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The Letters Of Anne Gilchrist And
Walt Whitman
By
Walt Whitman
and
Anne Burrows Gilchrist
Contents
THE
LETTERS OF ANNE GILCHRIST AND WALT WHITMAN..
A
WOMAN'S ESTIMATE OF WALT WHITMAN[1].
FROM
THOMAS B. HARNED'S COLLECTION]
THE LETTERS OF ANNE GILCHRIST AND =
WALT
WHITMAN
Edited With an
Introduction
BY
THOMAS B. HARNED
In
Memoriam AUGUSTA TRAUBEL
HARNED 1856-1914
PREFACE=
Probably there are few who to-day
question the propriety of publishing the love-letters of eminent persons a
generation after the deaths of both parties to the correspondence. When one
recalls the published love-letters of Abelard, of Dorothy Osborne, of Lady =
Hamilton,
of Mary Wollstonecraft, of Margaret Fuller, of George Sand, Bismarck, Shell=
ey,
Victor Hugo, Edgar Allan Poe, and--to mention only one more illustrious
example--of the Brownings, one must needs look upon this form of presenting
biographical material as a well-established, if not a valuable, convention =
of
letters.
As to the particu=
lar
set of letters presented to the reader in this volume, a word of explanation
and history may be required. Most of these letters are from Anne Gilchrist =
to
Walt Whitman, a few are replies to her letters, and a few are letters from =
her
children to Whitman. Mrs. Gilchrist died in 1885. When, two years later, her
son, Herbert Harlakenden Gilchrist, was collecting material for his interes=
ting
biography of his mother, Whitman was asked for the letters that she had wri=
tten
to him--or rather for extracts from them. In reply to this request the poet
said, "I do not know that I can furnish any good reason, but I feel to
keep these utterances exclusively to myself. But I cannot let your book go =
to
press without at least saying--and wishing it put on record--that among the
perfect women I have met (and it has been my unspeakably good fortune to ha=
ve
had the very best, for mother, sisters, and friends) I have known none more
perfect in every relation, than my dear, dear friend, Anne Gilchrist."=
But
since Whitman carefully preserved them for twenty years, refusing to destroy
them as he had destroyed such other written matter as he did not care to ha=
ve
preserved, it would appear that he intended that so beautiful a tribute to =
the
poetry that he had written, no less than to the personality of the poet, sh=
ould
be included in that complete biography which is being slowly written, by ma=
ny
hands, of America's most unique man of genius. In any case, when these lett=
ers came
into my hands in the apportionment of Whitman's literary legacy under the w=
ill
which named me as one of his three literary executors, there were but three
things which I could honourably do with them--rather, on closer analysis, t=
here
seemed to be but one. To leave them in my will or to place them in some pub=
lic
repository would have been to shift a responsibility which was evidently mi=
ne
to the shoulders of others who, perhaps, would be in possession of fewer fa=
cts
in the light of which to discharge that responsibility. To destroy them wou=
ld
be to do what Whitman should have done if it was to be done at all, and to
erase forever one of the finest tributes that either the man or the poet ev=
er
received, one of the most touching self-revelations that a noble soul ever
"poured out on paper." The remaining alternative was to edit and
publish them (after keeping them a proper length of time), for the benefit,=
not
only of the general reader, but as an aid to the future biographer who from=
the
proper perspective will write the life of America's great poet and prophet.=
In
this determination my judgment has been confirmed by that of the few
sympathetic friends who, during the twenty-five years that the letters have
been in my possession, have been allowed to read them.
It is a matter of
regret that so few of Whitman's letters to Mrs. Gilchrist are available. Th=
ose
included in this volume, sometimes in fragmentary form, have been taken from
loose copies found among his papers after his death, or, in a few instances,
are reprinted from Herbert Harlakenden Gilchrist's "Anne Gilchrist&quo=
t;
or Horace Traubel's "With Walt Whitman in Camden." Acknowledgment=
of
these latter is made in each instance. But though Whitman's letters printed=
in
this correspondence will not compare with Mrs. Gilchrist's in point of numb=
er,
enough are presented to suggest the tenor of them all.
As a matter of fa=
ct,
the first love-letter from Anne Gilchrist to Walt Whitman was in the form o=
f an
essay written in his defense called "An Englishwoman's Estimate of Walt
Whitman." For that reason this well-known essay is reprinted in this
volume; and "A Confession of Faith," in reality an amplification =
of
the "Estimate" written several years after the publication of the
latter, is included. The reader who desires to follow the story of this
friendship in a chronological order will do well to read at least the forme=
r of
these tributes before beginning the letters. Indebtedness is acknowledged to
Prof. Emory Halloway of Brooklyn, New York, for valuable suggestions.
T. B. H.
Undoubtedly Mrs. Gilchrist's
"Estimate of Walt Whitman," published in the (Boston) Radical in =
May,
1870, was the finest, as it was the first, public tribute ever paid to the =
poet
by a woman. Whitman himself so considered it--"the proudest word that =
ever
came to me from a woman--if not the proudest word of all from any source.&q=
uot;
But a finer tribute was to follow, in the sacred privacy of the love-letters
which are now made public forty years and more after they were written. The
purpose of this Introduction is not to interpret those letters, but to sket=
ch
the story in the light of which they are to be read. And since both Anne
Gilchrist and Walt Whitman have had sympathetic and painstaking biographers=
, it
will not be necessary here to mention at length the already known facts of
their respective lives.
The story natural=
ly
begins with Whitman. He was born at West Hills, Long Island, New York, on M=
ay
31, 1819. His father was of English descent, and came of a family of sailors
and farmers. His mother, to whom he himself attributed most of his personal
qualities, was of excellent Hollandic stock. Moving to Brooklyn while still=
in
frocks, he there passed his boyhood and youth, but took many summer trips to
visit relatives in the country. He early left the public school for the
printing offices of local newspapers, picking enough general knowledge to
enable him, when about seventeen years of age, to teach schools in the rural
districts of his native island. Very early in life he became a writer, chie=
fly
of short prose tales and essays, which were accepted by the best New York m=
agazines.
His literary and journalistic work was not confined to the metropolis, but =
took
him, for a few months in 1848, so far away from home as New Orleans. In
1851-54, besides writing for and editing newspapers, he was engaged in
housebuilding, the trade of his father. Although this was, it is said, a
profitable business, he gave it up to write poetry, and issued his first
volume, "Leaves of Grass," in 1855. The book had been written with
great pains, according to a preconceived plan of the author to be stated in=
the
preface; and it was finally set up (by his own hands, for want of a publish=
er)
only, as he tells us, after many "doings and undoings, leaving out the
stock 'poetical' touches." Its publication was the occasion of probably
the most voluminous controversy of American letters--mostly abuse, ridicule,
and condemnation.
In 1862 Whitman's
brother George, who had volunteered in the Union Army, was reported badly
wounded in the Fredericksburg fight. Walt, going at once to the war front in
Virginia, found that his brother's wound was not serious enough to require =
his
ministrations, but gradually he became engaged in nursing other wounded sol=
diers,
until this work, as a volunteer hospital missionary in Washington, engrossed
the major part of his time. This continued until and for some years after t=
he
end of the war. Whitman's own needs were supplied by occasional literary wo=
rk
and from his earnings as a clerk first in the Interior and later in the
Attorney General's Department. He had gone to Washington a man of strong an=
d majestic
physique, but his untiring devotion, fidelity, and vigilance in nursing the
sick and wounded soldiers in the army hospitals in and about Washington was
soon to shatter that constitution which was ever a marvel to its possessor,=
and
to condemn him to pass the last two decades of his life in unaccustomed
invalidism. The history of the Civil War in America presents no instance of
nobler fulfilment of duty or of sublimer sacrifice.
Meanwhile his muse
was not neglected. His book had gone through four editions, and, with the
increment of the noble war poetry of "Drum Taps," had become a vo=
lume
of size. At a very early period "Leaves of Grass" had been hailed=
as
an important literary contribution by a few of the best thinkers in this
country and in England but, generally speaking, nearly all literary persons
received it with much criticism and many qualifications. In Washington devo=
ted
disciples like William Douglas O'Connor and John Burroughs never varied in
their uncompromising adherence to the book and its author. This appreciation
only by the few was likewise encountered in England. The book had made a st=
ir
among the literary classes, but its importance was not at all generally
recognized. Men like John Addington Symonds, Edward Dowden, and William Mic=
hael
Rossetti were, however, almost unrestricted in their praise.
It was William
Rossetti who planned, in 1867, to bring out in England a volume of selectio=
ns
from Whitman's poetry, in the belief that it was better to leave out the po=
ems
that had provoked such adverse criticism, in order to get Whitman a foothold
among those who might prefer to have an expurgated edition. Whitman's attit=
ude
toward the plan at the time is given in a letter which he wrote to Rossetti=
on
December 3, 1867: "I cannot and will not consent of my own volition to
countenance an expurgated edition of my pieces. I have steadily refused to =
do
so under seductive offers, here in my own country, and must not do so in
another country." It appeared, however, that Rossetti had already adva=
nced
his project, and Whitman graciously added: "If, before the arrival of =
this
letter, you have practically invested in, and accomplished, or partially ac=
complished,
any plan, even contrary to this letter, I do not expect you to abandon it, =
at
loss of outlay; but shall bona fide consider you blameless if you let it go=
on,
and be carried out, as you may have arranged. It is the question of the
authorization of an expurgated edition proceeding from me, that deepest eng=
ages
me. The facts of the different ways, one way or another way, in which the b=
ook
may appear in England, out of influences not under the shelter of my umbrag=
e,
are of much less importance to me. After making the foregoing explanation, I
shall, I think, accept kindly whatever happens. For I feel, indeed know, th=
at I
am in the hands of a friend, and that my pieces will receive that truest, b=
rightest
of light and perception coming from love. In that, all other and lesser
requisites become pale...." The Rossetti "Selections" duly a=
ppeared--with
what momentous influence upon the two persons whose friendship we are traci=
ng
will presently be shown.
On June 22, 1869,
Anne Gilchrist, writing to Rossetti, said: "I was calling on Madox Bro=
wn a
fortnight ago, and he put into my hands your edition of Walt Whitman's poem=
s. I
shall not cease to thank him for that. Since I have had it, I can read no o=
ther
book: it holds me entirely spellbound, and I go through it again and again =
with
deepening delight and wonder. How can one refrain from expressing gratitude=
to
you for what you have so admirably done?..." To this Rossetti promptly
responded: "Your letter has given me keen pleasure this morning. That
glorious man Whitman will one day be known as one of the greatest sons of
Earth, a few steps below Shakespeare on the throne of immortality. What a
tearing-away of the obscuring veil of use and wont from the visage of man a=
nd
of life! I am doing myself the pleasure of at once ordering a copy of the
"Selections" for you, which you will be so kind as to accept.
Genuine--i. e., enthusiastic--appreciators are not so common, and must be
cultivated when they appear.... Anybody who values Whitman as you do ought =
to
read the whole of him...." At a later date Rossetti gave Mrs. Gilchris=
t a
copy of the complete "Leaves of Grass," in acknowledging which she
said, "The gift of yours I have not any words to tell you how priceles=
s it
will be to me...." This lengthy letter was later, at Rossetti's
solicitation, worked over for publication as the "Estimate of Walt
Whitman" to which reference has already been made.
Anne Gilchrist was
primarily a woman of letters. Though her natural bent was toward science and
philosophy, her marriage threw her into association with artists and writer=
s of
belles lettres. She was born in London on February 25, 1828. She came of
excellent ancestry, and received a good education, particularly in music. S=
he
had a profoundly religious nature, although it appears that she was never a
believer in many of the orthodox Christian doctrines. Very early in life she
recognized the greatness of such men as Emerson and Comte. In 1851, at the =
age
of twenty-three, she married Alexander Gilchrist, two months her junior. Th=
ough
of limited means, he possessed literary ability and was then preparing for =
the
bar. His early writings secured for him the friendship of Carlyle, who for =
years
lived next door to the Gilchrists in Cheyne Row. This friendship led to oth=
ers,
and the Gilchrists were soon introduced into that supreme literary circle w=
hich
included Ruskin, Herbert Spencer, George Eliot, the Rossettis, Tennyson, and
many another great mind of that illustrious age.
Within ten years =
of
their marriage the Gilchrists had four children, in whom they were very hap=
py.
But in the year 1861, when Anne was thirty-three years of age, her husband
died. It was a terrible blow, but she faced the future unflinchingly, and
reared her children, giving to each of them a profession. At the time of her
husband's death his life of William Blake was nearing completion. With the
assistance of William and Gabriel Rossetti Mrs. Gilchrist finished the work=
on
this excellent biography, and it was published by Macmillan. Whitman has pa=
id a
fitting tribute to the pluck exhibited in this achievement: "Do you kn=
ow
much of Blake?" said Whitman to Horace Traubel, who records the
conversation in his remarkable book "With Walt Whitman in Camden."
"You know, this is Mrs. Gilchrist's book--the book she completed. They=
had
made up their minds to do the work--her husband had it well under way: he
caught a fever and was carried off. Mrs. Gilchrist was left with four young
children, alone: her perplexities were great. Have you noticed that the tim=
e to
look for the best things in best people is the moment of their greatest nee=
d?
Look at Lincoln: he is our proudest example: he proved to be big as, bigger
than, any emergency--his grasp was a giant's grasp--made dark things light,
made hard things easy.... (Mrs. Gilchrist) belonged to the same noble breed=
: seized
the reins, was competent; her head was clear, her hand was firm."
The circumstances
under which she first read Whitman's poetry have been narrated. When in 1869
Whitman became aware of the Rossetti correspondence, he felt greatly honour=
ed,
and through Rossetti he sent his portrait to the as yet anonymous lady. In
acknowledging this communication his English friend has a grateful word from
"the lady" to return: "I gave your letter, and the second co=
py
of your portrait, to the lady you refer to, and need scarcely say how truly
delighted she was. She has asked me to say that you could not have devised =
for
her a more welcome pleasure, and that she feels grateful to me for having s=
ent
to America the extracts from what she had written, since they have been a
satisfaction to you...." Early in 1870 the "Estimate" appear=
ed
in the Radical, still more than a year before Mrs. Gilchrist addressed her
first letter to Whitman. He welcomed the essay, and its author as a new and
peculiarly powerful champion of "Leaves of Grass." To Rossetti he
wrote: "I am deeply touched by these sympathies and convictions, coming
from a woman and from England, and am sure that if the lady knew how much
comfort it has been to me to get them, she would not only pardon you for
transmitting them but approve that action. I realize indeed of this smiling=
and
emphatic well done from the heart and conscience of a true wife and mother,=
and
one, too, whose sense of the poetic, as I glean from your letter, after flo=
wing
through the heart and conscience, must also move through and satisfy scienc=
e as
much as the esthetic, that I had hitherto received no eulogium so
magnificent." Concerning this experience Whitman said to Horace Traube=
l,
at a much later period: "You can imagine what such a thing as her 'Est=
imate'
meant to me at that time. Almost everybody was against me--the papers, the
preachers, the literary gentlemen--nearly everybody with only here and ther=
e a
dissenting voice--when it looked on the surface as if my enterprise was bou=
nd
to fail ... then this wonderful woman. Such things stagger a man ... I had =
got
so used to being ignored or denounced that the appearance of a friend was
always accompanied with a sort of shock.... There are shocks that knock you=
up,
shocks that knock you down. Mrs. Gilchrist never wavered from her first
decision. I have that sort of feeling about her which cannot easily be spok=
en
of--...: love (strong personal love, too), reverence, respect--you see, it =
won't
go into words: all the words are weak and formal." Speaking again of h=
er
first criticism of his work, he said: "I remember well how one of my
noblest, best friends--one of my wisest, cutest, profoundest, most candid
critics--how Mrs. Gilchrist, even to the last, insisted that "Leaves of
Grass" was not the mouthpiece of parlours, refinements--no--but the
language of strength, power, passion, intensity, absorption,
sincerity...." He claimed a closer relationship to her than he allowed=
to
Rossetti: "Rossetti mentions Mrs. Gilchrist. Well, he had a right
to--almost as much right as I had: a sort of brother's right: she was his
friend, she was more than my friend. I feel like Hamlet when he said forty
thousand brothers could not feel what he felt for Ophelia. After all ... we
were a family--a happy family: the few of us who got together, going with l=
ove
the same way--we were a happy family. The crowd was on the other side but we
were on our side--we: a few of us, just a few: and despite our paucity of
numbers we made ourselves tell for the good cause."
From these
expressions it is quite clear that Whitman's attitude toward Mrs. Gilchrist=
was
at first that of the unpopular prophet who finds a worthy and welcome disci=
ple
in an unexpected place. And that he should have so felt was but natural, for
she had been drawn to him, as she confided to him in one of her letters, by
what he had written rather than and not by her knowledge of the man. There =
can
be no doubt, however, that on Mrs. Gilchrist's part something more than the
friendship of her new-found liberator was desired. When she read the
"Leaves of Grass" she was forty-one years of age, in the full vig=
our
of womanhood. To her the reading meant a new birth, causing her to pour out=
her
soul to the prophet and poet across the seas with a freedom and abandon that
were phenomenal. This was in the first letter printed in this volume, under
date of September 3, 1871, and about the time that Whitman had sent to his =
new supporter
a copy of his poems. Perhaps the strongest reason why Whitman did not reply=
to
passion with passion lies in the fact that his heart was, so far as attachm=
ents
of that sort were concerned, already bestowed elsewhere. I am indebted to
Professor Holloway for the information that Whitman was, in 1864, the
unfortunate lover of a certain lady whose previous marriage to another, whi=
le
it did not dim their mutual devotion, did serve to keep them apart. To her
Whitman wrote that heart-wrung lyric of separation, "Out of the rolling
ocean, the crowd." This suggests that there was probably a double trag=
edy,
so ironical is the fate of the affections, Anne Gilchrist and Walt Whitman =
both
passionately yearning for personal love yet unable to quench the one desire=
in
the other.
But if there could
not be between them the love which leads to marriage, there could be a noble
and tender and life-long friendship. Over this Whitman's loss of his
magnificent health, to be followed by an invalidism of twenty years, had no
power. In 1873 Whitman was stricken with paralysis, which rendered him so
helpless that he had to give up his work and finally his position, and to g=
o to
live for the rest of his life in Camden, New Jersey. Mrs. Gilchrist's affec=
tion
for him did not waver when this trial was made of it. Indeed, his illness h=
ad
the effect, as these letters show, of quickening the desire which she had h=
ad
for several years (since 1869) of coming to live in America, that she might=
be
near him to lighten his burdens, and, if she could not hope to cherish him =
as a
wife, that she might at least care for him as a mother. Whitman, it will be=
noted,
strongly advised against this plan. Just why he wished to keep her away from
America is unclear, possibly because he dared not put so idealistic a
friendship and discipleship to the test of personal acquaintance with a
prematurely broken old man. Nevertheless, on August 30, 1876, Mrs. Gilchrist
set sail, with three of her children, for Philadelphia. They arrived in
September. From that date until the spring of 1878 the Gilchrists kept hous=
e at
1929 North Twenty-second street, Philadelphia, where Whitman was a frequent=
and
regular visitor.
It is interesting=
to
note that Mrs. Gilchrist's appreciation of Whitman did not lessen after she=
had
met and known him in the intimacy of that tea-table circle which at her hou=
se
discussed the same great variety of topics--literature, religion, science,
politics--that had enlivened the O'Connor breakfast table in Washington. She
shall describe it and him herself. In a letter to Rossetti, under date of D=
ecember
22, 1876, she writes: "But I need not tell you that our greatest pleas=
ure
is the society of Mr. Whitman, who fully realizes the ideal I had formed fr=
om
his poems, and brings such an atmosphere of cordiality and geniality with h=
im
as is indescribable. He is really making slow but, I trust, steady progress=
toward
recovery, having been much cheered (and no doubt that acted favourably upon=
his
health) by the sympathy manifested toward him in England and the pleasure of
finding so many buyers of his poems there. It must be a deep satisfaction to
you to have been the channel through which this help and comfort
flowed...." And a year later she writes to the same correspondent:
"We are having delightful evenings this winter; how often do I wish you
could make one in the circle around our tea table where sits on my right ha=
nd
every evening but Sunday Walt Whitman. He has made great progress in health=
and
recovered powers of getting about during the year we have been here:
nevertheless the lameness--the dragging instead of lifting the left leg
continues; and this together with his white hair and beard give him a look =
of
age curiously contradicted by his face, which has not only the ruddy freshn=
ess
but the full, rounded contours of youth, nowhere drawn or wrinkled or sunk;=
it
is a face as indicative of serenity and goodness and of mental and bodily
health as the brow is of intellectual power. But I notice he occasionally
speaks of himself as having a 'wounded brain,' and of being still quite alt=
ered
from his former self."
Whitman, on his p=
art,
thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon sunshine of such friendly hospitality, for=
he
considered Mrs. Gilchrist even more gifted as a conversationalist than as a
writer. For hints of the sort of talk that flowed with Mrs. Gilchrist's tea=
I
must refer the reader to her son's realistic biography.
After two years of
residence in Philadelphia, the Gilchrists went to dwell in Boston and later=
in
New York City, and met the leaders in the two literary capitals. From these
addresses the letters begin again, after the natural interruption of two ye=
ars.
It is at this time that the first letters from Herbert and Beatrice Gilchri=
st
were written. These are given in this volume to complete the chain and to s=
how
how completely they were in sympathy with their mother in their love and
appreciation of Whitman. From New York they all sailed for their old home in
England on June 7, 1879. Whitman came the day before to wish them good voya=
ge.
The chief reason for the return to England seems to have been the desire to
send Beatrice to Berne to complete her medical education. After the return =
to England,
or rather while they are still en route at Glasgow, the letters begin again=
.
Several years of
literary work yet remained to Mrs. Gilchrist. The chief writings of these y=
ears
were a new edition of the Blake, a life of Mary Lamb for the Eminent Women
Series, an article on Blake for the Dictionary of National Biography, sever=
al
essays including "Three Glimpses of a New England Village," and t=
he
"Confession of Faith." She was beginning a careful study of the l=
ife
and writings of Carlyle, with the intention of writing a life of her old fr=
iend
to reply to the aspersions of Freude. This last work was, however, never
completed, for early in 1882 some malady which rendered her breathing diffi=
cult
had already begun to cast the shadow of death upon her. But her faith, long
schooled in the optimism of "Leaves of Grass," looked upon the
steadily approaching end with calmness. On November 29, 1885, she died.
When Whitman was
informed of her death by Herbert Gilchrist, he could find words for only the
following brief reply:
15th December 18=
85. Camden, Uni=
ted
States, America.
DEAR HERBERT:
I have received =
your
letter. Nothing now remains but a sweet and rich memory--non=
e more
beautiful all time, all life all the earth--I cannot write
anything of a letter to-day. I must sit alone and think.
WALT WHITMAN.
Later, in
conversations with Horace Traubel which the latter has preserved in his min=
ute
biography of Whitman, he was able to express his regard for Mrs. Gilchrist =
more
fully--"a supreme character of whom the world knows too little for its=
own
good ... If her sayings had been recorded--I do not say she would pale, but=
I
do say she would equal the best of the women of our century--add something =
as
great as any to the testimony on the side of her sex." And at another
time: "Oh! she was strangely different from the average; entirely hers=
elf;
as simple as nature; true, honest; beautiful as a tree is tall, leafy, rich,
full, free--is a tree. Yet, free as she was by nature, bound by no
conventionalisms, she was the most courageous of women; more than queenly; =
of
high aspect in the best sense. She was not cold; she had her passions; I ha=
ve
known her to warm up--to resent something that was said; some impeachment of
good things--great things; of a person sometimes; she had the largest chari=
ty,
the sweetest fondest optimism.... She was a radical of radicals; enjoyed all
sorts of high enthusiasms: was exquisitely sensitized; belonged to the times
yet to come; her vision went on and on."
This searching
interpretation of her character wants only her artist son's description of =
her
personal appearance to make the final picture complete: "A little abov=
e the
average height, she walked with an even, light step. Brown hair concealed a
full and finely chiselled brow, and her hazel eyes bent upon you a bright a=
nd
penetrating gaze. Whilst conversing her face became radiant as with an
experience of golden years; humour was present in her conversation--flecks =
of
sunshine, such as sometimes play about the minds of deeply religious nature=
s.
Her animated manner seldom flagged, and charmed the taciturn to talking in =
his
or her best humour." Once, when speaking to Walt Whitman of the beauty=
of
the human speaking voice, he replied: "The voice indicates the soul. H=
ers,
with its varied modulations and blended tones, was the tenderest, most musi=
cal
voice ever to bless our ears."
Her death was a
long-lasting shock to Whitman. "She was a wonderful woman--a sort of h=
uman
miracle to me.... Her taking off ... was a great shock to me: I have never
quite got over it: she was near to me: she was subtle: her grasp on my work=
was
tremendous--so sure, so all around, so adequate." If this sounds a tri=
fle
self-centred in its criticism, not so was the poem which, in memory of her,=
he
wrote as a fitting epitaph from the poet she had loved.
My science-friend, my noblest
woman-friend (Now buried in an English grave=
--and
this a memory-leaf for her dear sake), Ended our talk--"The sum,
concluding all we know of old or modern learn=
ing,
intuitions deep, Of all
Geologies--Histories--of all Astronomy--of Evolution, Metaphysics all, =
Is, that we all are onward, o=
nward,
speeding slowly, surely bettering, Life, life an endless march, =
an
endless army (no halt, but, it is duly over)=
, The world, the race, the soul=
--in
space and time the universes, All bound as is befitting eac=
h--all
surely going somewhere."
THE LETTERS OF ANNE GILCH=
RIST
AND WALT WHITMAN
A WOMAN'S ESTIMATE OF WALT
WHITMAN[1]
[FROM LETTERS BY =
ANNE
GILCHRIST TO W. M. ROSSETTI.]
June 23, 1869.--I am very sure you =
are
right in your estimate of Walt Whitman. There is nothing in him that I shall
ever let go my hold of. For me the reading of his poems is truly a new birt=
h of
the soul.
I shall quite
fearlessly accept your kind offer of the loan of a complete edition, certain
that great and divinely beautiful nature has not, could not infuse any pois=
on
into the wine he has poured out for us. And as for what you specially allude
to, who so well able to bear it--I will say, to judge wisely of it--as one =
who,
having been a happy wife and mother, has learned to accept all things with
tenderness, to feel a sacredness in all? Perhaps Walt Whitman has
forgotten--or, through some theory in his head, has overridden--the truth t=
hat
our instincts are beautiful facts of nature, as well as our bodies; and tha=
t we
have a strong instinct of silence about some things.
July 11.--I think=
it
was very manly and kind of you to put the whole of Walt Whitman's poems int=
o my
hands; and that I have no other friend who would have judged them and me so
wisely and generously.
I had not dreamed
that words could cease to be words, and become electric streams like these.=
I
do assure you that, strong as I am, I feel sometimes as if I had not bodily
strength to read many of these poems. In the series headed "Calamus,&q=
uot;
for instance, in some of the "Songs of Parting," the "Voice =
out
of the Sea," the poem beginning "Tears, Tears," &c., the=
re
is such a weight of emotion, such a tension of the heart, that mine refuses=
to
beat under it,--stands quite still,--and I am obliged to lay the book down =
for
a while. Or again, in the piece called "Walt Whitman," and one or=
two
others of that type, I am as one hurried through stormy seas, over high
mountains, dazed with sunlight, stunned with a crowd and tumult of faces and
voices, till I am breathless, bewildered, half dead. Then come parts and wh=
ole
poems in which there is such calm wisdom and strength of thought, such a
cheerful breadth of sunshine, that the soul bathes in them renewed and
strengthened. Living impulses flow out of these that make me exult in life,=
yet
look longingly towards "the superb vistas of Death." Those who ad=
mire
this poem, and don't care for that, and talk of formlessness, absence of me=
tre,
&c., are quite as far from any genuine recognition of Walt Whitman as h=
is
bitter detractors. Not, of course, that all the pieces are equal in power a=
nd
beauty, but that all are vital; they grew--they were not made. We criticise=
a
palace or a cathedral; but what is the good of criticising a forest? Are not
the hitherto-accepted masterpieces of literature akin rather to noble archi=
tecture;
built up of material rendered precious by elaboration; planned with subtile=
art
that makes beauty go hand in hand with rule and measure, and knows where th=
e last
stone will come, before the first is laid; the result stately, fixed, yet s=
uch
as might, in every particular, have been different from what it is (therefo=
re
inviting criticism), contrasting proudly with the careless freedom of natur=
e,
opposing its own rigid adherence to symmetry to her willful dallying with i=
t?
