked over his shoulder, "C. J. Cohen from the author Nov. 1890." Asked me then in his usual way about Cohen's business, his looks as a man, etc. Oh! that thirst to absorb, to penetrate, life, individualities! It is the secret of the temple!
I told W. of a letter from Johnston today inviting me to stay with them if I attended Ethical Society convention in New York next week. This would give me a chance to carry the parcel over for Mrs. Ingersoll. "Yes," said W., "that relieves me. I wondered how to get it over. And no one so good as you to take it, either. It will come from you with a great grace. I intend it for a Christmas present, but it won't hurt to go over before, of course." I swung my hand across the big face of the envelope, "There is a chance for you to spread out a big Walt Whitman!" And with a hearty laugh, "You have divined me! That is what I had in mind to do!"
We spoke of Lippincott's poem. W. got up from chair and toiled across the room. "I have a letter here from Doctor about it. He sets it high. I put the letter aside, thinking you would like to have it. I sent Doctor a slip. Yes, I saw it was in the Press today—mean to get a lot of papers, to use for mailing. But you shall have a copy of the magazine—when they come, as they have not yet."
W. quoted earlier passages in a general way, then said, "It is a part of our history to say that this poem was refused by Harper's as an 'improvisation,' refused by the Nineteenth Century for general reasons, accepted and paid for by Stoddart, of
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Lippincott's. Improvisation! I wonder if they ever heard of the other things I have written? I should not know what else to do but 'improvise'!" And he questioned me frankly for the bases of my high estimate. Why did I think it had music, power, spirituality, subtlety? And appeared pleased at my direct replies.
I am going to see Booth and Barrett transact "Richelieu" tomorrow evening. W. asked, "Booth is the Richelieu?" and then, "I have seen the play often; have even seen Booth in it. Certainly he is grand there; the part fits him well." Diverted then more rapidly upon the powers of the elder Booth. "He was a man of remarkable range and passion. I liked him in many things, but most of all, I often think, in Richard 3rd. I think of what they call the dream scene—his vivid color there—his ability to pass through the fire of the original. When he was in a passion, face, neck, hands, would be suffused, his eye would be frightful—his whole mien enough to scare audience, actors; often the actors were afraid of him. I can see his contortions as he lay on the bed, then as he dragged himself towards the footlights, trembling, gasping, ratting his armor. A mighty triumph of art—or nature, which in meaner hands would be burlesque—sufficient to thrill the house, give it one of the delicious horrors which all audiences enjoy. I think Booth did not insist upon that scene—it is not imperative—he did not always play it—probably did not always feel up to it." And further, "I think—in such passages, such transports of nature—no actor I ever saw was the same—had, at least, anything like his grandeur."
Said he had been rooting out old manuscripts—a lot of yellowed crumpled sheets on bed. Had Mrs. O'Connor told him to whom she had submitted William's book? "No, she did not tell me." I had quite full letter from Bucke, discussing affairs. Has been off to Detroit. W. saying, "He did not tell me that."
W. laughed over the fashion: "The fad now is to wear the high hat with the nearest to no rim at all: a damnable practice at the best."