But not such is this book. Seeds brought by the winds from north, south, ea=
st,
and west, lying long in the earth, not resting on it like the stately build=
ing,
but hid in and assimilating it, shooting upwards to be nourished by the air=
and
the sunshine and the rain which beat idly against that,--each bough and twig
and leaf growing in strength and beauty its own way, a law to itself, yet, =
with
all this freedom of spontaneous growth, the result inevitable, unalterable =
(therefore
setting criticism at naught), above all things, vital,--that is, a source of
ever-generating vitality: such are these poems.
"Roots and leaves themselves =
alone
are these, Scents broug=
ht to
men and women from the wild woods and from the ponds=
ide, Breast sorrel and pinks of lo=
ve,
fingers that wind around tighter than vines=
, Gushes from the throats of bi=
rds
hid in the foliage of trees as the sun is ri=
sen, Breezes of land and love, bre=
ezes
set from living shores out to you on the l=
iving
sea,--to you, O sailors! Frost-mellowed berries and
Third-month twigs, offered fresh to young perso=
ns
wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up, Love-buds put before you and =
within
you, whoever you are, B=
uds to
be unfolded on the old terms. If you bring the warmth of th=
e sun
to them, they will open, and bring form,
colour, perfume, to you: If
you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall
branches and trees."
And the music tak=
es
good care of itself, too. As if it could be otherwise! As if those "la=
rge,
melodious thoughts," those emotions, now so stormy and wild, now of
unfathomed tenderness and gentleness, could fail to vibrate through the wor=
ds
in strong, sweeping, long-sustained chords, with lovely melodies winding in=
and
out fitfully amongst them! Listen, for instance, to the penetrating sweetne=
ss,
set in the midst of rugged grandeur, of the passage beginning,--
"I am he that walks with the =
tender
and growing night; I ca=
ll to
the earth and sea half held by the night."
I see that no
counting of syllables will reveal the mechanism of the music; and that this
rushing spontaneity could not stay to bind itself with the fetters of metre.
But I know that the music is there, and that I would not for something chan=
ge
ears with those who cannot hear it. And I know that poetry must do one of t=
wo
things,--either own this man as equal with her highest completest manifesto=
rs,
or stand aside, and admit that there is something come into the world noble=
r,
diviner than herself, one that is free of the universe, and can tell its
secrets as none before.
I do not think or
believe this; but see it with the same unmistakable definiteness of percept=
ion
and full consciousness that I see the sun at this moment in the noonday sky,
and feel his rays glowing down upon me as I write in the open air. What more
can you ask of the works of a man's mouth than that they should "absorb
into you as food and air, to appear again in your strength, gait,
face,"--that they should be "fibre and filter to your blood,"
joy and gladness to your whole nature?
I am persuaded th=
at
one great source of this kindling, vitalizing power--I suppose the great
source--is the grasp laid upon the present, the fearless and comprehensive
dealing with reality. Hitherto the leaders of thought have (except in scien=
ce)
been men with their faces resolutely turned backwards; men who have made of=
the
past a tyrant that beggars and scorns the present, hardly seeing any greatn=
ess
but what is shrouded away in the twilight, underground past; naming the pre=
sent
only for disparaging comparisons, humiliating distrust that tends to create=
the
very barrenness it complains of; bidding me warm myself at fires that went =
out
to mortal eyes centuries ago; insisting, in religion above all, that I must
either "look through dead men's eyes," or shut my own in helpless
darkness. Poets fancying themselves so happy over the chill and faded beaut=
y of
the past, but not making me happy at all,--rebellious always at being dragg=
ed
down out of the free air and sunshine of to-day.
But this poet, th=
is
"athlete, full of rich words, full of joy," takes you by the hand,
and turns you with your face straight forwards. The present is great enough=
for
him, because he is great enough for it. It flows through him as a "vast
oceanic tide," lifting up a mighty voice. Earth, "the eloquent, d=
umb,
great mother," is not old, has lost none of her fresh charms, none of =
her
divine meanings; still bears great sons and daughters, if only they would
possess themselves and accept their birthright,--a richer, not a poorer,
heritage than was ever provided before,--richer by all the toil and sufferi=
ng
of the generations that have preceded, and by the further unfolding of the
eternal purposes. Here is one come at last who can show them how; whose son=
gs
are the breath of a glad, strong, beautiful life, nourished sufficingly,
kindled to unsurpassed intensity and greatness by the gifts of the present.=
"Each moment and whatever hap=
pens
thrills me with joy."
"O the joy of my soul leaning
poised on itself,--receiving identity throu=
gh
materials, and loving them,--observing characters, and absor=
bing
them! O my soul vibrate=
d back
to me from them!
"O the gleesome saunter over =
fields
and hillsides! The leav=
es and
flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist, fresh still=
ness
of the woods, The exqui=
site
smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the foren=
oon.
"O to realize space! The plenteousness of all--that
there are no bounds; To
emerge, and be of the sky--of the sun and moon and the flying clouds, as on=
e with
them.
"O the joy of suffering,-- To struggle against great odd=
s, to
meet enemies undaunted, To be
entirely alone with them--to find how much one can stand!"
I used to think it
was great to disregard happiness, to press on to a high goal, careless,
disdainful of it. But now I see that there is nothing so great as to be cap=
able
of happiness; to pluck it out of "each moment and whatever happens&quo=
t;;
to find that one can ride as gay and buoyant on the angry, menacing, tumult=
uous
waves of life as on those that glide and glitter under a clear sky; that it=
is
not defeat and wretchedness which come out of the storm of adversity, but
strength and calmness.
See, again, in the
pieces gathered together under the title "Calamus," and elsewhere,
what it means for a man to love his fellow-man. Did you dream it before? Th=
ese
"evangel-poems of comrades and of love" speak, with the abiding,
penetrating power of prophecy, of a "new and superb friendship"; =
speak
not as beautiful dreams, unrealizable aspirations to be laid aside in sober
moods, because they breathe out what now glows within the poet's own breast,
and flows out in action toward the men around him. Had ever any land before=
her
poet, not only to concentrate within himself her life, and, when she kindled
with anger against her children who were treacherous to the cause her life =
is
bound up with, to announce and justify her terrible purpose in words of
unsurpassable grandeur (as in the poem beginning, "Rise, O days, from =
your
fathomless deeps"), but also to go and with his own hands dress the
wounds, with his powerful presence soothe and sustain and nourish her suffe=
ring
soldiers,--hundreds of them, thousands, tens of thousands,--by day and by
night, for weeks, months, years?
"I sit by the restless all th=
e dark
night; some are so young, Some suffer so much: I recall=
the
experience sweet and sad. Many a soldier's loving arms =
about
this neck have crossed and rested, Many a soldier's kiss dwells =
on
these bearded lips:--"
Kisses, that touc=
hed
with the fire of a strange, new, undying eloquence the lips that received t=
hem!
The most transcendent genius could not, untaught by that "experience s=
weet
and sad," have breathed out hymns for her dead soldiers of such ineffa=
bly
tender, sorrowful, yet triumphant beauty.
But the present
spreads before us other things besides those of which it is easy to see the
greatness and beauty; and the poet would leave us to learn the hardest part=
of
our lesson unhelped if he took no heed of these; and would be unfaithful to=
his
calling, as interpreter of man to himself and of the scheme of things in
relation to him, if he did not accept all--if he did not teach "the gr=
eat
lesson of reception, neither preference nor denial." If he feared to
stretch out the hand, not of condescending pity, but of fellowship, to the
degraded, criminal, foolish, despised, knowing that they are only laggards =
in
"the great procession winding along the roads of the universe,"
"the far-behind to come on in their turn," knowing the
"amplitude of Time," how could he roll the stone of contempt off =
the
heart as he does, and cut the strangling knot of the problem of inherited
viciousness and degradation? And, if he were not bold and true to the utmos=
t,
and did not own in himself the threads of darkness mixed in with the thread=
s of
light, and own it with the same strength and directness that he tells of the
light, and not in those vague generalities that everybody uses, and nobody
means, in speaking on this head,--in the worst, germs of all that is in the
best; in the best, germs of all that is in the worst,--the brotherhood of t=
he
human race would be a mere flourish of rhetoric. And brotherhood is naught =
if
it does not bring brother's love along with it. If the poet's heart were not
"a measureless ocean of love" that seeks the lips and would quench
the thirst of all, he were not the one we have waited for so long. Who but =
he
could put at last the right meaning into that word "democracy," w=
hich
has been made to bear such a burthen of incongruous notions?
"By God! I will have nothing =
that
all cannot have their counterpart of on th=
e same
terms!"
flashing it forth
like a banner, making it draw the instant allegiance of every man and woman=
who
loves justice. All occupations, however homely, all developments of the
activities of man, need the poet's recognition, because every man needs the
assurance that for him also the materials out of which to build up a great =
and
satisfying life lie to hand, the sole magic in the use of them, all of the
right stuff in the right hands. Hence those patient enumerations of every
conceivable kind of industry:--
"In them far more than you
estimated--in them far less also."
Far more as a mea=
ns,
next to nothing as an end: whereas we are wont to take it the other way, and
think the result something, but the means a weariness. Out of all come
strength, and the cheerfulness of strength. I murmured not a little, to say=
the
truth, under these enumerations, at first. But now I think that not only is
their purpose a justification, but that the musical ear and vividness of
perception of the poet have enabled him to perform this task also with stre=
ngth
and grace, and that they are harmonious as well as necessary parts of the g=
reat
whole.
Nor do I sympathi=
ze
with those who grumble at the unexpected words that turn up now and then. A
quarrel with words is always, more or less, a quarrel with meanings; and he=
re
we are to be as genial and as wide as nature, and quarrel with nothing. If =
the
thing a word stands for exists by divine appointment (and what does not so
exist?), the word need never be ashamed of itself; the shorter and more dir=
ect,
the better. It is a gain to make friends with it, and see it in good compan=
y.
Here at all events, "poetic diction" would not serve,--not pretty,
soft, colourless words, laid by in lavender for the special uses of poetry,
that have had none of the wear and tear of daily life; but such as have sto=
od
most, as tell of human heart-beats, as fit closest to the sense, and have t=
aken
deep hues of association from the varied experiences of life--those are the
words wanted here. We only ask to seize and be seized swiftly,
over-masteringly, by the great meanings. We see with the eyes of the soul,
listen with the ears of the soul; the poor old words that have served so ma=
ny
generations for purposes, good, bad, and indifferent, and become warped and
blurred in the process, grow young again, regenerate, translucent. It is not
mere delight they give us,--that the "sweet singers," with their
subtly wrought gifts, their mellifluous speech, can give too in their degre=
e;
it is such life and health as enable us to pluck delights for ourselves out=
of
every hour of the day, and taste the sunshine that ripened the corn in the
crust we eat (I often seem to myself to do that).
Out of the scorn =
of
the present came skepticism; and out of the large, loving acceptance of it
comes faith. If now is so great and beautiful, I need no arguments to make =
me
believe that the nows of the past and of the future were and will be great =
and
beautiful, too.
"I know I am deathless. I know this orbit of mine can=
not be
swept by the carpenter's compass. I know I shall not pass, like=
a
child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at ni=
ght. I know I am august. I do not trouble my spirit to
vindicate itself or be understood.
"My foothold is tenoned and
mortised in granite: I =
laugh
at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of
Time."
"No array of terms can say ho=
w much
I am at peace about God and Death."
You argued rightly
that my confidence would not be betrayed by any of the poems in this book. =
None
of them troubled me even for a moment; because I saw at a glance that it was
not, as men had supposed, the heights brought down to the depths, but the
depths lifted up level with the sunlit heights, that they might become clear
and sunlit, too. Always, for a woman, a veil woven out of her own soul--nev=
er
touched upon even, with a rough hand, by this poet. But, for a man, a darin=
g,
fearless pride in himself, not a mock-modesty woven out of delusions--a very
poor imitation of a woman's. Do they not see that this fearless pride, this
complete acceptance of themselves, is needful for her pride, her justificat=
ion?
What! is it all so ignoble, so base, that it will not bear the honest light=
of
speech from lips so gifted with "the divine power to use words?" =
Then
what hateful, bitter humiliation for her, to have to give herself up to the
reality! Do you think there is ever a bride who does not taste more or less
this bitterness in her cup? But who put it there? It must surely be man's
fault, not God's, that she has to say to herself, "Soul, look another
way--you have no part in this. Motherhood is beautiful, fatherhood is
beautiful; but the dawn of fatherhood and motherhood is not beautiful."=
; Do
they really think that God is ashamed of what he has made and appointed? An=
d,
if not, surely it is somewhat superfluous that they should undertake to be =
so
for him.
"The full-spread pride of man=
is
calming and excellent to the soul,"
Of a woman above =
all.
It is true that instinct of silence I spoke of is a beautiful, imperishable
part of nature, too. But it is not beautiful when it means an ignominious s=
hame
brooding darkly. Shame is like a very flexible veil, that follows faithfully
the shape of what it covers,--beautiful when it hides a beautiful thing, ug=
ly
when it hides an ugly one. It has not covered what was beautiful here; it h=
as
covered a mean distrust of a man's self and of his Creator. It was needed t=
hat
this silence, this evil spell, should for once be broken, and the daylight =
let in,
that the dark cloud lying under might be scattered to the winds. It was nee=
ded
that one who could here indicate for us "the path between reality and =
the
soul" should speak. That is what these beautiful, despised poems, the
"Children of Adam," do, read by the light that glows out of the r=
est
of the volume: light of a clear, strong faith in God, of an unfathomably de=
ep
and tender love for humanity,--light shed out of a soul that is "posse=
ssed
of itself."
"Natural life of me faithfully
praising things, Corroborating for ever the tr=
iumph
of things."
Now silence may b=
rood
again; but lovingly, happily, as protecting what is beautiful, not as hiding
what is unbeautiful; consciously enfolding a sweet and sacred mystery--augu=
st
even as the mystery of Death, the dawn as the setting: kindred grandeurs, w=
hich
to eyes that are opened shed a hallowing beauty on all that surrounds and
preludes them.
"O vast and well-veiled Death=
!
"O the beautiful touch of Dea=
th,
soothing and benumbing a few moments, for
reasons!"
He who can thus l=
ook
with fearlessness at the beauty of Death may well dare to teach us to look =
with
fearless, untroubled eyes at the perfect beauty of Love in all its appointed
realizations. Now none need turn away their thoughts with pain or shame; th=
ough
only lovers and poets may say what they will,--the lover to his own, the po=
et
to all, because all are in a sense his own. None need fear that this will b=
e harmful
to the woman. How should there be such a flaw in the scheme of creation tha=
t,
for the two with whom there is no complete life, save in closest sympathy,
perfect union, what is natural and happy for the one should be baneful to t=
he other?
The utmost faithful freedom of speech, such as there is in these poems, cre=
ates
in her no thought or feeling that shuns the light of heaven, none that are =
not
as innocent and serenely fair as the flowers that grow; would lead, not to
harm, but to such deep and tender affection as makes harm or the thought of
harm simply impossible. Far more beautiful care than man is aware of has be=
en
taken in the making of her, to fit her to be his mate. God has taken such c=
are
that he need take none; none, that is, which consists in disguisement,
insincerity, painful hushing-up of his true, grand, initiating nature. And,=
as
regards the poet's utterances, which, it might be thought, however harmless=
in
themselves, would prove harmful by falling into the hands of those for whom
they are manifestly unsuitable, I believe that even here fear is needless. =
For
her innocence is folded round with such thick folds of ignorance, till the =
right
way and time for it to accept knowledge, that what is unsuitable is also
unintelligible to her; and, if no dark shadow from without be cast on the w=
hite
page by misconstruction or by foolish mystery and hiding away of it, no hurt
will ensue from its passing freely through her hands.
This is so, thoug=
h it
is little understood or realized by men. Wives and mothers will learn throu=
gh
the poet that there is rejoicing grandeur and beauty there wherein their he=
arts
have so longed to find it; where foolish men, traitors to themselves, poorly
comprehending the grandeur of their own or the beauty of a woman's nature, =
have
taken such pains to make her believe there was none,--nothing but miserable
discrepancy.
One of the hardest
things to make a child understand is, that down underneath your feet, if yo=
u go
far enough, you come to blue sky and stars again; that there really is no
"down" for the world, but only in every direction an "up.&qu=
ot;
And that this is an all-embracing truth, including within its scope every
created thing, and, with deepest significance, every part, faculty, attribu=
te,
healthful impulse, mind, and body of a man (each and all facing towards and
related to the Infinite on every side), is what we grown children find it
hardest to realize, too. Novalis said, "We touch heaven when we lay our
hand on the human body"; which, if it mean anything, must mean an ample
justification of the poet who has dared to be the poet of the body as well =
as
of the soul,--to treat it with the freedom and grandeur of an ancient sculp=
tor.
"Not physiognomy alone nor br=
ain
alone is worthy of the muse:--I say the form =
complete
is worthier far.
"These are not parts and poem=
s of
the body only, but of the soul.
"O, I say now these are soul.=
"
But while
Novalis--who gazed at the truth a long way off, up in the air, in a safe,
comfortable, German fashion--has been admiringly quoted by high authorities,
the great American who has dared to rise up and wrestle with it, and bring =
it
alive and full of power in the midst of us, has been greeted with a very
different kind of reception, as has happened a few times before in the worl=
d in
similar cases. Yet I feel deeply persuaded that a perfectly fearless, candi=
d,
ennobling treatment of the life of the body (so inextricably intertwined wi=
th,
so potent in its influence on the life of the soul) will prove of inestimab=
le
value to all earnest and aspiring natures, impatient of the folly of the
long-prevalent belief that it is because of the greatness of the spirit tha=
t it
has learned to despise the body, and to ignore its influences; knowing well
that it is, on the contrary, just because the spirit is not great enough, n=
ot
healthy and vigorous enough, to transfuse itself into the life of the body,=
elevating
that and making it holy by its own triumphant intensity; knowing, too, how =
the
body avenges this by dragging the soul down to the level assigned itself.
Whereas the spirit must lovingly embrace the body, as the roots of a tree
embrace the ground, drawing thence rich nourishment, warmth, impulse. Or,
rather, the body is itself the root of the soul--that whereby it grows and
feeds. The great tide of healthful life that carries all before it must sur=
ge
through the whole man, not beat to and fro in one corner of his brain.
"O the life of my senses and =
flesh,
transcending my senses and flesh!"
For the sake of a=
ll
that is highest, a truthful recognition of this life, and especially of tha=
t of
it which underlies the fundamental ties of humanity--the love of husband and
wife, fatherhood, motherhood--is needed. Religion needs it, now at last ali=
ve
to the fact that the basis of all true worship is comprised in "the gr=
eat
lesson of reception, neither preference nor denial," interpreting, lov=
ing,
rejoicing in all that is created, fearing and despising nothing.
"I accept reality, and dare n=
ot
question it."
The dignity of a =
man,
the pride and affection of a woman, need it too. And so does the intellect.=
For
science has opened up such elevating views of the mystery of material exist=
ence
that, if poetry had not bestirred herself to handle this theme in her own w=
ay,
she would have been left behind by her plodding sister. Science knows that
matter is not, as we fancied, certain stolid atoms which the forces of natu=
re
vibrate through and push and pull about; but that the forces and the atoms =
are
one mysterious, imperishable identity, neither conceivable without the othe=
r. She
knows, as well as the poet, that destructibility is not one of nature's wor=
ds;
that it is only the relationship of things--tangibility, visibility--that a=
re
transitory. She knows that body and soul are one, and proclaims it undaunte=
dly,
regardless, and rightly regardless, of inferences. Timid onlookers, aghast,
think it means that soul is body--means death for the soul. But the poet kn=
ows
it means body is soul--the great whole imperishable; in life and in death
continually changing substance, always retaining identity. For, if the man =
of
science is happy about the atoms, if he is not baulked or baffled by appare=
nt decay
or destruction, but can see far enough into the dimness to know that not on=
ly
is each atom imperishable, but that its endowments, characteristics,
affinities, electric and other attractions and repulsions--however suspende=
d,
hid, dormant, masked, when it enters into new combinations--remain unchange=
d,
be it for thousands of years, and, when it is again set free, manifest
themselves in the old way, shall not the poet be happy about the vital whol=
e?
shall the highest force, the vital, that controls and compels into complete
subservience for its own purposes the rest, be the only one that is
destructible? and the love and thought that endow the whole be less enduring
than the gravitating, chemical, electric powers that endow its atoms? But
identity is the essence of love and thought--I still I, you still you.
Certainly no man need ever again be scared by the "dark hush" and=
the
little handful of refuse.
"You are not scattered to the
winds--you gather certainly and safely around
yourself."
"Sure as Life holds all parts
together, Death holds all parts together."
"All goes onward and outward:
nothing collapses."
"What I am, I am of my body; =
and
what I shall be, I shall be of my body.=
"
"The body parts away at last =
for
the journeys of the soul."
Science knows that
whenever a thing passes from a solid to a subtle air, power is set free to a
wider scope of action. The poet knows it too, and is dazzled as he turns his
eyes toward "the superb vistas of death." He knows that "the
perpetual transfers and promotions" and "the amplitude of time&qu=
ot;
are for a man as well as for the earth. The man of science, with unwearied,
self-denying toil, finds the letters and joins them into words. But the poet
alone can make complete sentences. The man of science furnishes the premise=
s;
but it is the poet who draws the final conclusion. Both together are
"swiftly and surely preparing a future greater than all the past."
But, while the man of science bequeaths to it the fruits of his toil, the p=
oet,
this mighty poet, bequeaths himself--"Death making him really
undying." He will "stand as nigh as the nighest" to these men
and women. For he taught them, in words which breathe out his very heart an=
d soul
into theirs, that "love of comrades" which, like the "soft-b=
orn measureless
light," makes wholesome and fertile every spot it penetrates to, light=
ing
up dark social and political problems, and kindling into a genial glow that
great heart of justice which is the life-source of Democracy. He, the belov=
ed
friend of all, initiated for them a "new and superb friendship";
whispered that secret of a godlike pride in a man's self, and a perfect tru=
st
in woman, whereby their love for each other, no longer poisoned and stifled,
but basking in the light of God's smile, and sending up to him a perfume of
gratitude, attains at last a divine and tender completeness. He gave a
faith-compelling utterance to that "wisdom which is the certainty of t=
he
reality and immortality of things, and of the excellence of things." H=
appy
America, that he should be her son! One sees, indeed, that only a young gia=
nt
of a nation could produce this kind of greatness, so full of the ardour, the
elasticity, the inexhaustible vigour and freshness, the joyousness, the
audacity of youth. But I, for one, cannot grudge anything to America. For,
after all, the young giant is the old English giant--the great English race
renewing its youth in that magnificent land, "Mexican-breathed,
Arctic-braced," and girding up its loins to start on a new career that
shall match with the greatness of the new home.
A CONFESSION OF FAITH[2]<=
/span>
"Of genius in the Fine Arts,&q=
uot;
wrote Wordsworth, "the only infallible sign is the widening the sphere=
of
human sensibility for the delight, honour, and benefit of human nature. Gen=
ius
is the introduction of a new element into the intellectual universe, or, if
that be not allowed, it is the application of powers to objects on which th=
ey
had not before been exercised, or the employment of them in such a manner a=
s to
produce effects hitherto unknown. What is all this but an advance or conque=
st
made by the soul of the poet? Is it to be supposed that the reader can make=
progress
of this kind like an Indian prince or general stretched on his palanquin and
borne by slaves? No; he is invigorated and inspirited by his leader in order
that he may exert himself, for he cannot proceed in quiescence, he cannot be
carried like a dead weight. Therefore to create taste is to call forth and
bestow power."
A great poet, the=
n,
is "a challenge and summons"; and the question first of all is not
whether we like or dislike him, but whether we are capable of meeting that
challenge, of stepping out of our habitual selves to answer that summons. He
works on Nature's plan: Nature, who teaches nothing but supplies infinite
material to learn from; who never preaches but drives home her meanings by =
the
resistless eloquence of effects. Therefore the poet makes greater demands u=
pon
his reader than any other man. For it is not a question of swallowing his i=
deas
or admiring his handiwork merely, but of seeing, feeling, enjoying, as he s=
ees,
feels, enjoys. "The messages of great poems to each man and woman
are," says Walt Whitman, "come to us on equal terms, only then can
you understand us. We are no better than you; what we enclose you enclose, =
what
we enjoy you may enjoy"--no better than you potentially, that is; but =
if
you would understand us the potential must become the actual, the dormant
sympathies must awaken and broaden, the dulled perceptions clear themselves=
and
let in undreamed of delights, the wonder-working imagination must respond, =
the ear
attune itself, the languid soul inhale large draughts of love and hope and
courage, those "empyreal airs" that vitalize the poet's world. No=
wonder
the poet is long in finding his audience; no wonder he has to abide the
"inexorable tests of Time," which, if indeed he be great, slowly
turns the handful into hundreds, the hundreds into thousands, and at last
having done its worst, grudgingly passes him on into the ranks of the
Immortals.
Meanwhile let not=
the
handful who believe that such a destiny awaits a man of our time cease to g=
ive
a reason for the faith that is in them.
So far as the
suffrages of his own generation go Walt Whitman may, like Wordsworth, tell =
of
the "love, the admiration, the indifference, the slight, the aversion,=
and
even the contempt" with which his poems have been received; but the lo=
ve
and admiration are from even a smaller number, the aversion, the contempt m=
ore
vehement, more universal and persistent than Wordsworth ever encountered. F=
or
the American is a more daring innovator; he cuts loose from precedent, is a
very Columbus who has sailed forth alone on perilous seas to seek new shore=
s,
to seek a new world for the soul, a world that shall give scope and elevati=
on
and beauty to the changed and changing events, aspirations, conditions of
modern life. To new aims, new methods; therefore let not the reader approac=
h these
poems as a judge, comparing, testing, measuring by what has gone before, bu=
t as
a willing learner, an unprejudiced seeker for whatever may delight and nour=
ish
and exalt the soul. Neither let him be abashed nor daunted by the weight of
adverse opinion, the contempt and denial which have been heaped upon the gr=
eat
American even though it be the contempt and denial of the capable, the
cultivated, the recognized authorities; for such is the usual lot of the
pioneer in whatever field. In religion it is above all to the earnest and
conscientious believer that the Reformer has appeared a blasphemer, and in =
the
world of literature it is equally natural that the most careful student, th=
at
the warmest lover of the accepted masterpieces, should be the most hostile =
to
one who forsakes the methods by which, or at any rate, in company with whic=
h,
those triumphs have been achieved. "But," said the wise Goethe,
"I will listen to any man's convictions; you may keep your doubts, your
negations to yourself, I have plenty of my own." For heartfelt convict=
ions
are rare things. Therefore I make bold to indicate the scope and source of
power in Walt Whitman's writings, starting from no wider ground than their
effect upon an individual mind. It is not criticism I have to offer; least =
of
all any discussion of the question of form or formlessness in these poems,
deeply convinced as I am that when great meanings and great emotions are ex=
pressed
with corresponding power, literature has done its best, call it what you
please. But my aim is rather to suggest such trains of thought, such experi=
ence
of life as having served to put me en rapport with this poet may haply find
here and there a reader who is thereby helped to the same end. Hence I quote
just as freely from the prose (especially from "Democratic Vistas"
and the preface to the first issue of "Leaves of Grass," 1855) as
from his poems, and more freely, perhaps, from those parts that have proved=
a
stumbling-block than from those whose conspicuous beauty assures them
acceptance.
Fifteen years ago,
with feelings partly of indifference, partly of antagonism--for I had heard
none but ill words of them--I first opened Walt Whitman's poems. But as I r=
ead
I became conscious of receiving the most powerful influence that had ever c=
ome
to me from any source. What was the spell? It was that in them humanity has=
, in
a new sense, found itself; for the first time has dared to accept itself
without disparagement, without reservation. For the first time an unrestric=
ted
faith in all that is and in the issues of all that happens has burst forth
triumphantly into song.
"... The rapture of the halle=
lujah
sent From all that brea=
thes
and is ..."
rings through the=
se
poems. They carry up into the region of Imagination and Passion those vaster
and more profound conceptions of the universe and of man reached by centuri=
es
of that indomitably patient organized search for knowledge, that "skil=
ful
cross-questioning of things" called science.
"O truth of the earth I am
determined to press my way toward you. Sound your voice! I scale the
mountains, I dive in the sea after you,"
cried science; and
the earth and the sky have answered, and continue inexhaustibly to answer h=
er
appeal. And now at last the day dawns which Wordsworth prophesied of: "=
;The
man of science," he wrote, "seeks truth as a remote and unknown
benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude. The Poet, singing a =
song
in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth =
as our
visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit =
of
all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance=
of
all science, it is the first and last of all knowledge; it is immortal as t=
he
heart of man. If the labours of men of science should ever create any mater=
ial revolution,
direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we
habitually receive, the Poet will then sleep no more than at present; he wi=
ll
be ready to follow the steps of the man of science not only in those general
indirect effects, but he will be at his side carrying sensation into the mi=
dst
of the objects of science itself. If the time should ever come when what is=
now
called science, thus familiarized to man, shall be ready to put on, as it w=
ere,
a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the
transfiguration, and will welcome the being thus produced as a dear and gen=
uine
inmate of the household of man." That time approaches: a new heaven an=
d a
new earth await us when the knowledge grasped by science is realized, conce=
ived
as a whole, related to the world within us by the shaping spirit of imagina=
tion.
Not in vain, already, for this Poet have they pierced the darkness of the p=
ast,
and read here and there a word of the earth's history before human eyes beh=
eld
it; each word of infinite significance, because involving in it secrets of =
the
whole. A new anthem of the slow, vast, mystic dawn of life he sings in the =
name
of humanity.
"I am an acme of things
accomplish'd, and I am an encloser of things to be.
"My feet strike an apex of the
apices of the stairs; On
every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps; All below duly travell'd and =
still
I mount and mount.
"Rise after rise bow the phan=
toms
behind me: Afar down I =
see
the huge first Nothing--I know I was even there; I waited unseen and always, a=
nd
slept through the lethargic mist, And took my time, and took no=
hurt
from the fetid carbon.
"Long I was hugg'd close--lon=
g and
long.
"Immense have been the prepar=
ations
for me, Faithful and fr=
iendly
the arms that have help'd me. Cycles ferried my cradle, row=
ing
and rowing like cheerful boatmen; For room to me stars kept asi=
de in
their own rings, They s=
ent
influences to look after what was to hold me.
"Before I was born out of my
mother, generations guided me; My embryo has never been
torpid--nothing could overlay it.
"For it the nebula cohered to=
an
orb, The long slow stra=
ta
piled to rest it on, Va=
st
vegetables gave it sustenance, Monstrous sauroids transporte=
d it
in their mouths and deposited it with care.=
"All forces have been steadily
employ'd to complete and delight me; Now on this spot I stand with=
my
robust Soul."
Not in vain have =
they
pierced space as well as time and found "a vast similitude interlocking
all."
"I open my scuttle at night a=
nd see
the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see, multiplied as =
high
as I can cypher, edge but the rim of the f=
arther
systems.
"Wider and wider they spread,
expanding, always expanding, Outward, and outward, and for=
ever
outward.
"My sun has his sun, and roun=
d him
obediently wheels, He j=
oins
with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, maki=
ng
specks of the greatest inside them.
"There is no stoppage, and ne=
ver
can be stoppage; If I, =
you,
and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this =
moment
reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the l=
ong
run; We should surely b=
ring
up again where we now stand, And as surely go as much
farther--and then farther and farther."
Not in vain for h=
im
have they penetrated into the substances of things to find that what we tho=
ught
poor, dead, inert matter is (in Clerk Maxwell's words) "a very sanctua=
ry
of minuteness and power where molecules obey the laws of their existence, a=
nd
clash together in fierce collision, or grapple in yet more fierce embrace,
building up in secret the forms of visible things"; each stock and sto=
ne a
busy group of Ariels plying obediently their hidden tasks.
"Why! who makes much of a mir=
acle? As to me, I know of nothing e=
lse
but miracles,
*
"To me, every hour of the lig=
ht and
dark is a miracle, Every
cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surf=
ace of
the earth is spread with the same,=
... Every spear of grass--the fra=
mes,
limbs, organs, of men and women, and a=
ll
that concerns them, All=
these
to me are unspeakably perfect miracles."
The natural is the
supernatural, says Carlyle. It is the message that comes to our time from a=
ll
quarters alike; from poetry, from science, from the deep brooding of the
student of human history. Science materialistic? Rather it is the current
theology that is materialistic in comparison. Science may truly be said to =
have
annihilated our gross and brutish conceptions of matter, and to have reveal=
ed
it to us as subtle, spiritual, energetic beyond our powers of realization. =
It
is for the Poet to increase these powers of realization. He it is who must
awaken us to the perception of a new heaven and a new earth here where we s=
tand
on this old earth. He it is who must, in Walt Whitman's words, indicate the
path between reality and the soul.
Above all is every
thought and feeling in these poems touched by the light of the great
revolutionary truth that man, unfolded through vast stretches of time out of
lowly antecedents, is a rising, not a fallen creature; emerging slowly from
purely animal life; as slowly as the strata are piled and the ocean beds
hollowed; whole races still barely emerged, countless individuals in the
foremost races barely emerged: "the wolf, the snake, the hog" yet
lingering in the best; but new ideals achieved, and others come in sight, so
that what once seemed fit is fit no longer, is adhered to uneasily and with
shame; the conflicts and antagonisms between what we call good and evil, at
once the sign and the means of emergence, and needing to account for them n=
o supposed
primeval disaster, no outside power thwarting and marring the Divine handiw=
ork,
the perfect fitness to its time and place of all that has proceeded from the
Great Source. In a word that Evil is relative; is that which the slowly
developing reason and conscience bid us leave behind. The prowess of the li=
on,
the subtlety of the fox, are cruelty and duplicity in man.
"Silent and amazed, when a li=
ttle
boy, I remember I heard=
the
preacher every Sunday put God in his statements, As contending against some be=
ing or
influence."
says the poet. And
elsewhere, "Faith, very old now, scared away by science"--by the
daylight science lets in upon our miserable, inadequate, idolatrous concept=
ions
of God and of His works, and on the sophistications, subterfuges, moral
impossibilities, by which we have endeavoured to reconcile the
irreconcilable--the coexistence of omnipotent Goodness and an absolute Powe=
r of
Evil--"Faith must be brought back by the same power that caused her
departure: restored with new sway, deeper, wider, higher than ever." A=
nd
what else, indeed, at bottom, is science so busy at? For what is Faith?
"Faith," to borrow venerable and unsurpassed words, "is the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." And h=
ow
obtain evidence of things not seen but by a knowledge of things seen? And h=
ow
know what we may hope for, but by knowing the truth of what is, here and no=
w?
For seen and unseen are parts of the Great Whole: all the parts interdepend=
ent,
closely related; all alike have proceeded from and are manifestations of the
Divine Source. Nature is not the barrier between us and the unseen but the
link, the communication; she, too, has something behind appearances, has an
unseen soul; she, too, is made of "innumerable energies." Knowled=
ge
is not faith, but it is faith's indispensable preliminary and starting grou=
nd.
Faith runs ahead to fetch glad tidings for us; but if she start from a basi=
s of
ignorance and illusion, how can she but run in the wrong direction?
"Suppose," said that impetuous lover and seeker of truth, Cliffor=
d,
"Suppose all moving things to be suddenly stopped at some instant, and
that we could be brought fresh, without any previous knowledge, to look at =
the
petrified scene. The spectacle would be immensely absurd. Crowds of people
would be senselessly standing on one leg in the street looking at one anoth=
er's
backs; others would be wasting their time by sitting in a train in a place
difficult to get at, nearly all with their mouths open, and their bodies in
some contorted, unrestful posture. Clocks would stand with their pendulums =
on one
side. Everything would be disorderly, conflicting, in its wrong place. But =
once
remember that the world is in motion, is going somewhere, and everything wi=
ll
be accounted for and found just as it should be. Just so great a change of
view, just so complete an explanation is given to us when we recognize that=
the
nature of man and beast and of all the world is going somewhere. The
maladaptions in organic nature are seen to be steps toward the improvement =
or
discarding of imperfect organs. The baneful strife which lurketh inborn in =
us,
and goeth on the way with us to hurt us, is found to be the relic of a time=
of
savage or even lower condition." "Going somewhere!" That is =
the
meaning then of all our perplexities! That changes a mystery which stultifi=
ed
and contradicted the best we knew into a mystery which teaches, allures,
elevates; which harmonizes what we know with what we hope. By it we begin t=
o
"... see by the glad light, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And breathe the sweet air of
futurity."
The scornful laug=
hter
of Carlyle as he points with one hand to the baseness, ignorance, folly,
cruelty around us, and with the other to the still unsurpassed poets, sages,
heroes, saints of antiquity, whilst he utters the words "progress of t=
he
species!" touches us no longer when we have begun to realize "the
amplitude of time"; when we know something of the scale by which Nature
measures out the years to accomplish her smallest essential modification or
development; know that to call a few thousands or tens of thousands of years
antiquity, is to speak as a child, and that in her chronology the great day=
s of
Egypt and Syria, of Greece and Rome are affairs of yesterday.
"Each of us inevitable; Each of us limitless--each of=
us
with his or her right upon the earth; Each of us allow'd the eternal
purports of the earth; =
Each
of us here as divinely as any are here.
"You Hottentot with clicking
palate! You woolly hair'd hordes! You own'd persons, dropping
sweat-drops or blood-drops! You human forms with the fath=
omless
ever-impressive countenances of brute=
s! I dare not refuse you--the sc=
ope of
the world, and of time and space are upon =
me.
*
"I do not prefer others so ve=
ry
much before you either; I do
not say one word against you, away back there, where you stand; (You will come forward in due=
time
to my side.) My spirit =
has
pass'd in compassion and determination around the whole earth=
; I have look'd for equals and
lovers, and found them ready for me in all lands=
; I think some divine rapport h=
as
equalized me with them.
"O vapours! I think I have ri=
sen
with you, and moved away to distant conti=
nents
and fallen down there, for reasons; I think I have blown with you=
, O
winds; O waters, I have
finger'd every shore with you.
"I have run through what any =
river
or strait of the globe has run throu=
gh; I have taken my stand on the =
bases
of peninsulas, and on the high embed=
ded rocks,
to cry thence.
"Salu=
t au
monde! What cities the =
light
or warmth penetrates, I penetrate those cities mysel=
f; All islands to which birds wi=
ng
their way I wing my way myself.
"Towa=
rd
all, I raise high the
perpendicular hand--I make the signal, To remain after me in sight
forever, For all the ha=
unts
and homes of men."
But "Hold!&q=
uot;
says the reader, especially if he be one who loves science, who loves to fe=
el
the firm ground under his feet, "That the species has a great future b=
efore
it we may well believe; already we see the indications. But that the indivi=
dual
has is quite another matter. We can but balance probabilities here, and the
probabilities are very heavy on the wrong side; the poets must throw in wei=
ghty
matter indeed to turn the scale the other way!" Be it so: but ponder a
moment what science herself has to say bearing on this theme; what are the
widest, deepest facts she has reached down to. INDESTRUCTIBILITY: Amidst
ceaseless change and seeming decay all the elements, all the forces (if ind=
eed
they be not one and the same) which operate and substantiate those changes,
imperishable; neither matter nor force capable of annihilation. Endless
transformations, disappearances, new combinations, but diminution of the to=
tal amount
never; missing in one place or shape to be found in another, disguised ever=
so
long, ready always to re-emerge. "A particle of oxygen," wrote Fa=
raday,
"is ever a particle of oxygen; nothing can in the least wear it. If it
enters into combination and disappears as oxygen, if it pass through a thou=
sand
combinations, animal, vegetable, mineral--if it lie hid for a thousand years
and then be evolved, it is oxygen with its first qualities neither more nor
less." So then out of the universe is no door. CONTINUITY again is one=
of
Nature's irrevocable words; everything the result and outcome of what went
before; no gaps, no jumps; always a connecting principle which carries forw=
ard
the great scheme of things as a related whole, which subtly links past and =
present,
like and unlike. Nothing breaks with its past. "It is not," says
Helmholtz, "the definite mass of substance which now constitutes the b=
ody
to which the continuance of the individual is attached. Just as the flame
remains the same in appearance and continues to exist with the same form and
structure although it draws every moment fresh combustible vapour and fresh
oxygen from the air into the vortex of its ascending current; and just as t=
he
wave goes on in unaltered form and is yet being reconstructed every moment =
from
fresh particles of water, so is it also in the living being. For the materi=
al
of the body like that of flame is subject to continuous and comparatively r=
apid
change--a change the more rapid the livelier the activity of the organs in
question. Some constituents are renewed from day to day, some from month to
month, and others only after years. That which continues to exist as a
particular individual is, like the wave and the flame, only the form of mot=
ion
which continually attracts fresh matter into its vortex and expels the old.=
The
observer with a deaf ear recognizes the vibration of sound as long as it is
visible and can be felt, bound up with other heavy matter. Are our senses in
reference to life like the deaf ear in this respect?"
"You are not thrown to the
winds--you gather certainly and safely around
yourself;
*
It is not to diffuse you that you =
were
born of your mother and fathe=
r--it
is to identify you; It =
is not
that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided; Something long preparing and
formless is arrived and form'd in you, You are henceforth secure, wh=
atever
comes or goes.
"O Death! the voyage of Death=
! The beautiful touch of Death,
soothing and benumbing a few moments for reaso=
ns; Myself discharging my
excrementitious body to be burn'd or reduced to powde=
r or
buried. My real body
doubtless left me for other spheres, My voided body, nothing more =
to me,
returning to the purifications, farth=
er
offices, eternal uses of the earth."
Yes, they go their
way, those dismissed atoms with all their energies and affinities unimpaire=
d.
But they are not all; the will, the affections, the intellect are just as r=
eal
as those affinities and energies, and there is strict account of all; nothi=
ng
slips through; there is no door out of the universe. But they are qualities=
of
a personality, of a self, not of an atom but of what uses and dismisses tho=
se
atoms. If the qualities are indestructible so must the self be. The little =
heap
of ashes, the puff of gas, do you pretend that is all that was Shakespeare?=
The
rest of him lives in his works, you say? But he lived and was just the same=
man
after those works were produced. The world gained, but he lost nothing of h=
imself,
rather grew and strengthened in the production of them.
Still farther, th=
ose
faculties with which we seek for knowledge are only a part of us, there is
something behind which wields them, something that those faculties cannot t=
urn
themselves in upon and comprehend; for the part cannot compass the whole. Y=
et
there it is with the irrefragable proof of consciousness. Who should be the
mouthpiece of this whole? Who but the poet, the man most fully "posses=
sed
of his own soul," the man of the largest consciousness; fullest of love
and sympathy which gather into his own life the experiences of others, full=
est
of imagination; that quality whereof Wordsworth says that it
"... in truth Is
but another name for absolute power, And clearest insight, amplitu=
de of
mind And reason in her =
most
exalted mood."
Let Walt Whitman
speak for us:
"And I know I am solid and so=
und; To me the converging objects =
of the
universe perpetually flow: All are written to me, and I =
must
get what the writing means.
"I know I am deathless; I know this orbit of mine can=
not be
swept by the carpenter's compass; I know I shall not pass like a
child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at ni=
ght.
"I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to
vindicate itself or be understood; I see that the elementary laws
never apologize; (I rec=
kon I
behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)=
"I exist as I am--that is eno=
ugh; If no other in the world be a=
ware I
sit content; And if eac=
h one
and all be aware, I sit content.
"One world is aware, and by f=
ar the
largest to me, and that is myself; And whether I come to my own
to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years=
, I can cheerfully take it now,=
or
with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
"My foothold is tenon'd and
mortis'd in granite; I =
laugh
at what you call dissolution; And I know the amplitude of
time."
What lies through=
the
portal of death is hidden from us; but the laws that govern that unknown la=
nd
are not all hidden from us, for they govern here and now; they are immutabl=
e,
eternal.
"Of and in all these things <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have dream'd that we are no=
t to
be changed so much, nor the law of us chang=
ed, I have dream'd that heroes an=
d good
doers shall be under the present and past =
law, And that murderers, drunkards,
liars, shall be under the present and past =
law, For I have dream'd that the l=
aw
they are under now is enough."
And the law not t=
o be
eluded is the law of consequences, the law of silent teaching. That is the
meaning of disease, pain, remorse. Slow to learn are we; but success is ass=
ured
with limitless Beneficence as our teacher, with limitless time as our
opportunity. Already we begin--
"To know the Universe itself =
as a
road--as many roads As =
roads
for travelling souls. F=
or
ever alive; for ever forward. Stately, solemn, sad, withdra=
wn,
baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissa=
tisfied;
Desperate, proud, fond,=
sick;
Accepted by men, reject=
ed by
men. They go! they go! =
I know
that they go, but I know not where they go. But I know they go toward the=
best,
toward something great; The
whole Universe indicates that it is good."
Going somewhere! =
And
if it is impossible for us to see whither, as in the nature of things it mu=
st
be, how can we be adequate judges of the way? how can we but often grope an=
d be
full of perplexity? But we know that a smooth path, a paradise of a world,
could only nurture fools, cowards, sluggards. "Joy is the great
unfolder," but pain is the great enlightener, the great stimulus in
certain directions, alike of man and beast. How else could the self-preserv=
ing
instincts, and all that grows out of them, have been evoked? How else those
wonders of the moral world, fortitude, patience, sympathy? And if the lesso=
n be
too hard comes Death, come "the sure-enwinding arms of Death" to =
end
it, and speed us to the unknown land.
"... =
Man is
only weak Through his
mistrust and want of hope,"
wrote Wordsworth.=
But
man's mistrust of himself is, at bottom, mistrust of the central Fount of p=
ower
and goodness whence he has issued. Here comes one who plucks out of religion
its heart of fear, and puts into it a heart of boundless faith and joy; a f=
aith
that beggars previous faiths because it sees that All is good, not part bad=
and
part good; that there is no flaw in the scheme of things, no primeval disas=
ter,
no counteracting power; but orderly and sure growth and development, and th=
at
infinite Goodness and Wisdom embrace and ever lead forward all that exists.=
Are
you troubled that He is an unknown God; that we cannot by searching find Hi=
m out?
Why, it would be a poor prospect for the Universe if otherwise; if, embryos
that we are, we could compass Him in our thoughts:
"I hear and behold God in eve=
ry
object, yet understand God not in the least=
."
It is the double
misfortune of the churches that they do not study God in His works--man and
Nature and their relations to each other; and that they do profess to set H=
im
forth; that they worship therefore a God of man's devising, an idol made by
men's minds it is true, not by their hands, but none the less an idol.
"Leaves are not more shed out of trees than Bibles are shed out of
you," says the poet. They were the best of their time, but not of all =
time;
they need renewing as surely as there is such a thing as growth, as surely =
as
knowledge nourishes and sustains to further development; as surely as time
unrolls new pages of the mighty scheme of existence. Nobly has George Sand,
too, written: "Everything is divine, even matter; everything is
superhuman, even man. God is everywhere. He is in me in a measure proportio=
ned
to the little that I am. My present life separates me from Him just in the
degree determined by the actual state of childhood of our race. Let me cont=
ent
myself in all my seeking to feel after Him, and to possess of Him as much as
this imperfect soul can take in with the intellectual sense I have. The day
will come when we shall no longer talk about God idly; nay, when we shall t=
alk
about Him as little as possible. We shall cease to set Him forth dogmatical=
ly,
to dispute about His nature. We shall put compulsion on no one to pray to H=
im,
we shall leave the whole business of worship within the sanctuary of each m=
an's
conscience. And this will happen when we are really religious."
In what sense may
Walt Whitman be called the Poet of Democracy? It is as giving utterance to =
this
profoundly religious faith in man. He is rather the prophet of what is to be
than the celebrator of what is. "Democracy," he writes, "is a
word the real gist of which still sleeps quite unawakened, notwithstanding =
the
resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come =
from
pen or tongue. It is a great word, whose history, I suppose, remains unwrit=
ten
because that history has yet to be enacted. It is in some sort younger brot=
her
of another great and often used word, Nature, whose history also waits
unwritten." Political democracy, now taking shape, is the house to live
in, and whilst what we demand of it is room for all, fair chances for all, =
none
disregarded or left out as of no account, the main question, the kind of li=
fe
that is to be led in that house is altogether beyond the ken of the statesm=
en
as such, and is involved in those deepest facts of the nature and destiny o=
f man
which are the themes of Walt Whitman's writings. The practical outcome of t=
hat
exalted and all-accepting faith in the scheme of things, and in man, toward
whom all has led up and in whom all concentrates as the manifestation, the
revelation of Divine Power is a changed estimate of himself; a higher rever=
ence
for, a loftier belief in the heritage of himself; a perception that pride, =
not
humility, is the true homage to his Maker; that "noblesse oblige"=
is
for the Race, not for a handful; that it is mankind and womankind and their
high destiny which constrain to greatness, which can no longer stoop to
meanness and lies and base aims, but must needs clothe themselves in "=
the
majesty of honest dealing" (majestic because demanding courage as good=
as
the soldier's, self-denial as good as the saint's for every-day affairs), a=
nd
walk erect and fearless, a law to themselves, sternest of all lawgivers.
Looking back to the palmy days of feudalism, especially as immortalized in
Shakespeare's plays, what is it we find most admirable? what is it that
fascinates? It is the noble pride, the lofty self-respect; the dignity, the
courage and audacity of its great personages. But this pride, this dignity
rested half upon a true, half upon a hollow foundation; half upon intrinsic
qualities, half upon the ignorance and brutishness of the great masses of t=
he
people, whose helpless submission and easily dazzled imaginations made step=
ping-stones
to the elevation of the few, and "hedged round kings," with a
specious kind of "divinity." But we have our faces turned toward =
a new
day, and toward heights on which there is room for all.
"By God, I will accept nothing
which all cannot have their counterpart of on=
the
same terms"
is the motto of t=
he
great personages, the great souls of to-day. On the same terms, for that is
Nature's law and cannot be abrogated, the reaping as you sow. But all shall
have the chance to sow well. This is pride indeed! Not a pride that isolate=
s,
but that can take no rest till our common humanity is lifted out of the mire
everywhere, "a pride that cannot stretch too far because sympathy
stretches with it":
"Whoever you are! claim your =
own at
any hazard! These shows=
of
the east and west are tame, compared to you; These immense meadows--these
interminable rivers-- Y=
ou are
immense and interminable as they; These furies, elements, storm=
s,
motions of Nature, throes of apparent disso=
lution--you
are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own
right over Nature, elements, pain, passi=
on,
dissolution.
"The hopples fall from your
ankles--you find an unfailing sufficiency; Old or young, male or female,=
rude,
low, rejected by the rest, whatever you a=
re
promulges itself; Throu=
gh
birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scant=
ed; Through angers, losses, ambit=
ion,
ignorance and ennui, what you are picks=
its
way."
This is indeed a
pride that is "calming and excellent to the soul"; that "dis=
solves
poverty from its need and riches from its conceit."
And humility? Is
there, then, no place for that virtue so much praised by the haughty? Humil=
ity
is the sweet spontaneous grace of an aspiring, finely developed nature which
sees always heights ahead still unclimbed, which outstrips itself in eager
longing for excellence still unattained. Genuine humility takes good care of
itself as men rise in the scale of being; for every height climbed discloses
still new heights beyond. Or it is a wise caution in fortune's favourites l=
est
they themselves should mistake, as the unthinking crowd around do, the glit=
ter
reflected back upon them by their surroundings for some superiority inheren=
t in
themselves. It befits them well if there be also due pride, pride of humani=
ty
behind. But to say to a man, 'Be humble' is like saying to one who has a ba=
ttle
to fight, a race to run, 'You are a poor, feeble creature; you are not like=
ly
to win and you do not deserve to.' Say rather to him, 'Hold up your head! Y=
ou
were not made for failure, you were made for victory: go forward with a joy=
ful
confidence in that result sooner or later, and the sooner or the later depe=
nds
mainly on yourself.'
"What Christ
appeared for in the moral-spiritual field for humankind, namely, that in re=
spect
to the absolute soul there is in the possession of such by each single
individual something so transcendent, so incapable of gradations (like life)
that to that extent it places all being on a common level, utterly regardle=
ss
of the distinctions of intellect, virtue, station, or any height or lowline=
ss
whatever" is the secret source of that deathless sentiment of Equality
which how many able heads imagine themselves to have slain with ridicule and
contempt as Johnson, kicking a stone, imagined he had demolished Idealism w=
hen
he had simply attributed to the word an impossible meaning. True, Inequalit=
y is
one of Nature's words: she moves forward always by means of the exceptional.
But the moment the move is accomplished, then all her efforts are toward
equality, toward bringing up the rear to that standpoint. But social
inequalities, class distinctions, do not stand for or represent Nature's
inequalities. Precisely the contrary in the long run. They are devices for
holding up many that would else gravitate down and keeping down many who wo=
uld
else rise up; for providing that some should reap who have not sown, and ma=
ny sow
without reaping. But literature tallies the ways of Nature; for though itse=
lf
the product of the exceptional, its aim is to draw all men up to its own le=
vel.
The great writer is "hungry for equals day and night," for so only
can he be fully understood. "The meal is equally set"; all are in=
vited.
Therefore is literature, whether consciously or not, the greatest of all fo=
rces
on the side of Democracy.
Carlyle has said
there is no grand poem in the world but is at bottom a biography--the life =
of a
man. Walt Whitman's poems are not the biography of a man, but they are his
actual presence. It is no vain boast when he exclaims,
"Camerado! this is no book; <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Who touches this touches a
man."
He has infused
himself into words in a way that had not before seemed possible; and he cau=
ses
each reader to feel that he himself or herself has an actual relationship to
him, is a reality full of inexhaustible significance and interest to the po=
et.
The power of his book, beyond even its great intellectual force, is the pow=
er
with which he makes this felt; his words lay more hold than the grasp of a
hand, strike deeper than the gaze or the flash of an eye; to those who
comprehend him he stands "nigher than the nighest."
America has had t=
he
shaping of Walt Whitman, and he repays the filial debt with a love that kno=
ws
no stint. Her vast lands with their varied, brilliant climes and rich produ=
cts,
her political scheme, her achievements and her failures, all have contribut=
ed
to make these poems what they are both directly and indirectly. Above all h=
as
that great conflict, the Secession War, found voice in him. And if the read=
er
would understand the true causes and nature of that war, ostensibly waged
between North and South, but underneath a tussle for supremacy between the =
good
and the evil genius of America (for there were just as many secret sympathi=
zers
with the secession-slave-power in the North as in the South) he will find t=
he clue
in the pages of Walt Whitman. Rarely has he risen to a loftier height than =
in
the poem which heralds that volcanic upheaval:--
"Rise, O days, from your fath=
omless
deeps, till you loftier and fiercer sweep=
! Long for my soul, hungering
gymnastic, I devour'd what the earth gave me; <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Long I roam'd the woods of the
north--long I watch'd Niagara pouring; I travel'd the prairies over,=
and
slept on their breast-- I
cross'd the Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus; I ascended the towering rocks=
along
the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea; I sail'd through the storm, I=
was
refresh'd by the storm; I
watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves; I mark'd the white combs wher=
e they
career'd so high, curling over; I heard the wind piping, I sa=
w the
black clouds; Saw from =
below
what arose and mounted (O superb! O wild as my heart, and
powerful!) Heard the
continuous thunder, as it bellow'd after the lightning; Noted the slender and jagged
threads of lightning, as sudden and fast amid =
the
din they chased each other across the sky; --These, and such as these, I,
elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive and
masterful; All the mena=
cing
might of the globe uprisen around me; Yet there with my soul I fed-=
-I fed
content, supercilious.
"'Twas well, O soul! 'twas a =
good
preparation you gave me! Now
we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill; Now we go forth to receive wh=
at the
earth and the sea never gave us; Not through the mighty woods =
we go,
but through the mightier cities; Something for us is pouring n=
ow,
more than Niagara pouring; Torrents of men (sources and =
rills
of the Northwest, are you indeed inexh=
austible?)
What, to pavements and
homesteads here--what were those storms of the mount=
ains
and sea? What, to passi=
ons I
witness around me to-day? Was the sea risen? Was the wind piping the pipe =
of
death under the black clouds? Lo! from deeps more unfathoma=
ble,
something more deadly and savage; Manhattan, rising, advancing =
with
menacing front--Cincinnati, Chicago, uncha=
in'd; --What was that swell I saw o=
n the
ocean? behold what comes here! How it climbs with daring fee=
t and
hands! how it dashes! H=
ow the
true thunder bellows after the lightning! how bright the flashes of
lightning! How DEMOCRAC=
Y,
with desperate, vengeful port strides on, shown through the d=
ark by
those flashes of lightning! (Yet a mournful wail and low =
sob I
fancied I heard through the dark, In a lull of the deafening
confusion.)
"Thunder on! stride on, Democ=
racy!
stride with vengeful stroke! And do you rise higher than e=
ver
yet, O days, O cities! =
Crash
heavier, heavier yet, O storms! you have done me good; My soul, prepared in the moun=
tains,
absorbs your immortal strong nutri=
ment, --Long had I walk'd my cities=
, my
country roads, through farms, only half
satisfied; One doubt,
nauseous, undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground befor=
e me, Continually preceding my step=
s,
turning upon me oft, ironically hissing low; =
--The cities I loved so well,=
I
abandon'd and left--I sped to the certa=
inties
suitable to me; Hungeri=
ng,
hungering, hungering for primal energies, and nature's daunt=
lessness;
I refresh'd myself with=
it
only, I could relish it only; I waited the bursting forth o=
f the
pent fire--on the water and air I waited
long; --But now I no lo=
nger
wait--I am fully satisfied--I am glutted; I have witness'd the true
lightning--I have witness'd my cities electric; I have lived to behold man bu=
rst
forth, and warlike America rise; Hence I will seek no more the=
food
of the northern solitary wilds, No more on the mountain roam,=
or
sail the stormy sea."
But not for the p=
oet
a soldier's career. "To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently
watch the dead" was the part he chose. During the whole war he remained
with the army, but only to spend the days and nights, saddest, happiest of =
his
life, in the hospital tents. It was a beautiful destiny for this lover of m=
en,
and a proud triumph for this believer in the People; for it was the People =
that
he beheld, tried by severest tests. He saw them "of their own choice,
fighting, dying for their own idea, insolently attacked by the
secession-slave-power." From the workshop, the farm, the store, the de=
sk,
they poured forth, officered by men who had to blunder into knowledge at the
cost of the wholesale slaughter of their troops. He saw them "tried lo=
ng
and long by hopelessness, mismanagement, defeat; advancing unhesitatingly
through incredible slaughter; sinewy with unconquerable resolution. He saw =
them
by tens of thousands in the hospitals tried by yet drearier, more fearful
tests--the wound, the amputation, the shattered face, the slow hot fever, t=
he
long impatient anchorage in bed; he marked their fortitude, decorum, their
religious nature and sweet affection." Finally, newest, most significa=
nt
sight of all, victory achieved, the cause, the Union safe, he saw them retu=
rn
back to the workshop, the farm, the desk, the store, instantly reabsorbed i=
nto the
peaceful industries of the land:--
"A pause--the armies wait. A million flush'd embattled
conquerors wait. The wo=
rld,
too, waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn They melt, they disappear.&qu=
ot;
"Plentifully
supplied, last-needed proof of Democracy in its personalities!" ratify=
ing
on the broadest scale Wordsworth's haughty claim for average man--"Suc=
h is
the inherent dignity of human nature that there belong to it sublimities of
virtue which all men may attain, and which no man can transcend."
But, aware that p=
eace
and prosperity may be even still severer tests of national as of individual
virtue and greatness of mind, Walt Whitman scans with anxious, questioning =
eye
the America of to-day. He is no smooth-tongued prophet of easy greatness.
"I am he who walks the States=
with
a barb'd tongue questioning every one I=
meet;
Who are you, that wante=
d only
to be told what you knew before? Who are you, that wanted only=
a
book to join you in your nonsense?"
He sees clearly as
any the incredible flippancy, the blind fury of parties, the lack of great
leaders, the plentiful meanness and vulgarity; the labour question beginnin=
g to
open like a yawning gulf.... "We sail a dangerous sea of seething
currents, all so dark and untried.... It seems as if the Almighty had spread
before this nation charts of imperial destinies, dazzling as the sun, yet w=
ith
many a deep intestine difficulty, and human aggregate of cankerous imperfec=
tion
saying lo! the roads! The only plans of development, long and varied, with =
all
terrible balks and ebullitions! You said in your soul, I will be empire of
empires, putting the history of old-world dynasties, conquests, behind me a=
s of
no account--making a new history, a history of democracy ... I alone inaugu=
rating
largeness, culminating time. If these, O lands of America, are indeed the
prizes, the determinations of your soul, be it so. But behold the cost, and
already specimens of the cost. Thought you greatness was to ripen for you l=
ike
a pear? If you would have greatness, know that you must conquer it through =
ages
... must pay for it with proportionate price. For you, too, as for all land=
s,
the struggle, the traitor, the wily person in office, scrofulous wealth, the
surfeit of prosperity, the demonism of greed, the hell of passion, the deca=
y of
faith, the long postponement, the fossil-like lethargy, the ceaseless need =
of
revolutions, prophets, thunderstorms, deaths, new projections and invigorat=
ions
of ideas and men."
"Yet I have
dreamed, merged in that hidden-tangled problem of our fate, whose long
unravelling stretches mysteriously through time--dreamed, portrayed, hinted
already--a little or a larger band, a band of brave and true, unprecedented
yet, arm'd and equipt at every point, the members separated, it may be by
different dates and states, or south or north, or east or west, a year, a
century here, and other centuries there, but always one, compact in soul,
conscience-conserving, God-inculcating, inspired achievers not only in
literature, the greatest art, but achievers in all art--a new undying order,
dynasty from age to age transmitted, a band, a class at least as fit to cope
with current years, our dangers, needs, as those who, for their time, so lo=
ng,
so well, in armour or in cowl, upheld and made illustrious that
far-back-feudal, priestly world."
Of that band, is =
not
Walt Whitman the pioneer? Of that New World literature, say, are not his po=
ems
the beginning? A rude beginning if you will. He claims no more and no less.=
But
whatever else they may lack they do not lack vitality, initiative, sublimit=
y.
They do not lack that which makes life great and death, with its
"transfers and promotions, its superb vistas," exhilarating--a
resplendent faith in God and man which will kindle anew the faith of the
world:--
"Poets to come! Orators, sing=
ers,
musicians to come! Not =
to-day
is to justify me, and answer what I am for; But you, a new brood, native,
athletic, continental, greater than before known=
,
"Arouse! Arouse--for you must
justify me--you must answer.
"I myself but write one or two
indicative words for the future, I but advance a moment, only =
to
wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
"I am a man who, sauntering a=
long,
without fully stopping, turns a casua=
l look
upon you, and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and
define it, Expecting th=
e main
things from you."
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Photogravure from a painting by her=
son,
made in 1882]
WALT WHITMAN TO W=
. M.
ROSSETTI AND ANNE GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
Washington, Dece=
mber
9, 1869.
DEAR MR. ROSSETTI=
:
Your letter of la=
st
summer to William O'Connor with the passages transcribed from a lady's
correspondence, had been shown me by him, and copy lately furnished me, whi=
ch I
have just been rereading. I am deeply touched by these sympathies and
convictions, coming from a woman and from England, and am sure that if the =
lady
knew how much comfort it has been to me to get them, she would not only par=
don
you for transmitting them to Mr. O'Connor but approve that action. I realize
indeed of this emphatic and smiling well done from the heart and conscience=
of
a true wife and mother, and one too whose sense of the poetic, as I glean f=
rom
your letter, after flowing through the heart and conscience, must also move=
through
and satisfy science as much as the esthetic, that I had hitherto received no
eulogium so magnificent.
I send by same ma=
il
with this, same address as this letter, two photographs, taken within a few
months. One is intended for the lady (if I may be permitted to send it
her)--and will you please accept the other, with my respects and love? The
picture is by some criticised very severely indeed, but I hope you will not
dislike it, for I confess to myself a perhaps capricious fondness for it, a=
s my
own portrait, over some scores that have been made or taken at one time or
another.
I am still employ= ed in the Attorney General's office. My p. o. address remains the same. I am q= uite well and hearty. My new editions, considerably expanded, with what suggesti= ons &c. I have to offer, presented I hope in more definite form, will proba= bly get printed the coming spring. I shall forward you early copies. I send my = love to Moncuré Conway, if you see him. I wish he would write to me. If t= he pictures don't come, or get injured on the way, I will try again by express. I want = you to loan this letter to the lady, or if she wishes it, give it to her to keep.<= o:p>
WALT WHITMAN.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
September 3, 1871.
DEAR FRIEND:
At last the belov=
ed
books have reached my hand--but now I have them, my heart is so rent with
anguish, my eyes so blinded, I cannot read in them. I try again and again, =
but
too great waves come swaying up & suffocate me. I will struggle to tell=
you
my story. It seems to me a death struggle. When I was eighteen I met a lad =
of
nineteen[4] who loved me then, and always for the remainder of his life. Af=
ter
we had known each other about a year he asked me to be his wife. But I said
that I liked him well as my friend, but could not love him as a wife should
love & felt deeply convinced I never should. He was not turned aside, b=
ut
went on just the same as if that conversation had never passed. After a yea=
r he
asked me again, and I, deeply moved by and grateful for his steady love, an=
d so
sorry for him, said yes. But next day, terrified at what I had done and pai=
nfully
conscious of the dreary absence from my heart of any faintest gleam of true,
tender, wifely love,[5] said no again. This too he bore without desisting &=
amp;
at the end of some months once more asked me with passionate entreaties. Th=
en,
dear friend, I prayed very earnestly, and it seemed to me (that) that I sho=
uld
continue to mar & thwart his life so was not right, if he was content to
accept what I could give. I knew I could lead a good and wholesome life bes=
ide
him--his aims were noble--his heart a deep, beautiful, true Poet's heart; b=
ut
he had not the Poet's great brain. His path was a very arduous one, and I k=
new
I could smooth it for him--cheer him along it. It seemed to me God's will t=
hat
I should marry him. So I told him the whole truth, and he said he would rat=
her
have me on those terms than not have me at all. He said to me many times,
"Ah, Annie, it is not you who are so loved that is rich; it is I who so
love." And I knew this was true, felt as if my nature were poor &
barren beside his. But it was not so, it was only slumbering--undeveloped. =
For,
dear Friend, my soul was so passionately aspiring--it so thirsted & pin=
ed
for light, it had not power to reach alone and he could not help me on my w=
ay.
And a woman is so made that she cannot give the tender passionate devotion =
of her
whole nature save to the great conquering soul, stronger in its powers, tho=
ugh
not in its aspirations, than her own, that can lead her forever & forev=
er
up and on. It is for her soul exactly as it is for her body. The strong div=
ine
soul of the man embracing hers with passionate love--so alone the precious
germs within her soul can be quickened into life. And the time will come wh=
en
man will understand that a woman's soul is as dear and needful to his and as
different from his as her body to his body. This was what happened to me wh=
en I
had read for a few days, nay, hours, in your books. It was the divine soul
embracing mine. I never before dreamed what love meant: not what life meant.
Never was alive before--no words but those of "new birth" can hint
the meaning of what then happened to me.
The first few mon=
ths
of my marriage were dark and gloomy to me within, and sometimes I had
misgivings whether I had judged aright, but when I knew there was a dear ba=
by
coming my heart grew light, and when it was born, such a superb child--all
gloom & fear forever vanished. I knew it was God's seal to the marriage,
and my heart was full of gratitude and joy. It was a happy and a good life =
we
led together for ten short years, he ever tender and affectionate to me--lo=
ving
his children so, working earnestly in the wholesome, bracing atmosphere of
poverty--for it was but just possible with the most strenuous frugality and
industry to pay our way. I learned to cook & to turn my hand to all
household occupation--found it bracing, healthful, cheerful. Now I think it
more even now that I understand the divineness & sacredness of the Body=
. I
think there is no more beautiful task for a woman than ministering all ways=
to
the health & comfort & enjoyment of the dear bodies of those she lo=
ves:
no material that will work sweeter, more beautifully into that making of a
perfect poem of a man's life which is her true vocation.
In 1861 my childr= en took scarlet fever badly: I thought I should have lost my dear oldest girl. Then my husband took it--and in five days it carried him from me. I think, = dear friend, my sorrow was far more bitter, though not so deep, as that of a lov= ing tender wife. As I stood by him in the coffin I felt such remorse I had not, could not have, been more tender to him--such a conviction that if I had lo= ved him as he deserved to be loved he would not have been taken from us. To the last my soul dwelt apart & unmated & his soul dwelt apart unmated. = I do not fear the look of his dear silent eyes. I do not think he would even be grieved with me now. My youngest was then a baby. I have had much sweet tranquil happiness, much strenuous work and endeavour raising my darlings.<= o:p>
In May, 1869, came
the voice over the Atlantic to me--O, the voice of my Mate: it must be so--=
my
love rises up out of the very depths of the grief & tramples upon despa=
ir.
I can wait--any time, a lifetime, many lifetimes--I can suffer, I can dare,=
I
can learn, grow, toil, but nothing in life or death can tear out of my heart
the passionate belief that one day I shall hear that voice say to me, "=
;My
Mate. The one I so much want. Bride, Wife, indissoluble eternal!" It is
not happiness I plead with God for--it is the very life of my Soul, my love=
is
its life. Dear Walt. It is a sweet & precious thing, this love; it clin=
gs
so close, so close to the Soul and Body, all so tenderly dear, so beautiful=
, so
sacred; it yearns with such passion to soothe and comfort & fill thee w=
ith
sweet tender joy; it aspires as grandly as gloriously as thy own soul. Stro=
ng
to soar--soft & tender to nestle and caress. If God were to say to me,
"See--he that you love you shall not be given to in this life--he is g=
oing
to set sail on the unknown sea--will you go with him?" never yet has b=
ride
sprung into her husband's arms with the joy with which I would take thy hand
& spring from the shore.
Understand aright,
dear love, the reason of my silence. I was obeying the voice of conscience.=
I
thought I was to wait. For it is the instinct of a woman's nature to wait t=
o be
sought--not to seek. And when that May & June I was longing so
irrepressibly to write I resolutely restrained myself, believing if I were =
only
patient the right opening would occur. And so it did through Rossetti. And =
when
he, liking what I said, suggested my printing something, it met and enabled=
me
to carry into execution what I was brooding over. For I had, and still have=
, a
strong conviction that it was necessary for a woman to speak--that finally =
and
decisively only a woman can judge a man, only a man a woman, on the subject=
of
their relations. What is blameless, what is good in its effect on her, is g=
ood--however
it may have seemed to men. She is the test. And I never for a moment feared=
any
hard words against myself because I know these things are not judged by the
intellect but by the unerring instincts of the soul. I knew any man could n=
ot
but feel that it would be a happy and ennobling thing for him that his wife
should think & feel as I do on that subject--knew that what had filled =
me
with such great and beautiful thoughts towards men in that writing could not
fail to give them good & happy thoughts towards women in the reading. T=
he
cause of my consenting to Rossetti's[6] urgent advice that I should not put=
my
name, he so kindly solicitous, yet not altogether understanding me & it
aright, was that I did not rightly understand how it might be with my dear =
Boy
if it came before him. I thought perhaps he was not old enough to judge and=
understand
me aright; nor young enough to let it altogether alone. But it has been very
bitter & hateful to me this not standing to what I have said as it were,
with my own personality, better because of my utter love and faithfulness to
the cause & longing to stand openly and proudly in the ranks of its
friends; & for the lower reason that my nature is proud and as defiant =
as
thine own and immeasurably disdains any faintest appearance of being afraid=
of
what I had done.
And, my darling,
above all because I love thee so tenderly that if hateful words had been sp=
oken
against me I could have taken joy in it for thy dear sake. There never yet =
was
the woman who loved that would not joyfully bare her breast to wrest the bl=
ows
aimed at her beloved.
I know not what f=
iend
made me write those meaningless words in my letter, "it is pleasantest=
to
me" &c., but it was not fear or faithlessness--& it is not
pleasantest but hateful to me. Now let me come to beautiful joyous things
again. O dear Walt, did you not feel in every word the breath of a woman's
love? did you not see as through a transparent veil a soul all radiant and
trembling with love stretching out its arms towards you? I was so sure you
would speak, would send me some sign: that I was to wait--wait. So I fed my
heart with sweet hopes: strengthened it with looking into the eyes of thy
picture. O surely in the ineffable tenderness of thy look speaks the yearni=
ng
of thy man-soul towards my woman-soul? But now I will wait no longer. A hig=
her
instinct dominates that other, the instinct for perfect truth. I would if I
could lay every thought and action and feeling of my whole life open to the=
e as
it lies to the eye of God. But that cannot be all at once. O come. Come, my
darling: look into these eyes and see the loving ardent aspiring soul in th=
em.
Easily, easily will you learn to love all the rest of me for the sake of th=
at
and take me to your breasts for ever and ever. Out of its great anguish my =
love
has risen stronger, more triumphant than ever: it cannot doubt, cannot fear=
, is
strong, divine, immortal, sure of its fruition this side the grave or the
other. "O agonistic throes," tender, passionate yearnings, pining=
s, triumphant
joys, sweet dreams--I took from you all. But, dear love, the sinews of a
woman's outer heart are not twisted so strong as a man's: but the heart wit=
hin
is strong & great & loving. So the strain is very terrible. O heart=
of
flesh, hold on yet a few years to the great heart within thee, if it may be.
But if not all is assured, all is safe.
This time last ye=
ar
when I seemed dying I could have no secrets between me & my dear childr=
en.
I told them of my love: told them all they could rightly understand, and la=
id
upon them my earnest injunction that as soon as my mother's life no longer =
held
them here, they should go fearlessly to America, as I should have planted t=
hem
down there--Land of Promise, my Canaan, to which my soul sings, "Arise,
shine, for thy light is come & the glory of the Lord is risen upon
thee." After the 29th of this month I shall be in my own home; dear
friend--it is at Brookebank, Haslemere, Surrey. Haslemere is on the main li=
ne
between Portsmouth & London.
Good-bye, dear Walt, ANNE GILCHRIST.
Sept. 6.
The new portrait =
also
is a sweet joy & comfort to my longing, pining heart & eyes. How ha=
ve I
brooded & brooded with thankfulness on that one word in thy letter[7]
"the comfort it has been to me to get her words," for always day
& night these two years has hovered on my lips & in my heart the on=
e prayer:
"Dear God, let me comfort him!" Let me comfort thee with my whole=
being,
dear love. I feel much better & stronger now.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Brookebank, Shotter Mill Haslemere, Surrey October 23, 1871.
DEAR FRIEND:
I wrote you a let=
ter
the 6th September & would fain know whether it has reached your hand. I=
f it
have not, I will write its contents again quickly to you--if it have, I will
wait your time with courage with patience for an answer; but spare me the
needless suffering of uncertainty on this point & let me have one line,=
one
word, of assurance that I am no longer hidden from you by a thick cloud--I =
from
thee--not thou from me: for I that have never set eyes upon thee, all the
Atlantic flowing between us, yet cleave closer than those that stand nearest
& dearest around thee--love thee day & night:--last thoughts, first
thoughts, my soul's passionate yearning toward thy divine Soul, every hour,
every deed and thought--my love for my children, my hopes, aspirations for
them, all taking new shape, new height through this great love. My Soul has
staked all upon it. In dull dark moods when I cannot, as it were, see thee,=
still,
still always a dumb, blind yearning towards thee--still it comforts me to
touch, to press to me the beloved books--like a child holding some hand in =
the
dark--it knows not whose--but knows it is enough--knows it is a dear, stron=
g,
comforting hand. Do not say I am forward, or that I lack pride because I te=
ll
this love to thee who have never sought or made sign of desiring to seek me.
Oh, for all that, this love is my pride my glory. Source of sufferings and =
joys
that cannot put themselves into words. Besides, it is not true thou hast not
sought or loved me. For when I read the divine poems I feel all folded roun=
d in
thy love: I feel often as if thou wast pleading so passionately for the lov=
e of
the woman that can understand thee--that I know not how to bear the yearning
answering tenderness that fills my breast. I know that a woman may without =
hurt
to her pride--without stain or blame--tell her love to thee. I feel for a c=
ertainty
that she may. Try me for this life, my darling--see if I cannot so live, so
grow, so learn, so love, that when I die you will say, "This woman has
grown to be a very part of me. My soul must have her loving companionship
everywhere & in all things. I alone & she alone are not complete
identities--it is I and she together in a new, divine, perfect union that f=
orm
the one complete identity."
I am yet young en=
ough
to bear thee children, my darling, if God should so bless me. And would yie=
ld
my life for this cause with serene joy if it were so appointed, if that were
the price for thy having a "perfect child"--knowing my darlings w=
ould
all be safe & happy in thy loving care--planted down in America.
Let me have a few
words directly, dear Friend. I shall get them by the middle of November. I
shall have to go to London about then or a little later--to find a house for
us--I only came to the old home here from which I have been absent most four
years to wind up matters and prepare for a move, for there is nothing to be=
had
in the way of educational advantages here--it has been a beautiful survey f=
or
the children, but it is not what they want now. But we leave with regret, f=
or
it is one of the sweetest, wildest spots in England, though only 40 miles f=
rom
London.
Good-bye, dear friend, ANNE GILCHRIST.
WALT WHITMAN TO A=
NNE
GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
Washington, D. C. November 3, 1871.
(TO A. G., EARL'S=
COLNE,
HALSTED, ESSEX, ENG.)
I have been waiti=
ng
quite a while for time and the right mood, to answer your letter in a spiri=
t as
serious as its own, and in the same unmitigated trust and affection. But mo=
re
daily work than ever has fallen to me to do the present season, and though =
I am
well and contented, my best moods seem to shun me. I wish to give to it a d=
ay,
a sort of Sabbath, or holy day, apart to itself, under serene and propitious
influences, confident that I could then write you a letter which would do y=
ou
good, and me too. But I must at least show without further delay that I am =
not
insensible to your love. I too send you my love. And do you feel no
disappointment because I now write so briefly. My book is my best letter, my
response, my truest explanation of all. In it I have put my body and spirit.
You understand this better and fuller and clearer than any one else. And I =
too
fully and clearly understand the loving letter it has evoked. Enough that t=
here
surely exists so beautiful and a delicate relation, accepted by both of us =
with
joy.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
27 November '71.
DEAR FRIEND.
Your long waited =
for
letter brought me both joy & pain; but the pain was not of your giving.=
I
gather from it that a long letter[9] which I wrote you Sept. 6th after I had
received the precious packet, a letter in which I opened all my heart to yo=
u,
never reached your hands: nor yet a shorter one[10] which, tortured by anxi=
ety
& suspense about its predecessor, I wrote Oct. 15, it, too, written out=
of
such stress & intensity of painful emotion as wrenches from us inmost
truth. I cannot face the thought of these words of uttermost trust & lo=
ve
having fallen into other hands. Can both be simply lost? Could any man suff=
er a
base curiosity, to make him so meanly, treacherously cruel? It seems to cut=
and
then burn me.
I was not
disappointed at the shortness of your letter & I do not ask nor even wi=
sh
you to write save when you are inwardly impelled & desirous of doing so=
. I
only want leave and security to write freely to you. Your book does indeed =
say
all--book that is not a book, for the first time a man complete, godlike,
august, standing revealed the only way possible, through the garment of spe=
ech.
Do you know, dear Friend, what it means for a woman, what it means for me, =
to
understand these poems? It means for her whole nature to be then first kind=
led;
quickened into life through such love, such sympathy, such resistless
attraction, that thenceforth she cannot choose but live & die striving =
to become
worthy to share this divine man's life--to be his dear companion, closer,
nearer, dearer than any man can be--for ever so. Her soul stakes all on thi=
s.
It is the meaning, the fulfilment, the only perfect development &
consummation of her nature--of her passionate, high, immortal aspirations--=
her
Soul to mate with his for ever & ever. O I know the terms are obdurate-=
-I
know how hard to attain to this greatness, the grandest lot ever aspired to=
by woman.
I know too my own shortcomings, faults, flaws. You might not be able to giv=
e me
your great love yet--to take me to your breast with joy. But I can wait. I =
can
grow great & beautiful through sorrow & suffering, working, struggl=
ing,
yearning, loving so, all alone, as I have done now nearly three years--it w=
ill
be three in May since I first read the book, first knew what the word love
meant. Love & Hope are so strong in me, my soul's high aspirations are =
of
such tenacious, passionate intensity, are so conscious of their own deathle=
ss
reality, that what would starve them out of any other woman only makes them
strike out deeper roots, grow more resolute & sturdy, in me. I know that
"greatness will not ripen for me like a pear." But I could face, I
could joyfully accept, the fiercest anguish, the hardest toil, the longest,
sternest probation, to make me fit to be your mate--so that at the last you
should say, "This is the woman I have waited for, the woman prepared f=
or
me: this is my dear eternal comrade, wife--the one I so much want." Li=
fe
has no other meaning for me than that--all things have led up to help prepa=
re
me for that. Death is more welcome to me than life if it means that--if tho=
u,
dear sailor, thou sailing upon thy endless cruise, takest me on board--me,
daring, all with thee, steering for the deep waters, bound where mariner has
not yet dared to go: hand in hand with thee, nestled close--one with thee. =
Ah,
that word "enough" was like a blow on the breast to me--breast th=
at
often & often is so full of yearning tenderness I know not how to draw =
my
breath. The tie between us would not grow less but more beautiful, dear fri=
end,
if you knew me better: if I could stand as real & near to you as you do=
to
me. But I cannot, like you, clothe my nature in divine poems & so make =
it visible
to you. Ah, foolish me! I thought you would catch a glimpse of it in those
words I wrote--I thought you would say to yourself, "Perhaps this is t=
he
voice of my mate," and would seek me a little to make sure if it were =
so
or not. O the sweet dreams I have fed on these three years nearly, pervadin=
g my
waking moments, influencing every thought & action. I was so sure, so s=
ure
if I waited silently, patiently, you would send me some sign: so full of jo=
yful
hope I could not doubt nor fear. When I lay dying as it seemed, [I was] sti=
ll
full of the radiant certainty that you would seek me, would not lose [me], =
that
we should as surely find one another there as here. And when the ebb ceased
& life began to flow back into me, O never doubting but it was for you.
Never doubting but that the sweetest, noblest, closest, tenderest companion=
ship
ever yet tasted by man & woman was to begin for us here & now. Then
came the long, long waiting, the hope deferred: each morning so sure the bo=
ok
would come & with it a word from you that should give me leave to speak=
: no
longer to shut down in stern silence the love, the yearning, the thoughts t=
hat
seemed to strain & crush my heart. I knew what that means--"if thou
wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die." I felt as if my sile=
nce
must kill me sometimes. Then when the Book came but with it no word for me
alone, there was such a storm in [my] heart I could not for weeks read in i=
t. I
wrote that long letter out in the Autumn fields for dear life's sake. I kne=
w I
might, and must, speak then. Then I felt relieved, joyful, buoyant once mor=
e.
Then again months of heart-wearying disappointment as I looked in vain for =
a letter-O
the anguish at times, the scalding tears, the feeling within as if my heart
were crushed & doubled up--but always afterwards saying to myself "=
;If
this suffering is to make my love which was born & grew up & blosso=
med
all in a moment strike deep root down in the dark & cold, penetrate with
painful intensity every fibre of my being, make it a love such as he himsel=
f is
capable of giving, then welcome this anguish, these bitter deferments: let =
its
roots be watered as long as God pleases with my tears."
ANNE GILCHRIST.
50 Marquis Road London Camden Sqr. N. W.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Road, Camden Sqre. London, N. W., January 24, '72.
DEAR FRIEND:
I send you
photographs of my oldest and youngest children, I wish I had some worth sen=
ding
of the other two. That of myself done in 1850 is a copy of a daguerrotype. =
The
recent one was taken just a week or so before I broke down in my long illne=
ss
& when I was struggling against a terrible sense of inward prostration;=
so
it has not my natural expression, but I think you will like to have [it] ra=
ther
than none, & the weather here is too gloomy for there to be any chance =
of a
good one if I were to try again. Your few words lifted a heavy weight off m=
e.
Very few they are, dear friend: but knowing that I may give to every word y=
ou
speak its fullest, truest meaning, the more I brood over them the sweeter d=
o they
taste. Still I am not as happy & content as I thought I should be if I =
could
only know my words reached you & were welcome to you,--but restless, an=
xious,
impatient, looking so wistfully towards the letters each morning--above all,
longing, longing so for you to come--to come & see if you feel happy be=
side
me: no more this painful struggle to put myself into words, but to let what=
I
am & all my life speak to you. Only so can you judge whether I am indeed
the woman capable of rising to the full height of great destiny, of justify=
ing
& fulfilling your grand thoughts of women. And see my faults, flaws,
shortcomings too, dear Friend. I feel an earnest wish you should do this too
that there may be the broad unmovable foundation-rock of perfect truth and
candour for our love. I do not fear. I believe in a large all-accepting,
because all-comprehending, love, a boundless faith in growth &
development--in your judging "not as the judge judges but as the sunsh=
ine
falling around me." To have you in the midst of us! we clustered round
you, shone upon, vivified, strengthened by your presence, surrounding you w=
ith
an atmosphere of love & cheerful life.
When I wrote to y=
ou
in Nov. I was in lodgings in London, having just accomplished the difficult
task of finding a house for us in London, where rents are so high. And I ha=
ve
succeeded better than I anticipated, for we find this a comfortable, dear,
little home--small, indeed, but not so small as to interfere with health or
comfort, and at rent that I may safely undertake. My Husband was taken from=
us
too young to be able to have made any provision for his children. I have a
little of my own--about £80 a year; & for the rest depend upon my
Mother, whose only surviving child I am. And she, by nature generous &
self-denying as well as prudent, has never made anything but a pleasure of =
this
& as long as she was able to see to her own affairs, was such a capital
manager that she used to spare me about £150 out of an income of
£350. But now though she retains her faculties in a wonderful degree =
for
her years (just upon 86), she is no longer able to do this & has put the
management of the whole into my hands. And I, feeling that she needs, and o=
ught
to have, now an easier scale of expenditure at Colne, have to manage a litt=
le
more cleverly still to make a less sum serve for us. But I succeed capitall=
y,
dear friend--do not want a better home, never get behind hand & find it=
no
hardship, but quite the contrary to have to spend a good deal of time &
pains in domestic management. And then, just to help me through at the righ=
t moment,
dear Percy[11] obtained in November a good opening in some large copper &am=
p;
iron mining & smelting works in South Wales at a salary upon which he c=
an
comfortably live; & he likes his work well--writes very cheerfully--lod=
ges
in a farmhouse in the midst of grand scenery, within a walk of the sea. So =
this
enables me to give the girls a turn in education, for hitherto they have had
hardly any teaching but mine. And I chose this part because there is a capi=
tal
day school for them handy. And Herby[12] walks in to the best drawing schoo=
l in
London & is very diligent and happy at his work. His bent is unmistakab=
ly
strong. It was well I have had to be so busy this autumn & winter, dear
Walt, for I suffered keenly, sometimes overwhelmingly, through the delay in=
my
letters' reaching you. What caused it? And when did you get the Sept. &
Oct. letters & did you get the two copies that I, baffled & almost
despairing, sent off in Nov.? Good-bye, dear Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
WALT WHITMAN TO A=
NNE
GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
(Washington, D. C.) Feb. 8 '72.
I send by same ma=
il
with this my latest piece copied in a newspaper--and write you just a line.=
I
suppose you only received my former letters (two)--I ought to have written
something about your children (described to me in your letter of last
summer--[July 23d] which I have just been reading again.) Dear boys and
girls--how my heart goes out to them.
Did I tell you th=
at I
had received letters from Tennyson, and that he cordially invites me to vis=
it
him? Sometimes I dream of coming to Old England, on such visit.--& thus=
of
seeing you & your children----But it is a dream only.
I am still living
here in employment in a Government office. My health is good. Life is rathe=
r sluggish
here--yet not without the sunshine. Your letters too were bright rays of it=
. I
am going on to New York soon, to stay a few weeks, but my address will stil=
l be
here. I wrote lately to Mr. Rossetti quite a long letter. Dear friend, best
love & remembrance to you & to the young folk.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. N. W. April 12th, '=
72.
DEAR FRIEND:
I was to tell you
about my acquaintanceship with Tennyson, which was a pleasant episode in my
life at Haslemere. Hearing of the extreme beauty of the scenery thereabouts
& specially of its comparative wildness & seclusion, he thought he
would like to find or build a house, to escape from the obtrusive curiosity=
of
the multitudes who flock to the Isle of Wight at certain seasons of the yea=
r.
He is even morbidly sensitive on this point & will not stir beyond his =
own
grounds from week's end to week's end to avoid his admiring or inquisitive
persecutors. So, knowing an old friend of mine, he called on me for particu=
lars
as to the resources of the neighbourhood. And I, a good walker & famili=
ar
with every least frequent spot of hill & dale for some miles round, took
him long ambles in quest of a site. Very pleasant rambles they were; Tennys=
on,
under the influence of the fresh, outdoor, quite unconstrained life in new
scenery & with a cheerful aim, shaking off the languid ennuyé ai=
r,
as of a man to whom nothing has any longer a relish--bodily or mental--that=
too
often hangs about him. And we found something quite to his mind--a coppice =
of
40 acres hanging on the south side two thirds of the way up a hill some 100=
0 ft.
high so as to be sheltered from the cold & yet have the light, dry, ela=
stic
hill air--& with, of course, a glorious outlook over the wooded weald of
Sussex so richly green & fertile & looking almost as boundless as t=
he
great sweep of sky over it--the South Downs to Surrey Hills & near at h=
and
the hill curving round a fir-covered promontory, standing out very black &a=
mp;
grand between him & the sunset. Underfoot too a wilderness of beauty--f=
ox
gloves (I wonder if they grow in America) ferns, purple heath &c &c=
. I
don't suppose I shall see much more of him now I have left Haslemere, thoug=
h I
have had very friendly invitations; for I am a home bird--don't like staying
out--wanted at home and happiest there. And I should not enjoy being with t=
hem
in the grand mansion half so much as I did pic-nicing in the road &
watching the builders as we did. It is pleasant to see T--with children--li=
ttle
girls at least--he does not take to boys but one of my girls was mostly on =
his
knee when they were in the room & he liked them very much. His two sons=
are
now both 6 ft. high. I have received your letters of March 20 from Brooklyn:
but the one you speak of as having acknowledged the photograph never came to
hand--a sore disappointment to me, dear Friend. I can ill afford to lose the
long & eagerly watched for pleasure of a letter. If it seems to you the=
re
must needs be something unreal, illusive, in a love that has grown up entir=
ely without
the basis of personal intercourse, dear Friend, then you do not yourself
realize your own power nor understand the full meaning of your own words,
"whoso touches this, touches a man"--"I have put my Soul &am=
p;
Body into these Poems." Real effects imply real causes. Do you suppose
that an ideal figure conjured up by her own fancy could, in a perfectly sou=
nd, healthy
woman of my age, so happy in her children, so busy & content, practical,
earnest, produce such real & tremendous effect--saturating her whole li=
fe,
colouring every waking moment--filling her with such joys, such pains that =
the
strain of them has been well nigh too much even for a strong frame, coming =
as
it does, after twenty years of hard work?
Therefore please,
dear Friend, do not "warn" me any more--it hurts so, as seeming to
distrust my love. Time only can show how needlessly. My love, flowing ever
fresh & fresh out of my heart, will go with you in all your wanderings,
dear Friend, enfolding you day and night, soul & body, with tenderness =
that
tries so vainly to utter itself in these poor, helpless words, that clings
closer than any man's love can cling. O, I could not live if I did not beli=
eve
that sooner or later you will not be able to help stretching out your arms
towards me & saying "Come, my Darling." When you get this will
you post me an American newspaper (any one you have done with) as a token it
has reached you--& so on at intervals during your wanderings; it will s=
erve
as a token that you are well, & the postmark will tell me where you are.
And thus you will feel free only to write when you have leisure &
inclination--& I shall be spared [the] feeling I have when I fancy my
letters have not reached you--as if I were so hopelessly, helplessly cut off
from you, which is more than I can stand. We all read American news eagerly
too. The children are so well & working on with all their might. The sc=
hool
turns out more what I desire for them than I had ventured to hope. Good-bye,
dearest Friend.
ANN GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden,
Sqre. June 3d, 1872.
DEAR FRIEND:
The newspapers ha=
ve
both come to hand & been gladly welcomed. I shall realize you on the 26=
th
sending living impulses into those young men, with results not to cease--th=
eir
kindled hearts sending back response through glowing eyes that will be warm=
er
to you than the June sunshine. Perhaps, too, you will have pleasant talks w=
ith
the eminent astronomers there. Prof. Young, who is so skilful a worker with
that most subtle of tidings from the stars, the spectroscope--always, it se=
ems
hitherto bringing word of the "vast similitude that interlocks all,&qu=
ot;
nay, of the absolute identity of the stuff they are made of with the stuff =
we
are made of. The news from Dartmouth that too, is a great pleasure.
It has been what
seems to me a very long while since last writing, because it has been a
troubled time within & what I wrote I tore up again, believing it was b=
est,
wisest so. You said in your first letter that if you had leisure you could
write one that "would do me good & you too"; write that letter
dear Friend after you have been to Dartmouth[14]--for I sorely need it. Per=
haps
the letters that I have sent you since that first, have given you a feeling=
of
constraint towards me because you cannot respond to them. I will not write =
any
more such letters; or, if I write them because my heart is so full it cannot
bear it, they shall not find their way to the Post. But do not, because I g=
ive
you more than friendship, think that it would not be a very dear & happy
thing to me to have friendship only from you. I do not want you to write wh=
at
it is any effort to write--do not ask for deep thoughts, deep feelings--know
well those must choose their own time & mode--but for the simplest curr=
ent details--for
any thing that helps my eyes to pierce the distance & see you as you li=
ve
& move to-day. I dearly like to hear about your Mother--want to know if=
all
your sisters are married, & if you have plenty of little nephews &
nieces--I like to hear anything about Mr. O'Connor[15] & Mr. Burroughs,=
[16]
towards both of whom I feel as toward friends. (Has Mr. O'Connor succeeded =
in
getting practically adopted his new method of making cast steel? Percy[17]
being a worker in the field of metallurgy makes me specially glad to hear a=
bout
this.) Then, I need not tell you how deep an interest I feel in American
politics & want to know if you are satisfied with the result of the
Cincinnati Convention & what of Mr. Greely?[18] & what you augur as=
to
his success--I am sure dear friend, if you realize the joy it is to me to
receive a few words from you--about anything that is passing in your though=
ts
& around--how beaming bright & happy the day a letter comes & m=
any
days after--how light hearted & alert I set about my daily tasks, it wo=
uld
not seem irksome to you to write. And if you say, "Read my books, &=
; be
content--you have me in them," I say, it is because I read them so tha=
t I
am not content. It is an effort to me to turn to any other reading; as to
highest literature what I felt three years ago is more than ever true now, =
with
all their precious augmentations. I want nothing else--am fully fed &
satisfied there. I sit alone many hours busy with my needle; this used to be
tedious; but it is not so now--for always close at hand lie the books that =
are
so dear, so dear, I brooding over the poems, sunning myself in them, ponder=
ing
the vistas--all the experience of my past life & all its aspirations
corroborating them--all my future & so far as in me lies the future of =
my
children to be shaped modified vitalized by & through these--outwardly
& inwardly. How can I be content to live wholly isolated from you? I am
sure it is not possible for any one,--man or woman, it does not matter whic=
h,
to receive these books, not merely with the intellect critically admiring t=
heir
power & beauty, but with an understanding responsive heart, without fee=
ling
it drawn out of their breasts so that they must leave all & come to be =
with
you sometimes without a resistless yearning for personal intercourse that w=
ill
take no denial. When we come to America I shall not want you to talk to me,
shall not be any way importunate. To settle down where there are some that =
love
you & understand your poems, somewhere that you would be sure to come p=
retty
often--to have you sit with me while I worked, you silent, or reading to
yourself, I don't mind how: to let my children grow fond of you--to take fo=
od
with us; if my music pleased you, to let me play & sing to you of an
evening. Do your needlework for you--talk freely of all that occupied my
thoughts concerning the children's welfare &c--I could be very happy so.
But silence with the living presence and silence with all the ocean in betw=
een
are two different things. Therefore, these years stretch out your hand cord=
ially,
trustfully, that I may feel its warm grasp.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. London July 14, '72=
.
The 3d July was my
rejoicing day, dearest Friend,--the day the packet from America reached me,
scattering for a while the clouds of pain and humiliation & filling me
through & through with light & warmth; indeed I believe I am often =
as
happy reading, as you were writing, your Poems. The long new one "As a
Strong Bird" of itself answers the question hinted in your preface &am=
p;
nobly fulfils the promise of its opening lines. We want again & again in
fresh words & from the new impetus & standpoint of new days the vis=
ion
that sweeps ahead, the tones that fill us with faith & joy in our prese=
nt
share of life & work--prophetic of the splendid issues. It does not nee=
d to
be American born to believe & passionately rejoice in the belief of wha=
t is
preparing in America. It is for humanity. And it comes through England. The=
noblest
souls the most heroic hearts of England were called to be the nucleus of the
race that (enriched with the blood & qualities of other races & pla=
nted
down in the new half of the world reserved in all its fresh beauty &
exhaustless riches to be the arena) is to fulfil, justify, outstrip the vis=
ion
of the poets, the quenchless aspirations of all the ardent souls that have =
ever
struggled forward upon this earth. For me, the most precious page in the bo=
ok
is that which contains the Democratic Souvenirs. I respond to that as one to
whom it means the life of her Soul. It comforts me very much. You speak in =
the Preface
of the imperious & resistless command from within out of which "Le=
aves
of Grass" issued. This carried with it no doubt the secret of a corres=
ponding
resistless power over the reader wholly unprecedented, unapproached in
literature, as I believe, & to be compared only with that of Christ. I
speak out of my own experience when I say that no myth, no "miracle&qu=
ot;
embodying the notion of a direct communication between God & a human
creature, goes beyond the effect, soul & body, of those Poems on me: &a=
mp;
that were I to put into Oriental forms of speech what I experienced it would
read like one of those old "miracles" or myths. Thus of many thin=
gs that
used to appear to me incomprehensible lies, I now perceive the germ of truth
& understand that what was called the supernatural was merely an inadeq=
uate
& too timid way of conceiving the natural. Had I died the following yea=
r,
it would have been the simple truth to say I died of joy. The doctor called=
it
nervous exhaustion falling with tremendous violence on the heart which
"seemed to have been strained": & was much puzzled how that c=
ould
have come to pass. I left him in his puzzle--but it was none to me. How cou=
ld
such a dazzling radiance of light flooding the soul, suddenly, kindling it =
to
such intense life, but put a tremendous strain on the vital organs? how cou=
ld
the muscles of the heart suddenly grow adequate to such new work? O the
passionate tender gratitude that flooded my breast, the yearnings that seem=
ed
to strain the heart beyond endurance that I might repay with all my life &a=
mp;
soul & body this debt--that I might give joy to him who filled me with =
such
joy, that I might make his outward life sweeter & more beautiful who ma=
de
my inner life so divinely sweet & beautiful. But, dear friend, I have
certainly to see that this is not to be so, now: that for me too love &
death are folded inseparably together: Death that will renew my youth.
I have had the pa=
per
from Burlington[19]--with the details a woman likes so to have. I wish I had
known for certain whether you went on to Boston & were enjoying the mus=
ic
there. My youngest boy has gone to spend his holiday with his brother in So=
uth
Wales & he writes me such good news of Per., that he is "looking as
brown as a nut & very jolly"; his home in a "clean airy old f=
arm
house half way up a mountain in the midst of wild rough grand scenery, sea =
in
sight near enough to hear the sound of it about as loud as the rustling of
leaves"--so the boys will have a good time together, and the girls are
going with me for the holiday to their grandmother at Colne. W. Rossetti do=
es
not take his till October this year. I suppose it will be long & long
before this letter reaches you as you will be gone to California--may it be=
a
time full of enjoyment--full to the brim.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend,
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
What a noble achievement is Mr.
Stanley's:[20] it fills me with pleasure that Americans should thus have be=
en
the rescuer of our large-hearted, heroic traveller. We have just got his
letters with account of the five races in Central Africa copied from N. Y.
Herald, July 29.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Road =
Camden
Sqre. Novr. 12, 1872.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I must write not
because I have anything to tell you--but because I want so, by help of a few
loving words, to come into your presence as it were--into your remembrance.=
Not
more do the things that grow want the sun.
I have received a=
ll
the papers--& each has made a day very bright for me.
I hope the trip to
California has not again had to be postponed--I realize well the enjoyment =
of
it, & what it would be to California & the fresh impulses of thought
& emotion that would shape themselves, melodiously, out of that for the=
new
volume.
My children are a=
ll
well. Beatrice is working hard to get through the requisite amount of Latin,
&c. that is required in the preliminary examination--before entering on
medical studies. Percy, my eldest, whom I have not seen for a year, is comi=
ng
to spend Xmas with us.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Road =
Camden
Sq. London Jan. 31, '73=
.
DEAREST FRIEND:
Shall you never f=
ind
it in your heart to say a kind word to me again? or a word of some sort? Su=
rely
I must have written what displeased you very much that you should turn away
from me as the tone of your last letter & the ten months' silence which
have followed seem to express to me with such emphasis. But if so, tell me =
of
it, tell me how--with perfect candour, I am worthy of that--a willing learn=
er
& striver; not afraid of the pain of looking my own faults &
shortcomings steadily in the face. It may be my words have led you to do me
some kind of injustice in thought--I then could defend myself. But if it is
simply that you are preoccupied, too busy, perhaps very eagerly beset by
hundreds like myself whose hearts are so drawn out of their breasts by your
Poems that they cannot rest without striving, some way or other, to draw ne=
ar
to you personally--then write once more & tell me so & I will learn=
to
be content. But please let it be a letter just like the first three you wro=
te:
& do not fear that I shall take it to mean anything it doesn't mean. I
shall never do that again, though it was natural enough at first, with the =
deep
unquestioning belief I had that I did but answer a call; that I not only mi=
ght
but ought, on pain of being untrue to the greatest, sweetest instincts &=
; aspirations
of my own soul, to answer it with all my heart & strength & life. I=
say
to myself, I say to you as I did in my first letters, "This voice that=
has
come to me from over the Atlantic is the one divine voice that has penetrat=
ed
to my soul: is the utterance of a nature that sends out life-giving warmth
& light to my inward self as actually as the Sun does to my body, &
draws me to it and shapes & shall shape my course just as the sun shapes
the earth's." "Interlocked in a vast similitude" indeed are
these inner & outer truths of our lives. It may be that this shaping of=
my
life course toward you will have to be all inward--that to feed upon your w=
ords
till they pass into the very substance & action of my soul is all that =
will
be given to me & the grateful, yearning, tender love growing ever deeper
& stronger out of that will have to go dumb & actionless all my days
here. But I can wait long, wait patiently; know well, realize more clearly
indeed that this wingless, clouded, half-developed soul of me has a long, l=
ong
novitiate to live through before it can meet & answer yours on equal te=
rms
so as fully to satisfy you, to be in very truth & deed a dear Friend, a
chosen companion, a source of joy to you as you of light & life to me. =
But
that is what I will live & die hoping & striving for. That covers &=
amp;
includes all the aspirations all the high hopes I am capable of. And were I=
to
fall away from this belief it would be a fall into utter blackness &
despair, as one for whom the Sun in Heaven is blotted out.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST. =
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Road =
Camden
Sq. N. W. May 20th, '73=
.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Such a joyful
surprise was that last paper you sent me with the Poem celebrating the great
events in Spain--the new hopes the new life wakening in the breasts of that
fine People which has slumbered so long, weighed down & tormented with
hideous nightmares of superstition. Are you indeed getting strong & well
again? able to drink in draughts of pleasure from the sights & sounds &=
amp;
perfumes of this delicious time, "lilac time"--according to your
wont? Sleeping well--eating well, dear friend?
William Rossetti =
is
coming to see me Thursday, before starting for his holiday trip to Naples. =
His
father was a Neapolitan, so he narrowly escaped a lifelong dungeon for havi=
ng
written some patriotic songs--he fled in disguise by help of English friends
& spent the rest of his life here. So this, his first visit to Naples, =
will
be specially full of interest & delight to our friend. He is also in gr=
eat
spirits at having discovered a large number of hitherto unknown early lette=
rs
of Shelley's. Of modern English Poets Shelley is the one he loves & adm=
ires
incomparably the most. Perhaps this letter will just reach you on your
birthday. What can I send you? What can I tell you but the same old story o=
f a
heart fast anchored--of a soul to whom your soul is as the sun & the fr=
esh,
sweet air, and the nourishing, sustaining earth wherein the other one breat=
hes
free & feeds & expands & delights itself. There is no occupatio=
n of
the day however homely that is not coloured, elevated, made more cheerful t=
o me
by thoughts of you & by thoughts you have given me blent in & suffu=
sing
all: No hope or aim or practical endeavour for my dear children that has not
taken a higher, larger, more joyous scope through you. No immortal aspirati=
on,
no thoughts of what lies beyond death, but centre in you. And in moods of p=
ain
and discouragement, dear Friend, I turn to that Poem beginning "Whoeve=
r you
are holding me now in hand," and I don't know but that that one revives
and strengthens me more than any. For there is not a line nor a word in it =
at
which my spirit does not rise up instinctively and fearlessly say--"So=
be
it." And then I read other poems & drink in the draught that I kno=
w is
for me, because it is for all--the love that you give me on the broad groun=
d of
my humanity and womanhood. And I understand the reality & preciousness =
of
that. Then I say to myself, "Souls are not made to be frustrated--to h=
ave
their greatest & best & sweetest impulses and aspirations &
yearnings made abortive. Therefore we shall not be 'carried diverse' foreve=
r.
This dumb soul of mine will not always remain hidden from you--but some way
will be given me for this love, this passion of gratitude, this set of all =
the
nerves of my being toward you, to bring joy & comfort to you. I do not =
ask
the When or the How."
I shall be thinki=
ng
of your great & dear Mother in her beautiful old age, too, on your
birthday--happiest woman in all the world that she was & is: forever sa=
cred
& dear to America & to all who feed on the Poems of her Son.
Good-bye, my best
beloved Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
I suppose you see all that you care=
to
see in the way of English newspapers. I often long to send you one when the=
re
is anything in that I feel sure would interest you, but am withheld by fear=
ing
it would be quite superfluous or troublesome even.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Earls Colne Hals=
tead August 12, 1873.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
The paper has just
been forwarded here which tells me you are still suffering and not, as I was
fondly believing, already quite emerged from the cloud of sickness. My Darl=
ing,
let me use that tender caressing word once more--for how can I help it, with
heart so full & no outlet but words? My darling--I say it over & ov=
er
to myself with voice, with eyes so full of love, of tender yearning, sorrow=
ful,
longing love. I would give all the world if I might come (but am held here =
yet
awhile by a duty nothing may supersede) & soothe & tend & wait =
on
you & with such cheerful loving companionship lift off some of the weig=
ht
of the long hours & days & perhaps months that must still go over w=
hile
nature slowly, imperceptibly, but still so surely repairs the mischief with=
in:
result of the tremendous ordeal to your frame of those great over-brimming
years of life spent in the Army Hospitals. You see dear Friend, a woman who=
is
a mother has thenceforth something of that feeling toward other men who are=
dear
to her. A cherishing, fostering instinct that rejoices so in tending, nursi=
ng,
caretaking & I should be so happy it needs must diffuse a reviving,
comforting, vivifying warmth around you. Might but these words breathed out=
of
the heart of a woman who loves you with her whole soul & life &
strength fulfil their errand & comfort the sorrowful heart, if ever so
little--& through that revive the drooping frame. This love that has gr=
own
up, far away over here, unhelped by the sweet influences of personal interc=
ourse,
penetrating the whole substance of a woman's life, swallowing up into itself
all her aspirations, hopes, longings, regardless of Death, looking earnestl=
y,
confidently beyond that for its fruition, blending more or less with every
thought & act of her life--a guiding star that her feet cannot choose b=
ut
follow resolutely--what can be more real than this, dear Friend? What can h=
ave
deeper roots, or a more immortal growing power? But I do not ask any longer
whether this love is believed in & welcomed & precious to you. For I
know that what has real roots cannot fail to bear real flowers & fruits
that will in the end be sweet & joyful to you; and that if I am indeed
capable of being your eternal comrade, climbing whereon you climb, daring a=
ll
that you dare, learning all that you learn, suffering all that you suffer
(pressing closest then) loving, enjoying all that you love & enjoy--you
will want me. You will not be able to help stretching out your hand &
drawing me to you. I have written this mostly out in the fields, as I am so
fond of doing--the serene, beautiful harvest landscape spread around--retur=
ned
once more as I have every summer for five & twenty years to this old
village where my mother's family have lived in unbroken succession three
hundred years, ever since, in fact, the old Priory which they have inhabite=
d,
ceased to be a Priory. My Mother's health is still good--wonderful indeed f=
or
88, though she has been 30 years crippled with rheumatism. Still she enjoys=
getting
out in the sunshine in her Bath chair, & is able to take pleasure in se=
eing
her friends & in having us all with her. Her father was a hale man at 9=
0.
These eastern counties are flat & tame, but yet under this soft, smilin=
g,
summer sky lovely enough too--with their rich green meadows & abundant
golden corn crops, now being well got in. Even the sluggish little river Co=
lne
one cannot find fault with, it nourishes such a luxuriant border of wild
flowers as it creeps along--& turns & twists from sunshine into sha=
de
& from shade into sunshine so as to make the very best & most of
itself. But as to the human growth here, I think that more than anywhere el=
se
in England perhaps it struggled along choked & poisoned by dead things =
of
the past, still holding their place above ground. Carlyle calls the clergy
"black dragoons"--in these rural parishes they are black Squires,
making it their chief business to instruct the labourer that his grinding
poverty & excessive toil, & the Squire's affluence & ease are e=
qually
part of the sacred order of Providence. When I have been here a little I wi=
sh
myself in London again, dearly as I love outdoor life & companionship w=
ith
nature. For though the same terrible & cruel facts are there as here, t=
hey
are not choked down your throat by any one, as a beautiful & perfect id=
eal.
Even in England light is unmistakably breaking through the darkness for the
toilers.
I did not see Wil=
liam
Rossetti before I came down, but heard he had had a very happy time in Italy
& splendid weather all the while. Mr. Conway & his wife are going to
spend their holiday in Brittany. Do not think me childish dear friend if I =
send
a copy of this letter to Washington as well as to Camden. I want it so to g=
et
to you--long & so long to speak with you--& the Camden one may never
come to hand--or the Washington one might remain months unforwarded--it is =
easy
to tear up.
I hope it will fi=
nd
you by the sea shore!--getting on so fast toward health & strength
again--refreshed & tranquillized, soul & body. Good-bye, beloved
Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
WALT WHITMAN TO A=
NNE
GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
I must write fri=
end
once more at Since I la=
st
wrote, clouds have darkened over me, and still remain.
On the night of 3d
January last I was paralyzed, left side, and have remained so since. Feb. 1=
9 I
lost a dear dear sister, who died in St. Louis leaving two young daughters.=
May
23d, my dear inexpressibly beloved mother died in Camden, N. J. I was just =
able
to get from Washington to her dying bed & sit there. I thought I was
bearing it all stoutly, but I find it affecting the progress of my recovery
since and now. I am still feeble, palsied & have spells of great distre=
ss
in the head. But there are points more favourable.
I am up & dre=
ssed
every day, sleep & eat middling well & do not change much yet, in f=
lesh
& face, only look very old.
Though I can move
slowly very short distances, I walk with difficulty & have to stay in t=
he
house nearly all the time. As I write to-day, I feel that I shall probably =
get
well--though I may not.
Many times during=
the
past year have I thought of you & your children. Many times indeed have=
I
been going to write, but did not. I have just been reading over again sever=
al
of this & last year's letters from you & looking at the pictures se=
nt
in the one of Jan. 24, '72. (Your letters of Jan. 24, June 3 & July 14,=
of
last year and of Jan. 31, and May 20, this year, with certainly one other,
maybe two) all came safe. Do not think hard of me for not writing in reply.=
If
you could look into my spirit & emotion you would be entirely satisfied
& at peace. I am at present temporarily here at Camden, on the Delaware
river, opposite Philadelphia, at the house of my brother, and I am occupyin=
g,
as I write, the rooms wherein my mother died. You must not be unhappy about=
me,
as I am as comfortably situated as can be--& many things--indeed every =
thing--in
my case might be so much worse. Though my plans are not definite, my intent=
ion
as far as anything is on getting stronger, and after the hot season passes,=
to
get back to Washington for the fall & winter.
My post office
address continues at Washington. I send my love to Percy & all your dear
children.
The enclosed ring=
I
have just taken from my finger, & send to you, with my love.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Earls Colne Sept=
. 4,
1873.
I am entirely satisfied & at peace, my Beloved--no words can say how divine a peace.<= o:p>
Pain and joy stru=
ggle
together in me (but joy getting the mastery, because its portion is eternal=
). O
the precious letter, bearing to me the living touch of your hand, vibrating
through & through me as I feel the pressure of the ring that pressed yo=
ur
flesh--& now will press mine so long as I draw breath. My Darling! take
comfort & strength & joy from me that you have made so rich &
strong. Perhaps it will yet be given us to see each other, to travel the la=
st
stage of this journey side by side, hand in hand--so completing the prepara=
tion
for the fresh start on the greater journey; me loving and blessing her you
mourn, now for your dear sake--then growing to know & love her in full
unison with you.
I hope you will s=
oon
get to the sea--as soon as you are strong enough, that is--& if you cou=
ld
have all needful care & comfort & a dear friend with you there. For=
I
believe you would get on faster away from Camden--& that it tends so to
keep the wound open & quivering to be where the blow fell on you--where
every object speaks of her last hours & is laden with heart-stirring
associations; though I realize, dearest Friend, that in the midst of the
poignant sorrow come immortal sweet moments--communings, rapt anticipations.
But these would come the same in nature's great soothing arms by the seasho=
re,
with her reviving, invigorating breath playing freely over you. If only you=
could
get just strong enough prudently to undertake the journey. When my eyes fir=
st
open in the morning, often such tender thoughts, yearning ineffably, pityin=
g,
sorrowful, sweet thoughts flow into my breast that longs & longs to pil=
low
on itself the suffering head (with white hair more beautiful to me than the
silvery clouds which always make me think of it.) My hands want to be so
helpful, tending, soothing, serving my whole frame to support his stricken
side--O to comfort his heart--to diffuse round him such warm sunshine of lo=
ve, helping
time & the inborn vigour of each organ that the disease could not withs=
tand
the influences, but healthful life begin to flow again through every part. =
My
children send their love, their earnest sympathy. Do not feel anyways calle=
d on
to write except when inwardly impelled. Your silence is not dumb to me
now--will never again cloud or pain, or be misconstrued by me. I can feast
& feast, & still have wherewithal to satisfy myself with the sweet
& precious words that have now come & with the feel of my ring, only
send any old paper that comes to hand (never mind whether there is anything=
to
read in it or not) just as a sign that the breath of love & hope these =
poor
words try to bear to you, has reached you. And just one word literally that,
dearest, when you begin to feel you are really getting on--to make me so jo=
yful
with the news.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend,
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Back again in Marquis Road.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n= bsp; 50 Marquis Rd. C= amden Sq. Nov. 3, '73 London<= o:p>
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
All the papers ha=
ve
reached me--3 separate packets (with the handwriting on them that makes my
heart give a glad bound). I look through them full of interest & curios=
ity,
wanting to realize as I do, in things small as well as things large, my Lan=
d of
Promise--the land where I hope to plant down my children--so strong in the
faith that they, & perhaps still more those that come after them will b=
less
me for that (consciously or unconsciously, it doesn't matter which) I should
set out with a cheerful heart on that errand if I knew the first breath I d=
rew
on American soil would be my last in life. I searched hopeful for a few wor=
ds
telling of improvement in your health in the last paper. But perhaps it does
not follow from there being no much mention that there is no progress. May =
you be
steadily though ever so slowly gaining ground, my Darling! Now that I under=
stand
the nature of the malady (a deficient flow of blood to the brain, if it has
been rightly explained to me) I realize that recovery must be very gradual:=
as
the coming on of it must have been slow & insidious. And perhaps that,
& also even from before the war time with its tremendous strain, emotio=
nal
& physical, is part of the price paid for the greatness of the Poems &a=
mp;
for their immortal destiny--the rapt exaltation the intensity of joy &
sorrow & struggle--all that went to give them their life-giving power. =
For
I have felt many times in reading them as if the light and heat of their sa=
cred
fire must needs have consumed the vital energies of him in whose breast it =
was
generated, faster then even the most splendid physique could renew itself. =
For
our sakes, for humanity's sake, you suffer now, I do not doubt it, every bi=
t as
much as the soldier's wounds are for his country's sake. The more precious,=
the
more tenderly cherished, the more drawing the hearts that understand with i=
neffable
yearnings, for this.
My children all
continue well in the main, I am thankful to say, though Beatrice (the eldest
girl) looks paler than I could wish and is working her brains too much and =
the
rest of her too little just at present, with the hope of getting through the
Apothecaries Hall exam. in Arts next Sept., which involves a good bit of La=
tin
and mathematics. This is all women can do in England toward getting into the
medical profession & as the Apoth. Hall certificate is accepted for the
preliminary studies at Paris & Zurich, I make no doubt it is also at
Philadelphia & New York; so that she would be able to enter on medical
studies, the virtual preliminary work, when we come. For she continues
steadfastly desirous to win her way into that field of usefulness, & I
believe is well fitted to work there, with her grave, earnest, thoughtful,
feeling nature & strong bodily frame. She is able to enjoy your Poems &=
amp;
the vistas; broods over them a great deal. Percy is bending his energies no=
w to
mastering the processes that go to the production of the very best quality =
of
copper such as is used for telegraph wires &c. No easy matter, copper b=
eing
the most difficult, in a metallurgical point of view, of all the metals to =
deal
with & the Company in whose employ he is having hitherto been unsuccess=
ful
in this branch. His looks, too, do not quite satisfy me--it is partly rather
too long hours of work--but still more not getting a good meal till the end=
of
it. It is so hard to make the young believe that the stomach shares the fat=
igue
of the rest of the body and that there is not nervous energy enough left fo=
r it
to do all its principal work to perfection after a long, exhausting day. Bu=
t I
hope now I, or rather his own experience and I together, have convinced him=
in
time, and he promises me faithfully to arrange for a good meal in the middl=
e of
the day however much grudging the time. My little artist Herby is still chi=
efly
working from the antique, but tries his hand at home occasionally with oils
& to life & has made an oil sketch of me which, though imperfect in
drawing &c., gives far more the real character & expression of my f=
ace
than the photographs. Have you heard, I wonder, of William Rossetti's
approaching marriage? It is to take place early in the New Year. The lady is
Lucy Brown, daughter of one of our most eminent artists (he was the friend =
who first
put into my hand the "Selections" from your Poems). Lucy is a ver=
y sweet-tempered,
cultivated, lovable woman, well fitted, I should say, to make William Rosse=
tti
happy. They are to continue in the old home, Euston Sq., with Mrs. Rossetti
& the sisters, who are one and all fond of Lucy. I am glad he is going =
to
be married for I think he is a man capable both of giving and receiving a l=
arge
measure of domestic happiness. I hope the dear little girls at St. Louis are
well. And you, my Darling, O surely the sun is piercing through the dark cl=
ouds
once more and strength & health and gladness returning. O fill yourself
with happy thoughts for you have filled others with joy & strength &
will do so for countless generations, & from these hearts flows back, a=
nd
will ever flow, a steady current of love & the beautiful fruits of love=
.
When you next sen=
d me
a paper, if you feel that you are getting on ever so little, dearest friend,
just a dash under the word London. I have looked back at all your old addre=
sses
& I see you never do put any lines, so I shall know it was not done
absently but really means you are better. And how that line will gladden my
eyes, Darling!
Love from us all.
Good-bye.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq., N. W. Dec. 8, 1873.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
The papers with P=
rof.
Young's speech came safely & I read it, my hand in yours, happy and ful=
l of
interest. Are you getting on, my Darling? When I know that you no longer su=
ffer
from distressing sensations in the head & can move without such effort =
and
difficulty, a hymn of thankfulness will go up from my heart. Perhaps this w=
eek
I shall get the paper with the line on it that is to tell me so much--or at
least that you are well on your way towards it. And what shall I tell you
about? The quiet tenor of our daily lives here? but that is very restricted,
though, I trust, as far as it goes, good & healthful. O the thoughts and
hopes that leap from across the ocean & the years! But they hide themse=
lves
away when I want to put them into words. Do not think I live in dreams. I k=
now
very well it is strictly in proportion as the present & the past have b=
een
busy shaping & preparing the materials of a beautiful future, that it
really will be beautiful when it comes to exist as a present, seeing how it
needs must be entirely a growth from all that has preceded it & that th=
ere
are no sudden creations of flowers of happiness in men & women any more
than in the fields. But if the buds lie ready folded, ah, what the sunshine
will do! What fills me with such deep joy in your poems is the sense of the
large complete acceptiveness--the full & perfect faith in humanity--in
every individual unit of humanity--thus for the first time uttered. That al=
one satisfies
the sense of justice in the soul, responds to what its own nature compels i=
t to
believe of the Infinite Source of all. That too includes within its scope t=
he
lot as well as the man. His infinite, undying self must achieve and fulfil
itself out of any & all experiences. Why, if it takes such ages & s=
uch
vicissitudes to compact a bit of rock--fierce heat, & icy cold, storms,
deluges, crushing pressure & slow subsidences, as if it were like a han=
dful
of grass & all sunshine--what would it do for a man!
Dec. 18.
The longed-for pa=
per
has come to hand. O it is a slow struggle back to health, my Darling! I bel=
ieve
in the main it is good news that is come--and there is the little stroke I
wanted so on the address. But for all that, I feel troubled &
conscious--for I believe you have been a great deal worse since you wrote--=
and
that you have still such a steep, steep hill to climb.
Perhaps if my hand
were in yours, dear Walt, you would get along faster. Dearer and sweeter th=
at
lot than even to have been your bride in the full flush & strength and
glory of your youth. I turn my face to the westward sky before I lie down to
sleep, deep & steadfast within me the silent aspiration that every year,
every month & week, may help something to prepare and make fitter me and
mine to be your comfort and joy. We are full of imperfections, short-comings
but half developed, but half "possessing our own souls." But we g=
row,
we learn, we strive--that is the best of us. I think in the sunshine of your
presence we shall grow fast--I too, my years notwithstanding. May the New Y=
ear
lead you out into the sunshine again--shed out of its days health &
strength, so that you tread the earth in gladness again. This with love fro=
m us
all. Good-bye, dearest Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Herby was at a Conversation last ni=
ght
where were many distinguished men & beautiful women. Among the works of=
art
displayed on the walls was a fine photograph of you.
19th, afternoon.
And now a later p=
ost
has brought me the other No. of the Graphic with your own writing in it--so
full of life and spirit, so fresh & cheerful & vivid, dear Friend, =
it
seems to scatter all anxious sad thoughts to the winds. And are you then re=
ally
back at Washington, I wonder, or have you only visited it in spirit, &
written the recollection of former evenings?
I shall have none=
but
cheerful thoughts now. I shall reread it carefully--read it to the young fo=
lk
at tea to-night.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. London 26 Feb., 1874.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Glad am I when the
time comes round for writing to you again--though I can't please myself wit=
h my
letters, poor little echoes that they are of the loving, hoping, far-journe=
ying
thoughts so busy within. It has been a happy time since I received the paper
with the joyful news you were back at Washington, well on your way to recov=
ery,
able partially to resume work--scenting from afar the fresh breeze &
sunshine of perfect health--by this time, not from afar, perhaps. The thoug=
ht
of that makes dull days bright & bright days glorious to me too. I note=
in
the New York Graphic that a new edition of "Leaves of Grass" was
called for--sign truly that America is not so very slowly & now absorbi=
ng
the precious food she needs above all else? Perhaps, dear Friend, even duri=
ng
your lifetime will begin to come the proof you will alone accept--that
"your country absorbs you as affectionately as you have absorbed it.&q=
uot;
I have had two great pleasures since I last wrote you. One is that Herby has
read with a large measure of responsive delight "Leaves of Grass"
quite through, so that he now sees you with his own eyes & has in his h=
eart
the living, growing germs of a loving admiration that will grow with his gr=
owth
& strengthen every fibre of good in him. Also he read & took much p=
ride
in my "letters," now shown him for the first time. Percy has had a
fortnight's holiday with us, and looks better in health, though still not
altogether as I could wish. He says he is getting such good experience he w=
ould
not care just yet to change his post even for better pay. Music is his grea=
test
pleasure--he seems to get more enjoyment out of that than out of literature,
& is acquiring some practical skill.
To-day (Feb. 25th=
) is
my birthday, dearest Friend--a day my children always make very bright &
happy to me: and on it they make me promise to "do nothing but what I =
like
all day." So I shall spend it with you--partly in finishing this lette=
r,
partly reading in the book that is so dear to me--for that is indeed my soul
coming into the presence of your soul--filled by it with strength & war=
mth
& joy. In discouraged moods, when oppressed with the consciousness of my
own limitations, failures, lack of many beautiful gifts, I say to myself,
"What sort of a bird with unfledged wings are you that would mate with=
an
eagle? Can your eyes look the sun in the face like his? Can you sustain your
long, lifelong flights upward? Can you rest in dizzy rocks overhanging dark,
tempestuous abysses? Is your heart like his, a great glowing sun of Love?&q=
uot;
Then I answer, "Give me Time." I can bide my time--a long, long
growing & unfolding time. That he draws me with such power, that my soul
has found the meaning of itself in him--the object of all its deep, deathle=
ss
aspirations in comradeship with him, means, if life is not a mockery clean
ended by death, that the germs are in me, that through cleaving & loving
& ever striving up & on I shall grow like him--like but different--=
the
correlative--what his soul needs & desires; and if when I reach America=
he
is not so drawn towards me,--if seeing how often I disappoint myself, needs
must that he too is disappointed, still I can hold bravely, lovingly on to =
this
inextinguishable faith & hope--with the added joy of his presence, some=
times
winning from him more & more a dear friendship, yielding him some joy &=
amp;
comfort--for he too turns with hope, with yearning, towards me--bids me be
"satisfied & at peace!" So I am, so I will be, my darling. Su=
rely,
surely, sooner or later I shall justify that hope, satisfy that yearning. T=
his
is what I say to myself & to you this 46th birthday. Have I said it over
& over again? That is because it is the undercurrent of my whole life. =
The
Tribune with Proctor's "Lecture on the Sun" (& a great deal
besides that interests me) came safe. A masterly lecture. And two days ago =
came
the Philadelphia paper with Prof. Morton's speech--deeply interesting. And =
as I
read these things, the feeling that they have come from, & been read by,
you turns them into Poems for me.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
W. Rossetti's marriage is to be the=
end
of next month. Had a pleasant chat with Mr. Conway, who took supper with us=
a
week or two ago.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
March 9th, 1874.
With full heart, =
with
eyes wet with tears of joy & I know not what other deep emotion--pain of
yearning pity blent with the sense of grandeur--dearest Friend, have I read=
and
reread the great, sacred Poem just come to me.[22] O august Columbus! whose
sorrows, sufferings, struggles are more to be envied than any triumph of
conquering warrior--as I see him in your poem his figure merges into yours,
brother of Columbus. Completer of his work, discoverer of the spiritual, the
ideal America--you too have sailed over stormy seas to your goal--surrounded
with mocking disbelievers--you too have paid the great price of health--our
Columbus.
Your accents pier=
ce
me through & through.
Your loving ANNIE=
.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. May 14, 1874.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Two papers have c=
ome
to hand since I last wrote, one containing the memoranda made during the
war--precious records, eagerly read & treasured & reread by me.
How the busy days
slip by one so like another, yet each with its own fresh & pleasant fla=
vour
& scent, as like and as different as the leaves on a tree, or the plant=
s in
the hedgerows. Days they are busy with humble enough occupations, but lit up
for me not only with the light of hope, but with the half-hidden joy of one=
who
knows she has found what she sought and laid such strong hold upon it that =
she
fears nothing, questions nothing--no life, or death, nor in the end, in her=
own
imperfections, flaws, shortcomings. For to be so conscious of these, and to
love and understand you so, are proofs [that] the germs of all are in her,
& perhaps in the warmth & joyous sunshine of your presence would gr=
ow
fast. Anyhow, distance has not baffled her, and time will not. A great deal=
of needlework
to be done at this time of year; for my girls have not time for any at pres=
ent;
it is not a good contrast or the right thing after longish hours of study--=
much
better household activity of any sort. If they would but understand this in
schools & colleges for girls & young women. No healthier or more
cheerful occupation as a relief from study, could be found than household
work--sweeping, scrubbing, washing, ironing, cooking--in the variety of it,
& equable development of the muscles, I should think equal to the most
elaborate gymnastics. I know very well how I have felt, & still feel, t=
he
want of having been put to these things when a girl. Then the importance
afterwards of doing them easily & well & without undue fatigue, to =
all
who aim to give practical shape to their ardent belief in equality & fa=
ir
play for all. In domestic life under one roof, at all events, it is already
feasible to make the disposals without ignominious distinctions--not all the
rough bodily work, never ending, leisure all to the other; but a wholesome
interchange and sharing of these. Not least too among the advantages of tak=
ing
an active share in these duties is the zest, the keen relish, it gives to t=
he
hours not too easily secured for reading & music. Besides, I often think
that just as the Poem Nature is made up half of rude, rough realities and
homely materials & processes, so it is necessary for women to construct
their Poem, Home, on a groundwork of homeliest details & occupations,
providing for the bodily wants & comforts of their household, and that
without putting their own hands to this, their Poem will lack the vital, fr=
esh,
growing, nature-like quality that alone endures, and that of this soil will
grow, with fitting preparation & culture, noble & more vigorous int=
ellectual
life in women, fit to embody itself in wider spheres afterwards--if the call
comes.
This month of May
that comes to you so laden with great and sorrowful & beautiful &
tender memories, and that is your birth-month too, I cannot say that I thin=
k of
you more than at any other time, for there is no month nor day that my thou=
ghts
do not habitually & spontaneously turn to you, refer all to you--yet I =
seem
to come closer because of the Poems that tell me of what relates to that ti=
me;
but most of all when I think of your beloved Mother, because then I often
yearn, more than I know how to bear, to comfort you with love and tender ca=
re
and silent companionship. May is in a sense (& a very real one) my
birth-month too, for in it were your Poems first put into my hand. I wish I
were quite sure that you no longer suffer in your head, and that you can mo=
ve
about without effort or difficulty--perhaps before long there will be a pap=
er
with some paragraph about your health, for though we say to ourselves no ne=
ws
is good news, it is a very different thing to have the absolute affirmation=
of
good news.
My children are a=
ll
well and hearty, I am thankful to say, & working industriously. Grace m=
eans
to study the best system of kindergarten teaching--I fancy she is well suit=
ed
for kindergarten teaching & that it is very excellent work.
Herby is still
drawing from the antique in the British Museum. I hope he will get into the
Academy this summer. He is going to spend his holidays with his brother in
South Wales--and we as usual at Colne, but that will not be till August.
Did I tell you
William Rossetti and his bride were spending their honeymoon at Naples? &am=
p;
have found it bitterly cold there, I learn. Mr. & Mrs. Conway & the=
ir
children are well. Eustace is coming to spend the afternoon with Herby
to-morrow.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. July 4, 1874.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Are you well and
happy, and enjoying this beautiful summer? London is, in one sense, a sort =
of
big prison at this time of year: but still at a wide open window, with the =
blue
sky opening to me & a soft breeze blowing in & the Book that is so
dear--my life-giving treasure--open on my lap, I have very happy times. No =
one
hundreds of years hence will find deeper joy in these poems than I--breathe=
the
fresh, sweet, exhilarating air of them, bathe in it, drink in what nourishes
& delights the whole being, body, intellect & soul, more than I. Nor
could you, when writing them, have desired to come nearer to a human being
& be more to them forever & forever than you are & will be to m=
e. O
I take the hand you stretch out each day--I put mine into it with a sense of
utter fulfilment: I ask nothing more of time and of eternity but to live and
grow up to that companionship that includes all.
6th. This very mo=
rning
has come the answer to my question. First I only saw the Poem--read it so
elate--soared with it to joyous heights, said to myself: "He is so well
again, he is able to take the journey into Massachusetts & speak the
kindling words." Then I turned over and my joy was dashed. My Darling;
such patience yet needed along the tedious path! Oh, it makes me long, with
passionate longings, with yearnings I know not how to bear, to come, to be =
your
loving, cheerful companion, the one to take such care, to do all for you--to
beguile the time, to give you of my health as you have done to tens of
thousands. I do not doubt, either, but that you will get well. I feel sure,
sure, it will be given me to see you; and perhaps a very slow, gradual reco=
very
is safest--is the only way in this as in other matters to thoroughness; &am=
p; a
very speedy rally would be specious, treacherous, in the end, leading you t=
o do
what you were not yet fit for. I believe if I could only make you conscious=
of
the love, the enfolding love, my heart breathes out toward you it would do =
you
physical good; many-sided love--Mother's love that cherishes, that delights=
so
in personal service, that sees in sickness & suffering such dear appeal=
s to
an answering, limitless tenderness--wife's love--ah, you draw that from me =
too,
resistlessly--I have no choice--comrade's love, so happy in sharing all, pa=
in,
sorrow, toil, effort, enjoyments, thoughts, hopes, aims, struggles,
disappointment, beliefs, aspirations. Child's love, too, that trusts utterl=
y,
confides unquestioningly. Not more spontaneously, & wholly without effo=
rt
or volition on my part, does the sunlight flow into my eyes when I open the=
m in
the morning than does the sense of your existence enter like bright light i=
nto
my awaking soul. And then I send to you thoughts--tender, caressing
thoughts--that would fain nestle so close--ah, if you could feel them, take
them in, let them lie in your breast, each morning.
My children are a=
ll
well, dear Friend. Herbert is going to spend his holidays with his brother =
in
Wales--& we shall all go to Colne as usual the end of this month &
remain there through August and September; so if you think of it, address a=
ny
paper you may send [to] Earls Colne, Halstead, because I should get it a day
sooner. But it does not signify if you forget & send it here; it will be
forwarded all right. Beatrice has just got through one of the Govern. Exams=
. in
elementary mathematics; and I hope Herby has got into the Academy, but do n=
ot
know for certain yet. He works away zealously and with great delight in his
work. William Rossetti and his wife are coming to dine with us Wednesday--t=
hey
look so well and happy, it does one good to see them. The Conways are going=
to
Ostend, I think, for their holiday, & when they come back [are] going to
move into a larger house. I heard an American lady, Miss Whitman, sing at a
concert the other day, who delighted me, fascinated me--I longed to kiss her
after each song, though some of them were poor enough Verdi stuff--but she =
contrived
to impart genuineness & beauty to them. I hope you will hear her when s=
he
returns to America, which will be soon, I believe.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend. Beatrice, Herby & Grace join their love with mine. I had the sw=
eet
little Bridal Poem all safe, & by the bye I liked that Springfield paper
very much.
Your loving ANNIE=
.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Earls Colne Sept=
. 3,
1874.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
The change down h=
ere
has refreshed me more than usual and I find my Mother still wonderful for h=
er
years (the 89th), able to get out daily in her Bath chair for two or three
hours--to enjoy our being with her, and suffering little or no pain from
rheumatism now. I hope you have had as glorious a summer & harvest as we
have, and that you are able to be much out of doors and absorb the
health-giving influences, dear Friend. Such mornings! So fresh and
invigourating. I have been before breakfast mostly in a beautiful garden (t=
he
old Priory garden) with my beloved Poems and the dew-laden flowers and liqu=
id
light and sweet, fresh air; & the sparkle of the pond & delicious
greenness of the meadows beyond & rustling trees, and had a joyful time
with you, my Darling--sometimes with thoughts that lay hold on "the so=
lid
prizes of the Universe," sometimes so busy building up a home in Ameri=
ca,
thinking, dreaming, hoping, loving, groping among dim shadows, straining
wistful eyes into the dim distance--then to my poems again--ah! not groping
then, but hand in hand with you, breathing the air you breathe, with eyes
ardently fixed in the same direction your eyes look, heart beating strong w=
ith
the same hopes, aspirations, yours beats with. It does not need to be Ameri=
can
to love America and to believe in the great future of humanity there; it is
curious to be human, still more English to do that. I love & believe in
& understand her in & through you: but was always drawn towards her,
always a believer, though in a vaguer way, that a new glorious day for men
& women was dawning there, and recognized a new, distinctive American
quality, very congenial to me, even in American virtues, which you not perh=
aps
rate highly or retard as decisively national, not adequately or commandingly
so, at any rate. Did I ever tell you the cousin of mine[23] who owns the pr=
iory
here fought for two years in the Secession war in the army of the Potomac w=
hen
Burnside & McClellan were at the head? John Cowardine was Major in a
Cavalry regiment--was at Vicksburg, Frederickburg, &c. Never wounded, or
but slightly--had a good deal of outpost duty, being just the right sort of=
a man
for that, & has letters of approval from his generals of which he is no=
t a
little proud. Before that fought under the Stars & Stripes in Mexico &a=
mp;
has had a curiously adventurous career, which he commenced by running away =
from
a military college, where he was being prepared for a cadetship, &
enlisting as a private--getting out of that by & bye and working his wa=
y before
the mast as a sailor--then mining in California--then in Australia, riding
steeplechases, keeper of the Melrose hounds, market gardening, hotel keepin=
g,
then on his way back to California, cast ashore on one of the Navigator
Islands, where he remained for six months, the only white man among savages,
who were friendly & made much of him--now, come into a good estate, mar=
ried
to a woman who seems to suit him well & is healthy, cheerful rich &
handsome, he has fallen into indifferent health & considerable depressi=
on
of spirits. Perhaps he finds the atmosphere of Squirearchical gentility very
stagnant, the bed of roses stifling--perhaps, too, the severe privations he=
has
at different times undergone have injured him. I often think he was perhaps=
one
of those your eyes rested on with pride & admiration--"handsome,
tan-faced, dressed in blue." He is the very ideal of a soldier in appe=
arance
& bearing--has now some fine children, of whom he is very fond.
It was just this =
time
of year I received the precious letter and ring that put peace and joy, and=
yet
such pain of yearning, into my heart--pain for you, my Darling. O sorrowing=
helpless
love that waits, and must wait, useless, afar off, while you suffer. But tr=
ying
every day of my life to grow fitter, more capable of being your comfort and=
joy
and true comrade--never to cease trying this side death or the other--rejoi=
cing
in my children more than I ever rejoiced in them before, now that in and th=
rough
you I for the first time see and understand humanity (myself included)--its
divine nature, its possibilities, nay, its certainties. How I do long for y=
ou
to see my children, dear Friend, and for them to see and love you as they w=
ill
love you, and all their nature unfold and grow more vigorously and joyously
under your influence. Gracie, of whom you have photographs, grows fast,--is
such a fine, blooming girl. I hope soon to send you one of Beatrice too. Th=
ey
have been enjoying their visit here and are now gone home. Gracie for schoo=
l,
Beatrice for the examination at Apoth. Hall she is hoping to get through. T=
hen
she is coming here to be with my Mother, & I going back to London. We m=
ean
now one or other of us always to be with my Mother here. Herby has had such=
a
happy time with his brother in Wales--& is looking as brown as a nut &a=
mp;
full of health & life--he had a swim in the sea every day. He did succe=
ed
in getting into the Academy, & will begin work there Oct. 1st! Be sure,
dear Friend, if there is a word about your health in any paper to send it
me--that is what I search for so eagerly--to have the joyful news you are
getting on--but even if it is but so very very slowly, still I would rather
know the truth? I do not like thinking of you mistakenly. I want to send you
the thoughts, the yearnings, that belong to you, the cherishing love that e=
nfolds
you most tenderly of all when you suffer. O if I could send it! and the
cheerful companionship, beguiling the time while strength creeps back. I ho=
pe
your little nieces at St. Louis are well.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
Friend. Herby, the only one here with me, would like to join his love with
mine.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
I go back the beginning of October.=
Sep. 14th.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. London Dec. 9, 1874=
.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
It did me much go=
od
to get your Poem--beautiful, earnest, eloquent words from the soul whose de=
ar
companionship mine seeks with persistent longing--wrestling with distance &=
amp;
time. It seems to me, too, from your having spoken the Poem yourself I may
conclude you have made fair progress. What I would fain know is whether you
have recovered the use of the left side so far as to get about pretty freely
and to have as much open-air life as you need & like; and also whether =
you
have quite ceased to suffer distressing sensations in the head. If you can =
say
yes to the first question, will you in sign of it put a dash under the word
London, and if yes to the second under England, when you next send me a pap=
er? Unless
indeed the paper itself contain a notice of your health. But if it does not,
that would be an easy way of gladdening me with good news, if good news the=
re
is. I wish I could send you good letters, dearest Friend, making myself the
vehicle of what is stirring around me in life & thought that would inte=
rest
you; for there is plenty. But that is very hard to do--though I watch, hear,
read eagerly, full of interest. Everything stirs in me a cloud of questions,
makes me want to see its relationship to what I hold already. I am forever
brooding, pondering, sifting, testing--but that is not the bent of mind that
enables one to reproduce one's impressions in compact & lively form. So
please, dear Friend, be indulgent, as indeed I know you will be, of these p=
oor
letters of mine with their details of my children & their iterated and
reiterated expressions of the love and hope and aspiration you have called =
into
life within me--take them not for what they are, but for all they have to s=
tand
for. Beatrice is at Colne (having got well through the exam. we were anxious
about in the autumn) and is a very great comfort to my Mother--as I well kn=
ew
she would be; for a more affectionate, devoted, care-taking nature does not
breathe--with a strong active mental life of her own too. So, though missing
her sorely, I am well satisfied she should be there; and the country life a=
nd
rest are doing her a world of good. My artist boy is working away cheerily =
at
the R. Academy, his heart in his work. Percy is coming to spend Xmas with
us--he, too, continues well content with his work and in good health. Graci=
e is
blooming. The Rossettis have had a heavy affliction this first year of their
married life in the premature death of her only brother--a young man of
considerable promise--barely 20.
The Conways are w=
ell.
I feel more completely myself than I have done since my illness--so you see,
dear friend, if it has taken me quite four years to recover the lost ground,
one must not be discouraged if two do not accomplish it in your case. I hope
your little nieces[24] at St. Louis are well--and the brothers you are with,
and that you have many dear friends round you at Camden.
I think my though=
ts
fly to you on strongest and most joyous wings when I am out walking in the
clear, cold, elastic air I enjoy so much.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
A cheerful Christmas, a New Year of=
which
each day brings its share of restorative influence, be yours.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd. C=
amden
Sq. Dec. 30, 1874.
I see, my dearest
Friend, I must not look for those dashes under the words I thought were goi=
ng
to convey a joyful confirmation of my hopes. I see how the dark clouds ling=
er.
Full of pain & indignation. I read the paragraph--but fuller still of
yearning tenderness & trust and hope. I believe, my dear love, that what
you need to help on your recovery is a woman's tender, cherishing love and
care, and that in that warm, genial atmosphere the spring of life will be
quickened once more and flow full and strong through all its channels as of
old, gradually, not quickly, even so. I dare say: but with plenty of patien=
ce;
with utmost intelligent care of all conditions favourable to health, of die=
t,
of abundant oxygen in the rooms you inhabit, of as much outdoor life as
possible, of happy, cheerful companionship, & all the homely everyday
domestic joys which are so helpful in their influences. America is doing wh=
at
nations in all times have done towards that which is profoundly new &
great, that which discredits their old ideals and offers them strange fruits
& flowers from another world than that they have been content to dwell =
in
all their lives. But for all that I do not believe the precious seed is lyi=
ng dormant
even now--everywhere a few in whose hearts it is treasured & yields a n=
oble
growth. Since it is America that has produced you nourished your soul and b=
ody,
she is silently, unnoticed, producing men & women who will justify you,=
who
will understand the meaning of all and respond with a love that will quicken
& exalt humanity as Christ's influence once did. Still it is inscrutabl=
e to
me that the heart of America is not now passionately drawn toward the great
heart that beats & glows in these Poems--that "Drum Taps," at=
any
rate, are not as dear to her as the memory of her dead heroes, sons, brothe=
rs,
husbands. It must be that they really do not reach the hands of the American
people at large--that the professedly literary, cultivated class asking for
nothing better than the pretty sing-song sentimentalities which "join =
them
in their nonsense," or else slavishly prostrating their judgments befo=
re
the models of the past (so perfect for their day, so wholly inadequate for
ours), raise their voices so loud in newspapers & magazines as to preve=
nt
or everywhere check the circulation.
Jan. 1. The New Y=
ear
has come in bleakly & keenly to the inner as well as to the outer sense,
with the papers full of the details of the dark fate of the emigrant ship &=
amp;
of the terrible railway accidents. Percy was not able to join us at Xmas
(through business) but I am expecting him to-night. My mother bears up agai=
nst
the cold wonderfully--& even continues to go out in her chair. Bee's le=
tters
are very bright & cheerful--she & indeed all my children enjoy the =
cold
much, provided they have plenty of out-door exercise--above all skating, wh=
ich
they are now enjoying. I too like it, but am so haunted by the thought of t=
he
increased misery it brings to our hundreds of thousands of ill-fed,
ill-clothed, ill-housed. I trust the family circle round you & your nie=
ces
at St. Louis & all near & dear to you are well, and that you have f=
elt
the warm grasp of many loving friends this wintry, cloudy time, my dearest-=
-and
that there may breathe out of these poor words a warm, bright glow of love =
and hope
& unrestricted trust in the future.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Earls Colne, Halstead Feb. 21, 1875.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I have run down to
Colne for a glimpse of my dear Bee, whom I had not seen for five months, an=
d of
my Mother; & now I am alone with the latter, Beatrice taking my place at
home with her brother & sister for a week or two. A wonderful evergreen=
my
Mother continues; still able to face the keen winds & the frost daily in
her Bath chair--well swathed, of course in eiderdown & flannels. Beatri=
ce
takes beautiful care of her & is happy & content with her life here,
loving the country as dearly as I do & having time enough for study &am=
p;
reading, as well as for domestic activities, to keep her mind as busy as her
body. How I do long for you to see my children, dearest Friend. I wonder if=
you
are surrounded with any in your brother's home--young, growing, blossoming
plants that gladden you. And I wonder if the winter, which I hear is so sev=
ere
in America this year, tries you--whether you can yet move briskly enough to
keep up the circulation--and whether you have as many dear friends round yo=
u as
you had at Washington. In my walks I keep thinking of these things. Write m=
e a little
letter once more, it would do me such good. No one of all your friends so e=
asy
as I to write to because none to whom any & every little detail is so
welcome, so precious--lifting a tiny corner of the great vast of space betw=
een
us, giving me for a moment to feel the friendly grasp of your hand--I that =
long
for it so. Two years are over since your illness began, or seemed to begin,
dearest friend--so slow & stealthy in its approaches, so slow &
stealthy in its retreat--may the spring that is coming (the birds have alre=
ady
caught sight of it, cold & brown & bare as the landscape still is)-=
-may
it but come laden with healing, strengthening, refreshing influences--so th=
at
you begin to feel again the joyous freedom of health, warbling once more a =
song
of joy for lilac time. True, I know indeed, my dearest, that anyhow you are
content, not grudging the price paid for your life work, but even some way =
or
other the richer for paying it--garnering precious equivalents for pain &am=
p;
privation of health in your inmost soul. I cannot choose but believe this e=
arnestly--the
resplendent faith that there is not "one cause nor result lamentable, =
at
last, in the Universe" which glows throughout the Poems is for me an
exhaustless source of strength & comfort.--I see every now & then &=
amp;
like the more each time the Conways. I am half afraid Mr. Conway works too
incessantly--that is, does not like well enough the indispensable supplemen=
t of
close mental work--plenty of air & exercise, &c.,--hates walking, &=
amp;
indeed it is not to be wondered at in great, smoky London (I shall be fond
enough & proud enough of it too when I am over the Atlantic). Unless one
has a real passion for open air & the sense of sky overhead, like me. I
hear Mr. Conway is coming to America for six months in October.
Feb. 25--I kept my
letter till to-day that I might have the happiness of speaking to you on my
birthday. See me this evening in the bright, cheerful parlour of our cottag=
e,
which stands just in the middle of the old village (it has been a village &=
amp;
jogged on through all change at its own sober, sleepy pace this 800 years)-=
-my
mother in her arm chair by the fire; I chatting with her & working or
playing to her when she is awake; & with the Poems I love beside me,
reading, musing, wondering while she dozes. Ah, shall I ever attain to the
Ideal that burst upon me with such splendour of light & joy in those Po=
ems
in 1869--so filling, so possessing me, I seemed as if I had by one bound
attained to that ideal--as if I were already a very twin of the soul from w=
hom
they emanated. But now I know that divine foretaste indicated what was poss=
ible
for me, not what was accomplished--I know the slow growth--the standstill
winters that follow the growing joyous springs & ripening summers. I
believe it will take more lives than this one to reach that mountain on whi=
ch I
was transfigured again, never to descend more, but to start thence for new
heights, fresh glories. Ah, dear friend, will you be able to have patience =
with
me, for me?
Good-bye, my dear=
est.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
50 Marquis Rd., Camden Sq. London, May 18, 1875.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Since last I wrot=
e to
you at the beginning of April (enclosing a little photograph of that avenue
just by our cottage at Colne) I have been into Wales for a fortnight to see
Percy, & have looked for the first time in my life on the Atlantic--the
ocean my mental eyes travel over & beyond so often and that your eyes a=
nd ears
& heart have been fed by, have communed with and interpreted, as in a n=
ew
tongue, to the soul of man. Looking upon that, watching the tides ebb &
flow on your shores, sharing, through my beloved book, in those greatest
movements you have spent alone with it--that was a new joyful experience, a
fresh kind of communing with you.--I went to Wales because I felt anxious a=
bout
Percy, who is not happy just now. I must not tell friends here about it (ex=
cept
his brother & sisters) but I am sure I may tell you, for you will listen
with sympathy. He has attached himself very deeply, I think it will prove, =
to a
girl, & she to him, whose parents welcomed him cordially to their house=
for
a year or two & allowed plenty of intercourse till they became aware
through Percy himself (who thought it right to tell the father as soon as he
was fully aware of his own feelings & more than suspected Norah's respo=
nse
to them) that there was a strong affection growing up between the two. Then=
they
peremptorily forbade all intercourse--not because they have any objection to
Percy--quite the contrary, they say; but solely and simply because he is not
yet earning money enough to marry on, & they hold that a man has no rig=
ht
to engage a girl's affections till he can do so. As if these things could be
timed to the moment the money comes in! Percy was in hopes, & so was I,
that if I went down, I might get sense enough into their heads, if not kind=
ness
& sympathy into their hearts, to see that the sole effect of such arbit=
rary
& narrow-sighted conduct would be to alienate & embitter the young
people's feelings toward them, while it would make them more restless &
anxious to marry without adequate means. Whereas if a reasonable amount of
intercourse were allowed, it would be a happy time with them, & Norah b=
eing
still so young (18), & Percy working away with all his might, doing very
well for his age & sure, conscientious, thorough, capable, & well
trained worker that he is (for the L. School of Mais gives a first rate
scientific preparation for his profession) to be making a modest sufficienc=
y in
a year or two. Well, they were very courteous & indeed friendly to me,
& I think I have won over the mother; but the father remains obdurate,
& Percy feels bitterly the separation--all the more trying as they live
almost within sight of each other. So Beatrice & Grace are going to spe=
nd
their holidays with him this summer to cheer him up. Meanwhile, dear friend=
, I
am on the whole happier than not about him. I liked what I saw of Norah &am=
p;
believe he has found a very sweet, affectionate girl of quiet, domestic nat=
ure,
practical, industrious, sensible--thoroughly well to suit him, & that t=
here
is true & deep love between them--also, she took to me very much, &=
I
feel will be quite another child to me. It is besides no little joy to me to
find how Percy has confided in me in this & chooses me as the friend to
whom he tells all--far from being any separation, as sometimes happens, this
love of his seems to draw us closer together. Only I am very, very anxious =
for his
sake to see him in a better berth--they would let her marry him on £3=
00 a
year; now he has only £175. He is quite competent to manage iron or c=
opper
or tin works, only he looks so young, not having yet any beard or moustache=
to
speak of. That is the end of my long story.
This will reach y=
ou
on your birthday perhaps, my dearest Friend; at any rate it must bear you a
greeting of love and fond remembrance for that dear day such as my heart wi=
ll
send you when it actually comes: patiently waiting heart, with the fibres of
love and boundless trust & joy & hope which bind me to you bedded d=
eep,
grown to be, during these long years, a very part of its immortal substance,
untouchable by age or varying moods or sickness, or death itself, as I sure=
ly
believe. I long more than words can tell to know how it fares with you now =
in
health and spirit. My children are all well & growing & unfolding t=
o my
heart's content. Beatrice & Herbert deeply influenced by your Poems.
Good-bye, my dearest Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Address 1 Torria=
no
Gardens Camden Road, N.=
W. London
Earls Colne Aug. 28, 1875.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Your letter came =
to
me just when I most needed the comfort of it--when I was watching and tendi=
ng
my dear Mother as she gently, slowly, with but little suffering, sank to re=
st.
There was no sick bed to sit by--we got her up and out into the air and
sunshine for an hour or two even the day before she died--No disease, only =
the
stomach could not do its work any longer & for the last three weeks she
lived wholly on stimulants, suffering somewhat from sickness. She drew her =
last
breath very gently before daybreak on the 15th inst., in her 90th year, whi=
ch
she had entered in Jan. She looked very beautiful in death, notwithstanding=
her
great age--as well she might--tranquil sunset that it was of a beautiful da=
y--a
fulfilled life--joy & delight of her father in youth (who used to call =
her the
apple of his eye), good wife, devoted, self-sacrificing, wise mother--patie=
nt,
courageous sufferer through thirty years of chronic rheumatism, which, howe=
ver,
neutralized & ceased its pains the last few years--unsurpassed, &
indeed I think unsurpassable, in conscientiousness--in the strong sense of =
duty
& perfect obedience to that highest sense--she is one of those who amply
justify your large faith in women.
I do not need to =
tell
you anything, my dearest friend--you know all--I feel your strong comforting
hand--I press it very close.
I had all my chil=
dren
with me at the funeral.
O the comfort your
dear letter was & is to me. Thinking over & over the few words you =
say
of yourself--& what is said in the paper (so eagerly read--every word so
welcome) I cannot help fancying that the return of the distressing sensatio=
ns in
the head must be caused by your having worked at the book--the "Two
Rivulets" (I dearly like the title & the idea of bringing the Poems
& Prose together so)--that you must be more patient with yourself and
submit still to perfect rest--& that perhaps in regard to the stomach--=
you
have not enough adapted your diet to the privation of exercise--that you mu=
st
be more indulgent to the stomach too in the sense of giving it only the very
easiest & simplest work to do. My children join their love with mine.
Your own loving
ANNE.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd., Nov. 16, 1875. London
I have been wanti=
ng
the comfort of a talk with you, dearest Friend, for weeks & weeks, with=
out
being able to get leisure & tranquillity enough to do it to my heart's
content--indeed, heart's content is not for me at present--but restless, ea=
ger,
longing to come--& the struggle to do patiently & completely &
wisely what remains for me here before I am free to obey the deep faith and
love which govern me--so let me sit close beside you, my Darling--& feel
your presence & take comfort & strength & serenity from it as I=
do,
as I can when with all my heart & soul I draw close to you, realizing y=
our
living presence with all my might.--First, about Percy--things are beginnin=
g to
look a little brighter for him. He is just entering upon a new engagement w=
ith
some very large & successful works--the Blenavon Iron Co.--where, though
his salary will not be higher at first, his opportunities of improvement wi=
ll
be better & he is also to be allowed to take private practice (in assay=
ing
& analyzing). The manager there believes in Science & is friendly to
Percy & will give him every facility for showing what he can do, so tha=
t he
hopes to prove to the Directors before long that he is worth a good salary.=
The
parents of Norah (whom he loves) have released from their unfriendly attitu=
de
since my Beatrice has been staying with them; the two girls have attached t=
hemselves
to one another & Per. has had delightful opportunities of being with No=
rah,
& best of all, she is to return here with Beatrice (they are coming
to-morrow), & Per. is to have a week's holiday & come up, so that he
& Norah will be wholly together & have, I suspect, the happiest week
they have yet had in their lives. Then I have stored away for them the
furniture of the dear old home at Colne, & I really think that by the t=
ime
'76 is out they will be able to marry. I see, and indeed I have known ever
since he formed this attachment, that I must not look for him to come to
America with me. But what I build upon, Dearest Friend, is that when I have
been a little while in America & have made friends & had time to lo=
ok about
me I might hear of a good certainty for him--his excellent training at the
School of Mines, large experience at Blenavon, energy, ability, & sturdy
uprightness will make him a first-rate manager of works by & bye. But t=
he
leaving him so happy with his young wife will make it easier for us to part.
Nov. 26--Beatrice has begun to work at anatomy at the School of Medicine for
Women lately founded, & seems to delight in her work. She will not ente=
r on
the full course all at once--I am for taking things gently. Women have plen=
ty
of strength but it is of a different kind from men's & must work by gen=
tler
& slower means--Above all I do not like what pushes violently aside
domestic duties & pleasures. The special work must combine itself with
these; I am sure it can. Herby is getting on very nicely--never did student
love his work better. He is eager, & by making the best use of present
opportunities & advantages yet looking towards America full of cheerful
hopes & sympathy. Grace is less developed in intellect but not less in
character than the others. I can't describe her but send you her photograph.
There is a freshness & independence of character about her--yet withal a
certain waywardness & reserve. She is a good, instinctive judge of
character--more influenced by it than by books--yet with a growing taste for
them too. She comes to America with a gay and buoyant curiosity, declining =
to
make up her mind about anything till she gets there. We want, as far as
possible, to transplant our home bodily--to bring as much as we can of our =
own
furniture because we have beautiful old things precious in Herby's eyes &am=
p;
that we are all fond of. And [by] coming straight to Philadelphia & tak=
ing
a house somewhere on the outskirts of it or Camden immediately we fancy this
might be practicable, but have not yet launched into the matter. I have just
heard from Mr. Rossetti, and also from Mrs. Conway of her husband having se=
en
you, & if his report be not too sanguine it is a cheering one & wou=
ld
comfort me much, dearest Friend. But what he says is so favourable I am afr=
aid
to believe it altogether, knowing that you would make the very best of your=
self
& indeed be probably at your best with the pleasure of seeing an old fr=
iend
fresh from England. Nov. 30. And now, dear Friend, I have had a very great
pleasure indeed, thanks to you--a visit from Mr. Marvin--& I hope to ha=
ve
another when he returns from Paris. And the account he gives of you is so
cheerful--so vivid--it seems to part asunder a gloomy cloud that was broodi=
ng
in my mind. And though I know that for the short hours that you feel bright
& well are many long hours when you are far otherwise, still I feel sure
those short hours are the earnest of perfect recovery--with a fine
patience--boundless patience. And now I can picture you sitting in your
favourite window, having a friendly word with passers-by--& feel quite =
sure
that you are happy & comfortable in your surroundings. And a great deal
else full of interest Mr. Marvin told me. I was loth for him to go, but one
hour is so small, we have noticed, for a friend, I am sorry to say.
William Rossetti =
has
a little girl which is a great delight to him. Miss Hillard of Brooklyn has
also paid me a visit & spoken to me of you. She charmed me much--only I
felt a little cross with her for giving Herby such a dismal account of his
chances as an artist in America. However, we both refused to be discouraged,
for after all he can send his pictures to England to be established &c.,
having plenty of friends who would see to it; & we are both firm in the
faith that if you can only paint the really good pictures the rest will take
care of itself, somehow or other--& that can be done as well in America=
as
in England, but of course he must finish his training here.
With best love fr=
om
us all, good-bye, my dearest Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO=
WALT
WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd., London Dec. 4, 1875.
Though it is but a
few days since I posted a letter, my dearest friend, I must write you
again--because I cannot help it, my heart is so full--so full of love &
sorrow & struggle. The day before yesterday I saw Mr. Conway's printed
account of you, & instead of the cheerful report I had been told of, he
speaks of your having given up hope of recovery. Those words were like a sh=
arp
knife plunged into me--they choked me with bitter tears. Don't give up that
hope for the sake of those that so tenderly, passionately, love you--would =
give
their lives with joy for you. Why, who knows better than you how much hope
& the will have to do with it, & I know quite well that the belief =
does
not depress you--that you are ready to accept either lot with calmness,
cheerfulness, perfect faith, perhaps with equal joy. But for all that, it d=
oes
you harm. Ideas always have a tendency to accomplish themselves. And what r=
ight
have the Doctors to utter gloomy prophecies? The wisest of them know the be=
st
how profoundly in the dark they are as to much that goes on within us,
especially in maladies like yours. O cling to life with a resolute hold, my
beloved, to bless us with your presence unspeakably dear, beneficent
presence--me to taste of it before so very long now--thirsting, pining, lov=
ing
me. Take through these poor words of mine some breath of the tender, tender=
, ineffable
love that fills my heart and soul and body--take of it to strengthen the ve=
ry
springs of your life: it is capable of that; O its cherishing warmth and jo=
y,
if it could only get to you, only fold you round close enough, would help, I
know. Soon, soon as ever my boy has one to love & care for him all his =
own,
I will come; I may not before, not if it should break my heart to stop away
from you, for his welfare is my sacred charge & nearer & dearer than
all to me. Verily, my God, strengthen me, comfort me, stay for me--let that
have a little beginning on this dear earth which is for all eternity, which
will live & grow immortally into a diviner reality than the heart of man
has conceived.
I am well satisfi=
ed
with Norah, dear Friend. She is very affectionate, loveable, prudent, &
clear in all practical matters, well suited to Percy in tastes, &c.
Your own ANNIE.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Blaenavon Routzp=
ool Mon. England Jan. 18, '76.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Do not think me t=
oo
wilful or headstrong, but I have taken our tickets & we shall sail Aug.=
30
for Philadelphia. I found if I did not come to a decision now, we could not
well arrange it before next summer. And since we have come to a decision my
mind has been quite at rest. Do not feel any anxiety or misgivings about us=
. I
have a clear and strong conviction I am doing what is right & best for =
us
all. After a busy anxious time I am having a week or two of rest with Percy,
who I find fairly well in health & prospering in his business--indeed, =
he
bids fair to have a large private practice as an analyst here, & is alr=
eady
making income enough to marry on, only there is to build the nest--& I
think he will have actually to build it, for there seem no eligible
houses--& to furnish--so that the wedding will not be till next spring =
or
early summer. Nevertheless, with a definite goal & a definite time &
the way between not so very rugged, though rather dull and lonely, I think =
he
will be pretty cheery. This little town (of 11,000 inhabitants, all miners,
smelters &c.) lies up among the hills 1100 ft. above the sea--glorious =
hills
here, spreading, then converging, with wooded flanks, & swift brooklets
leaping over stones in the hollows--the air, too, of course deliciously lig=
ht
& pure. I have heard through a friend of ours of Bee's fellow student w=
ho
lives in Camden (Mr. Suerkrop, I think his name is) that we shall be able to
get a very comfortable home with pleasant garden there for about £55 =
per
an. I think I can manage that very well--so all I need is to hear of a
comfortable lodging or boarding house (the former preferred) where we can b=
e,
avoiding hotels even while we hunt for the house. I have arranged for my go=
ods
to sail a week later than we do, so as to give us time.
Good-bye for a sh=
ort
while, my dearest Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Bee has obtained a very satisfactor=
y account
of the Women's Medical College in Philadelphia & introductions to the H=
ead,
&c.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd. London Feb. 25, '76.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I received the pa=
per
& enclosed slip Saturday week, filling me so full of emotion I could not
write, for I am too bitterly impatient of mere words. Soon, very soon, I co=
me,
my darling. I am not lingering, but held yet a little while by the firm gri=
p of
conscience--this is the last spring we shall be asunder--O I passionately
believe there are years in store for us, years of tranquil, tender
happiness--me making your outward life serene & sweet--you making my in=
ward
life so rich--me learning, growing, loving--we shedding benign influences r=
ound
us out of our happiness and fulfilled life--Hold on but a little longer for=
me,
my Walt--I am straining every nerve to hasten the day--I have enough for us=
all
(with the simple, unpretending ways we both love best).
Percy is battling
slowly--doing as well as we could expect in the time. I think he will soon
build the nest for his mate. I think he never in his heart believed I really
should go to America, and so it comes as a great blow to him now. You must =
be
very indulgent towards him for my sake, dear friend.
I am glad we know
about those rascally book agents--for many of us are wanting a goodish numb=
er
of copies of the new edition & it is important to understand we may have
them straight from you. Rossetti is making a list of the friends & the
number, so that they may all come together.
Perhaps, dearest
friend, you may be having a great difficulty in getting the books out for w=
ant
of funds--if so, let me help a little--show your trust in me and my love th=
us
generously.
Your own loving ANNIE.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens March 11, '76.
I have had such j=
oy
this morning, my Darling--Poems of yours given in the Daily News--sublime P=
oems
one of them reaching dizzy heights, filling my soul with strong delight. Th=
ese
prefaced by a few words, timid enough yet kindly in tone, & better than
nothing. The days, the weeks, are slipping by, my beloved, bearing me swift=
ly,
surely to you--before the beauty of the year begins to fade we shall come. =
The
young folk too are full of bright anticipation & eagerness now, I am
thankful to say; and Percy getting on with, I trust, such near & defini=
te
prospect of his happiness that he will be able to pull along cheerily towar=
ds
it after we are gone, in spite of loneliness.
I expect, Darling=
, we
must go to some little town or village ten or twenty miles short of
Philadelphia till the tremendous influx of visitors to the Centennial has
ceased, else we shall not be able to find a corner there.--By the bye, I fe=
el a
little sulky at your always taking a fling at the poor piano. I see I have =
got
to try & show you it too is capable of waking deep chords in the human =
soul
when it is the vehicle of a great master's thought & emotions--if only =
my
poor fingers prove equal to the task! (All my heart shall go into them.) Ta=
ke
from my picture a long, long look of tender love and joy and faith, deathle=
ss,
ever young, ever growing, ever learning, aspiring love, tender, cherishing,
domestic love.
Oh, may I be full=
of
sweet comfort for my Beloved's Soul and Body through life, through and after
death.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
WALT WHITMAN TO A=
NNE
GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
Camden, New Jersey March, 1876.
DEAREST FRIEND:
To your good &
comforting letter of Feb. 25th I at once answer, at least with a few lines.=
I
have already written this morning a pretty full letter to Mr. Rossetti (to
answer one just rec'd from him) & requested him to loan it you for peru=
sal.
In that I have described my situation fully & candidly.
My new edition is
printed & ready. Upon receipt of your letter I sent you a set, two Vols.
(by Mail, March 15) which you must have rec'd by this time. I wish you to s=
end
me word soon as they arrive.
My health, I am
encouraged to think, is perhaps a shade better--certainly as well as any ti=
me
of late.
I even already
vaguely contemplate plans (they may never be fulfilled, but yet again they =
may)
of changes, journeys--even of coming to London & seeing you, visiting my
friends, &c. My dearest friend, I do not approve your American
trans-settlement. I see so many things here you have no idea of--the social,
and almost every other kind of crudeness, meagreness, here (at least in
appearance).
Don't do anything
towards it nor resolve in it nor make any move at all in it without further
advice from me. If I should get well enough to voyage, we will talk about it
yet in London.
You must not be
uneasy about me--dearest friend, I get along much better than you think for=
. As
to the literary situation here, my rejection by the coteries and the poverty
(which is the least of my troubles), am not sure but I enjoy them all--besi=
des,
as to the latter, I am not in want.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd., London March 30, '76.
Yesterday was a d=
ay
for me, dearest Friend. In the morning your letter, strong, cheerful,
reassuring--dear letter. In the afternoon the books. I don't know how to se=
ttle
down my thoughts calmly enough to write, nor how to lay down the books (with
delicate yet serviceable exterior, with inscription making me so proud, so
joyous). But there are a few things I want to say to you at once in regard =
to
our coming to America. I will not act without "further advice from
you"; but as to not resolving on it, dear friend, I can't exactly obey
that, for it has been my settled, steady purpose (resting on a deep, strong
faith) ever since 1869. Nor do I feel discouraged or surprised at what you =
say
of American "crudeness," &c. (of which, in truth, one hears n=
ot a
little in England). I have not shut my eyes to the difficulties and trials
& responsibilities (for the children's sake) of the enterprise. I am not
urged on by any discontent with old England or by any adverse circumstances
here which I might hope to better there: my reasons, emotions, the sources =
of
my strength and courage for the uprooting & transplanting--all are incl=
osed
in those two volumes that lie before me on the table. That America has brou=
ght
them forth makes me want to plant some, at least, of my children on her soi=
l. I
understand & believe in & love her in & through them. They teac=
h me
to look beneath the surface & to get hints of the great future that is
shaping itself out of the crude present, & I believe we shall prove to =
be
of the right sort to plant down there.--O to talk it all over with you, dea=
rest
Friend, here in London first; I feel as if that would really be--the joy, t=
he
comfort, of that. I cannot finish this to-day but send what I have written
without delay that you may know of the safe arrival of the books. With
reverent, grateful love from us all.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd. London April 21, 1876.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I must write agai=
n,
out of a full heart. For the reading of this book, "The Two
Rivulets," has filled it very full. Ever the deep inward assent, risin=
g up
strong, exultant my immortal self recognizing, responding to your immortal
self. Ever the sense of dearness, the sweet, subtle perfume, pervading every
page, every line, to my sense--O I cannot put into any words what I perceive
nor what answering emotion pervades me, flows out towards you--sweetest,
deepest, greatest experience of my life--what I was made for--surely I was =
made
as the soil in which the precious seed of your thoughts & emotions shou=
ld
be planted--try to fulfil themselves in me, that I might by & bye bloss=
om
into beauty & bring forth rich fruits--immortal fruits. So no doubt oth=
er
women feel, and future women will.
Do not dissuade me
from coming this autumn, my dearest Friend. I have waited patiently--7
years--patiently, yet often, especially since your illness, with such painf=
ul
yearning your heart would yearn towards me if you realized it--I cannot wait
any longer. Nor ought I to--that would indeed be sacrificing the prudence t=
hat
concerns itself with immortal things to the prudence that concerns itself o=
nly
with temporary ones. But, indeed, even so far as this latter is concerned,
there is no sacrifice for any. It is by far the best step, for instance, I
could take on Beatrice's account. She is heartily in earnest in her medical
studies. I am persuaded, too, it is a splendid training for her whether or =
no
she ever makes a money-earning profession of it. And in England women have =
at present
no means of obtaining a complete medical education. They cannot get admissi=
on
to any Hospital for the clinical part of the course. So that she is exceedi=
ngly
anxious to come where it is possible for her to follow out her aims
effectually. Then, I am confident she will find America congenial to her--t=
hat
she is in her essential nature democratic--& that she has the intellige=
nce,
the sympathies, earnestness, affectionateness, unconventionality needed to
pierce through appearances surface "crudeness" & see & lo=
ve
the great reality unfolding below. So I believe has Herby. Then an artist i=
s as
free as an author to work where he pleases & reaps as much from fresh a=
nd
widened experiences. He does not contemplate cutting himself off from
England--will exhibit here--very likely take a studio in London for a seaso=
n, a
couple of years hence to work among old friends & associations & so
have double chance & opportunities. Then above all, dearest friend, they
too see America in & through you--they too would fain be near you. Have=
no
anxiety or misgivings for us. Let us come & be near you--& see if we
are made of the right sort of stuff for transplanting to American soil. Only
advise us where. If it be Philadelphia (which as far as offering facilities=
for
Beatrice would, as far as I can learn, suit us very well). We must not come=
, I
think, till the end of October, because of its being so full. Perhaps indee=
d,
dearest Friend (but dare not build on it) we shall talk this over in Englan=
d.
If you are able to take the journey, it might, and would, be sure to do you=
good
as well as to rejoice the hearts of English friends. But if not, if we are =
not
able to talk over our coming, do not feel the least anxious about us. We sh=
all
light on our feet & do very well. Percy seems getting on fairly well,
considering what a bad time it is in his line of business. I think he will =
be
able to marry this autumn or following winter. I shall go and spend a month
with him in July. Perhaps, indeed, if, as many are prophecying, the iron tr=
ade
does not recover its old pre-eminence here, he may be glad by & bye tha=
t I
have gone over to America & opened a way for him. But if he does not fo=
llow
me then, if I live, I hope to spend a few months with him every three or fo=
ur years,
instead of as now a few weeks once a year. Anyhow we have to live widely ap=
art.
Thanks for the papers just received. Specially welcome the account of some
stranger's interview with you--for me too before very long now the joy of
hearing the "strong musical voice" read the "Wound Dresser&q=
uot;
or speak.
I have happy thou=
ghts
for my companions all day long, helping me over every difficulty--strengthe=
ning
me. Good-bye, dearest Friend. Love from us all.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Torriano Gardens Camden Rd., London May 18, 1876.
Just a line of
birthday greeting, my dearest Friend. May it find you enjoying the beautiful
spring-time & the grand sights of people & products & the music=
at
Philadelphia, notwithstanding drawbacks (but lessening drawbacks, I earnest=
ly
hope) of health, lameness. Rejoiced, too, perhaps with the sight of many de=
ar
old friends occasion has brought to your city. May all that will do you good
come, my dearest Friend. And not least the sense of relief & joy in hav=
ing
fulfilled the great task, in the teeth of such difficulties relaunched safe=
ly,
more fully, richly equipt, the ship to sail down the great ocean of Time,
bearing precious, precious freight of seed to be planted in countless
successions of human souls, helping forward more than even the best lovers =
of
your poems dream, the great future of humanity. That is what I believe as
surely as I believe in my own existence.
The "low
star," the great star drooping low in the west, has been unusually
resplendent of a night here lately & by day lilacs & the labernums =
wonderfully
brightening dear old smoky London, constant reminders all, if I needed any,=
of
the Poet & the Poems, so dear to me.
If I do not hear =
from
you to the contrary I am to take our passage by one of the "States&quo=
t;
Line of Steamers that come straight to Philadelphia sailing about the 1st
Sept.--& I am told one ought to secure one's cabin a couple of months o=
r so
beforehand. But if there be indeed an increasing hope of your coming here in
the course of the summer, or if you think it would be best for us to go to =
New
York (only I want to go at once where we are likely to stop, because of my
furniture), let me hear as soon as may be, dear Friend. Looking at it purel=
y as
concerns the young ones, for some reasons it is very desirable to come this
year & for others to wait till next. With Bee, for instance, we are both
losing time & wasting money by going over another winter here when ther=
e is
no complete & satisfactory medical course to be had. Then as regards de=
ar
Percy, he writes me now that though he is doing fairly well, he does not th=
ink
he will be able to take a house & marry till next summer--& that I =
am
very sorry for. But then I think that as I could not be with him nor help h=
im
forward, the balance goes down on Beatrice's side, if I am able to accompli=
sh
it.
Good-bye, my dear=
est
Friend. Loving, tender thoughts shall I send you on the 30th. Solemn though=
ts
outleaping life, immortal aspirations of my soul toward your soul. The
children's love too, please, dearest Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Round Hill, Northampton, Mass. Monday, Sept., '77.
DEAREST FRIEND:
I have had joyful
news to-day! Percy's wife has a fine little boy--it was born on the 10th, a=
nd
Norah got through well & is doing nicely; so I feel very happy.
Since then Per. h=
as
gone to Paris where he is to read a paper before the "Iron and Steel
Institute" on the Elimination of phosphorus from Iron--which is also a
little triumph of another kind for him--for the Council which accepted his
paper is composed of eminent English scientists, & eminent foreign ones
will hear it.--I need not tell you it is indescribably lovely here now--no
doubt Kirkwood is the same--the light so brilliant, and yet soft--the rich
autumn tints just beginning to appear--the temperature delicious--crisp &am=
p;
bracing, yet genial.
The throng of peo=
ple
is gone--but a few of the pleasantest of the old set remain--& a few
interesting new ones have come!--among them Mrs. Dexter from Boston, who wa=
s a
Miss Ticnor, daughter of the author of the book on Spanish literature--she =
and
her husband full of interesting talk. Also Mr. Martin B---- and his wife--a
fine specimen of a leading Bostonian. Besides these also a physician from
Florida whom I much admire--with a beautiful firm tenor voice--very handsome
& graceful too, a true southerner, I should say--(but of Scotch
extraction).
Next week we go to
Boston.
I went over the
Lunatic Asylum here the other day & saw some strange, sad sights--some
figures crouched down in attitudes of such profound dejection I shall never
forget them--some very bright and talkative. It is said to be the best mana=
ged
in America. Dr. Earle, who is at the head, is a man of splendid capacity for
the post--a noble-looking old man (uncle of those Miss Chases you met at our
house).
I can't settle to
anything or think of any thing since I received Percy's letter but the baby
& Norah. Love to you & to Mrs. Whitman[25] & Hattie[26] &
Jessie.[27]
Good-bye, dear
Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
BEATRICE GILCHRIS=
T TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
New England Hospital Codman Avenue Boston Highlands
DEAR WALT:
Hospital life is beginning to seem a long-accustomed life. I enjoy all the duties involved &= amp; all the human relations. Even getting up in the night is compensated for by= yielding a sense of importance & independence. I sleep in a large room with three windows, & three beds in a row. Breakfast at 7, & we are supposed to have seen all our patients before breakfast, but do not keep to that rule.<= o:p>
After breakfast,
round to count pulses & respirations, note condition, dress any wound, =
in
charge, etc. At 1/2 past 8 o'clock go the rounds with the resident physician
(Dr. Berlin), all the students, & superintendent of nurses. Then put up
medicine, each for her own patients (about 8 in no.), give electricity, etc=
. If
one's patient has an ache or pain, the nurse whistles for the student (my
whistle is 2). She sees the patient orders what is necessary, or if serious
reports to Dr. Berlin. Then there is some microscopic work, & copying o=
ut
the history & daily record of the case & making out the temperature
charts more than fills in the day. At 8 o'clock we all in conclave report a=
bout
our patients & talk over any interesting case. One of my patients has
empyema following pleurisy. I inject into her chest about a doz. of differe=
nt
preparations. Several of my patients (I have all the very sick just now)
require very careful watching.
In the evening we=
go
round again & count pulses & respirations & note temperatures. =
If a
very sick patient, in the middle of the day; also take pulse, etc. The numb=
er
of visits depending on the need & the competency of the nurse. I like
introducing lint into wounds (such simple ones as an incised abscess of the
breast) with the probe, because if I take trouble enough I can do it without
hurting the patient, much to the patient's surprise.
The other day Mr.
& Mrs. Marvin called to see me with Mrs. & Miss Callender--I enjoyed
their visit much. To-day Mr. Marvin drove over to fetch me to lunch, & I
had a beautiful drive over to Dorchester; in the afternoon a game of lawn
tennis, a stroll down to the creek, & drive home by Forest Hill Cemetery
& Jamaica Pond. The air was fresh after a shower & golden-tinted, &=
amp;
the drive through beautiful lanes & country. All were friendly & it=
was
refreshing to emerge from the little hospital world. Mr. Marvin's cordial f=
ace
greeted me when I was speaking to some patients in hammocks, under the tree=
s,
the day he called, much to my surprise.
I was to-day feel=
ing
the need of a little change of air & scene, so that the visit was most
opportune.
Mr. Morse[28] is
working away desperately at the bust of you; he feels as if he would get on
famously if he could only catch a glimpse of you. Now might not you come to
Boston on your way to Chesterfield, ride up in the open horsecars (a very
pleasant ride) to see me also and give Mr. Morse the benefit of a sitting? =
How
I wish we could get Mrs. Stafford in here; the patients get most excellent
care. I have great confidence in Dr. Berlin & in the attending physicia=
n. I
do not want her to come for a month, because Dr. Berlin has just gone away =
for
a vacation.
I fear no mere
visiting once a day of a doctor will do her any good--she needs hygienic
treatment--massage (a woman works here every day on the patients who need
rubbing & massage), feeding up (I have never yet seen a patient whom we
could not make eat, appetite or not, by aid of beef-tea & milk), perfect
rest, & judicious treatment.
Dr. Berlin is a
learned, charming woman of 28--she takes advanced views, gives no medicine =
at
all in some cases, & if any, few at a time, but efficient. She is perfe=
ctly
unaffected, very intelligent, & has been thoroughly trained. She is a
Russian.
Please give my lo=
ve
to Mrs. Whitman & remember me to Colonel Whitman. This afternoon, when
driving with Mr. Marvin, I thought of the pleasant drives I have had with
Colonel Whitman.
Yours affectionately, BEATRICE C. GILCHRIST.
If it were not for records accumula=
ting
mountain high I should have time to write to my friends.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Sept. 3, '78. Chesterfield, Mass.
I am half afraid Herby has got a
malarious place by his description.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I had a lingering hope--till Herby went south again--that I should have a letter from you, in answer to mine, saying you were coming up to see us here. In truth, it was a great disappointment to me, his going back to Philadelphia instead of your joining us, or him, either here or somewhere near to New York. I wonder whe= re that North Amboyna is that you once mentioned to me--and what kind of a pla= ce it is. I have had a long, quiet time here, and have enjoyed it very much--n= ever did I breathe such sweet, light, pure air as is always blowing freely over these rocky hills. Rocky as they are--and their sides & ravines are str= ewn with huge boulders of every conceivable size & shape--they nourish an abundant growth of woods, and I fancy the farmers here do a great deal bett= er with their winter crops of lumber and bark and maple sugar than with their summer one of grain & corn. I expect Herby has described our neighbours= to you--specially Levi Bryant, the father of my hostess--a farmer who lives just opposite and= has put such heart & soul and muscle & sinew into his farming that he h= as continued to win quite a handsome competence from this barren soil (it isn't muscle &= amp; industry only that are wanted here--but pluck and endurance) hauling his ti= mber up & down over the snow & through the drifts, along roads that are pretty nearly vertical. I am never tired of hearing his stories (nor he of telling them) of hairbreadth escapes for him & his cattle--when the har= ness or the shafts have broken under the tremendous strain--& nothing but coolness & daring have got him or them out of it alive. Generally, as he sits talking, his little boy of eleven who bids fair to be like him and can= now manage a team or a yoke of oxen as well as any man in the parish--and work almost as hard--sits close by him leaning his head on his father's shoulder= or breast--for the rugged old fellow has a vein of great gentleness and affectionateness in him & I notice the child nestles up to him always rather than to the mother--who is all the same a very kind, amiable, good mother. Then there are neighbours of another sort up at the "Centre"--Mr. Chadwick, &c., from New York, with whom I have pleasant chats daily when I trudge up to fetch my letters--now & then I= get a delightful drive or go on a blackberrying party with the folks round--I expect Giddy over to-day & we shall remain here together for about a fortnight--then back to Round Hill--where I am to meet the Miss Chase whom = you may remember taking tea with & liking--then on to Boston to see dear Bee--& then to New York, where we shall meet again at last, I hope ere = long. Love to Mr. & Mrs. Whitman--I enjoy her letters. Also to Hattie & Jessie--who will hear from me by & bye. With love to you, dear Friend.<= o:p>
Good-bye. A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Concord, Mass. O=
ct.
25th.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
The days are slip=
ping
away so pleasantly here that weeks are gone before I know it. The Concord f=
olk
are as friendly as they are intellectual, and there is really no end to the
kindness received. We are rowed on the beautiful river every day that it is
warm enough--a very winding river not much broader than your favourite
creek--flowing sometimes through level meadows, sometimes round rocky
promontories & steep wooded hills which, with their wonderful autumn ti=
nts,
are like a gay flower border mirrored in the water. Never in my life have I
enjoyed outdoor pleasures more--I hardly think, so much--enhanced as they a=
re
by the companionship of very lovable men and women. They lead an easy-going
life here--seem to spend half their time floating about on the river--or
meeting in the evening to talk & read aloud. Judge Hoar says it is a go=
od
place to live and die in, but a very bad place to make a living in. Beatrice
spent one Sunday with us here. We walked to Hawthorne's old house in the
morning, & in the afternoon to the "Old Manse" and to Sleepy
Hollow, most beautiful of last resting places. Tuesday we go on to Boston f=
or a
week very loth to leave Concord--at least, I am!--but Giddy begins to long =
for
city life again. And then to New York about the 5th Nov. Herby told you, no
doubt, that I spent an hour or two with Emerson--and that he looked very
beautiful--and talked in a friendly, pleasant manner. A long letter from my
sister in England tells me Per. looks well and happy & is so proud of h=
is
little boy--and that Norah is really a perfect wife to him--affectionate, d=
evoted,
and the best of housewives. How glad I am Herby is painting you. I wonder if
you like the landscape he is working on as well as you did "Timber
Creek." Miss Hillard has undertaken the charge of a young lady's educa=
tion,
and is very much pleased with her task. She is in a delightful family who m=
ake
her quite one with them--live in the best part of New York, and pay her a
handsome salary. She has the afternoons and Saturday & Sunday to hersel=
f.--Concord
boasts of having been first to recognize your genius. Mr. Alcott & Mr.
Sanborn say so. Good-bye, dear Friend.
A. G.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
39 Somerset St. =
Boston
Nov. 13, '78.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I feel as if I di=
dn't
a bit deserve the glorious budget you sent me yesterday, for I have been a
laggard, dull correspondent of late, because, leading such an unsettled kin=
d of
life, I don't seem to have got well hold of myself. Beautiful is the title
prose poem--the glimpse of the autumn cornfield: one smells the sweet
fragrance, basks in the sunshine with you--tastes all the varied, subtle
outdoor pleasures, just as you want us to. A lady who has just been calling=
on
me--Miss Hillard--no relation of the odious Dr. H.--said, "Have you se=
en a
lovely little bit about a cornfield by Walt Whitman in a New York paper?&qu=
ot;
She did not know your poems, but was so taken with this. By the bye, I am n=
ot
quite American enough yet to enjoy the sound of the locusts & big
grasshoppers--ours are modest little things that only make a gentle sort of
whirr--not that loud brassy sound--couldn't help wishing for more birds &am=
p;
less insects when I was at Chesterfield--but I like our English name
"ladybird" better than "ladybug". Do your children alwa=
ys
say when they see one, as ours do, "Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home:
your house is on fire, your children are flown"? But for the rest--I
believe I am growing a very good American; indeed, certain am I there is no
more lovable people to live amongst anywhere in the world--and in this resp=
ect
it has been good to give up having a home of my own here for awhile--for I =
have
been thrown amongst many more intimately than I could have been otherwise. =
What
you say of Herby's picture delights me, dear Friend. I have been grieving he
was not with us, sharing the pleasant times we have had and enlarging his
circle of friends--but after all he could not have been doing better--he mu=
st come
on here by & bye. I wonder if you are as satisfied with his portrait of=
you
as with the landscape. I suppose he is gone on to New York to-day. I have
sighed for dear little Concord many times since I came away--beautiful city=
as
Boston is & many the interesting & kindly people I am seeing here: =
but
the outdoor life & the entirely simple, unpretending, cordial, friendly
ways of Concord & its inhabitants won my heart altogether--one of them =
came
to see me to-day & to ask us to go and spend a couple of days with them
there again before we leave & I could not say nay, though our time is
short. There are some portraits in the Art Museum here, which interested me=
a
good deal--of Adams, Hancock, Quincy, &c.,--& of some of the women =
of
that time--they would form an excellent nucleus of a national portrait gall=
ery,
which (together with good biographies while yet materials & recollectio=
ns
are fresh & abundant) would be a very interesting & important
contribution to the world's history.--Tennyson's letter is a pleasure to me=
to
see--considering his age & the imperfection of his sight through life,
matters are better rather than worse with him than one could have expected.
Since that was written a friend (Walter White) tells me they--the
Tennysons--have taken a house in Eaton Sq., London, for the winter. And las=
t,
not least, thanks for Mr. Burroughs's beautiful letter--that young man is
indeed, as he says, like a bit out of your poems.
There are two or
three fine young men boarding here, & Giddy & I enjoy their society=
not
a little. Love to your Brothers & Sister. I shall write soon as I am
settled down in New York to her or Hattie. Love to Mrs. Stafford. And most =
of
all to you.
Good-bye, dear
friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
I will send T's letter in a day or =
two.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
112 Madison Ave. New
York Jan. 5, '79.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Herby has told yo=
u of
our difficulties in getting comfortable quarters here--and also that we seem
now to have succeeded--not indeed in the way I most wished & hoped we
had--in 19th St., taking rooms & boarding ourselves--so that we could h=
ave
a friend with us when & as we pleased. It seems as if that were not
practicable unless we were to furnish for ourselves. Certainly our experien=
ces
there of using another's kitchen were discouraging--it was so dirty and
uncomfortable that we were glad to take refuge in a regular boarding house
again before one week was out. It seems to me more difficult to get anythin=
g of
a medium kind in New York than elsewhere I have been--if it isn't the best,=
it
is very uninviting indeed. Herby is enjoying his work and companionship at =
the
League very much. We stand the cold well--how does it suit you? Is your arm
free from rheumatic pains? When you come to Mr. J. H. Johnstons, which will=
be
very soon I hope, we shall be quite handy, and have a pretty, sunny room--a
sitting room by day!--with a handsome piece of furniture which is metamorph=
osed
into a bed at night--and a large dressing closet with hot & cold water =
adjoining--all
very comfortable. O how wistfully do I think of one evening in Philadelphia,
last winter. I shan't begin really to like New York till you come and we ha=
ve
had some chats together. I have news from England which makes me rather
anxious. The Blaenavon Co., to which Per. is chemist, has gone into
liquidation--& I don't know whether it will continue to exist--or how s=
oon
in these dull times he may find a good opening elsewhere. Should things go
badly for him, either Giddy and I will return to England to share [our] home
with him there, or else I want him to take into serious consideration coming
out here, instead of our going back. Of course it would be a risky thing for
him to do with wife & child, in these times, unless some definite openi=
ng
presented itself, but I cannot help thinking that, being an expert in his
profession, with first rate training & experience, and iron work &
metallurgy promising here to have such enormous developments, he would be s=
ure
to do well in the end; and meanwhile we could rub on together somehow. Howe=
ver,
we shall see. I have laid the matter before him, he & his dear little w=
ife
wrote me a very brave, cheery letter when they told me the bad news--& I
shall have an answer to mine, I suppose, by the end of the month. Kate Hill=
ard
read an amusing paper on Swinburne at a meeting of the Woman's Club in Broo=
klyn--&
we had some fine music too. For the rest, I have not yet presented any intr=
oductions
here.
Have had some
beautiful glimpses of the North & East River effects of the shipping at
sunset, &c.--Have subscribed to the Mercantile library,--& are begi=
nning
to feel at home. Herby & Giddy had been to hear Mr. Frothingham this
morning, & were much interested. Bee missed us sorely at first--but wri=
tes--when
she does write, which is but seldom--pretty cheerily. Friendly remembrance =
to
your brother & sister. I wonder where Hattie & Jessie are spending
their holidays. Love from us all. Good-bye, dear friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
Had a letter from Mr. Marvin--all
well--he is doing the Washington letter of a N. Eng. paper. Hopes & tru=
sts
you are really going to Washington.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
112 Madison Ave. 14
Jan., '79.
DEAREST FRIEND:
The pleasantest e=
vent
since I last wrote has been a visit from Mr. Eldridge. We had a long, frien=
dly
chat that did me good. Saturday evening we went to one of Miss Booth's
receptions--met Joaquin Miller there, who is just back from Europe--of cour=
se
we talked of you. Mrs. Moulton too is hoping so you will come to New York
during her stay here, which is to last a week or two longer. John Burroughs=
has
just sent me a post card to say he has returned from a 3-weeks stay with his
folks in Delaware Co.--that he hopes to come here soon--wants Mrs. Burrough=
s to
come too & board for a month or so--wants also "Walt to come--&
lecture"--but "Walt will not be hurried." Did I tell you tha=
t we
found boarding here a young man, Mr. Arthur Holland, one of the family who =
were
so very friendly to me & made my stay so pleasant both in Concord &
Cambridge? He often comes to our room of an evening for an hour or two's ch=
at,
& by the bye, being connected with the iron trade he has been able to m=
ake
some enquiries for me as to what Per's chances as a scientific metallurgist
would be in this country--& I am sorry to say he thinks they would be v=
ery
poor indeed. Prof. Lesley said the same thing; so it is clear I must not ur=
ge
him to try the experiment, seeing he has a wife & child. Herby & Gi=
ddy
both well. Love from us all. Good bye, Dear Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
Friendly greeting to your brother &=
amp;
sister.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
112 Madison Ave., Jan.
27, '79.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Are you never com=
ing?
I do long & long to see you. I am beginning to like New York better tha=
n I
did and to have pleasant times. Had some friendly chats with Kate Hillard l=
ast
week, & went with her to call on Mrs. Putman Jacobi, who has a little b=
aby
3 weeks old & is still in her room, but has got through very nicely--She
talks well, doesn't she? & has a face with plenty of individuality in i=
t.
Also we went together on Saturday again to one of Miss Booth's receptions,
& there met Mrs. Croly, & had the best talk about you I have had th=
is
long while. I like her cordiality--we are going to her reception on Sunday
& to one at Mrs. Bigelow's Wednesday. It is true there is not much that=
can
be called social enjoyment at these crowded receptions, but they enable you=
to
start many acquaintanceships, some of which turn out lasting good. We had s=
ome
fine harp playing & a witty recital at Miss Booth's. Miss Selous is bac=
k in
America. I should not wonder if she comes on here soon. Bee is living at the
Dispensary now, instead of in the Hospital, & finds the comparatively
outdoor life--& the freedom from being "whistled" for all hou=
rs
of the day and night as she was there--a wonderful refreshment. That colour=
ed
lady, Mrs. Wiley, whom you met once at our house, is her fellow labourer &a=
mp;
room mate at the Dispensary. Bee likes her much. I am not sure whether you =
know
the Gilders? We spent a couple of hours delightfully with them yesterday af=
ternoon.
She has a very attractive face, a musical voice, & such a sweet smile. =
They
are going to Europe for a four months' holiday this spring. I admire the
simple, unconventional way in which they live. Herby is working away in the
best spirits. He is going to paint that bowling alley subject on a large sc=
ale.
Giddy is sitting by me with her nose in the French Dictionary, working away=
at
a novel of Balzac's. I have had scarcely any letters from England lately!--=
and
the papers bring none but dismal tidings; nevertheless I don't believe our =
sun
is going down yet awhile--we shall emerge from this dark crisis the better,=
not
the worse, because compelled to grapple with the evils that have caused it,
instead of passively enduring them. Please give friendly remembrance from m=
e to
your brothers & sister. Have you been at Kirkwood lately, I wonder? I
suppose Timber Creek is frozen over. Good-bye, dear Friend. Write soon, or
better still Come!
A. GILCHRIST.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST
TO WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
New York 112 Mad=
ison
Avenue February 2nd, 18=
79.
DEAR DARLING WALT=
:
I read your long
piece in the Philadelphia Times with ever so much interest, & with espe=
cial
delight the delicately told bit about the dear old Pond, artistic, because =
so
true. I know that it will please you to hear that I have gained tenfold
facility with my brush since the autumn. It has agreed uncommonly well with=
me
having enlisted under such an experienced & able painter as Chase; as a
manipulator of the brush he is agreed by the experts (Eaton) to have no riv=
al.
I may yet be able to paint a head of you in one sitting that will do justic=
e to
you. Three of my pictures are nicely hung at the Water Colour Exhibition
Academy of Design, the first time that I have exhibited in New York. We had=
two
& three engagements every night (with one exception) last week, & g=
o to
Mrs. Croley's to-night. Your friend John Burroughs called last Wednesday--c=
ame to
try Turkish baths for his malarious trouble, but it seemed to bring on his
attacks of neuralgia worse. I am sorry that I can report but poorly of his
health, so painfully excruciating was his neuralgia about his arms at times
that a Dr. was sent for & morphia injected in his wrist, but I am glad =
to
say he reported himself a little better. He hopes that you will come and gi=
ve
the lecture on Lincoln this winter; why not, confound it, it would be most
interesting.
Quite often we go=
to
Miss Booth's receptions. Saturday evening, they are gay & amusing. Met =
Mr.
Bliss, the gentleman that talked like "a house afire" one Sunday =
at
your house last winter, you remember.
Last Wednesday I,
mother, Giddy, & Kate Hillard went to Mrs. Bigelow's reception. Miss H.=
was
asked to recite & she recited the "Swineherd" (Anderson's)
charmingly, & "The Faithful Lovers," which took every one. &q=
uot;Walk
in" Miller was there (I can't spell his name) & lots more.
This morning being
Sunday, I took my skates to the Park. The wind was high & whirled us ab=
out
fantastically; ladies seated in wicker chairs were pushed rapidly along the
Pond's smooth icy surface by their gentlemen escorts, tall men kissed the i=
ce
or sprawled full length on their backs, while others flew by like swallows;=
all
this with a church spire peeping behind hills dappled with snow & sunsh=
ine:
what more inspiriting than this?
And now dear Walt=
.
Good-bye for the
present.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST.
BEATRICE GILCHRIS=
T TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
33 Warrenton St. Feb.
16, 1879.
DEAR MR. WHITMAN:=
Although not in w=
ord,
I have thanked you for your letter & papers by enjoying them thoroughly=
.
Down at this
Dispensary we work just as hard as at the Hospital, but our spare minutes a=
re
our own (no records to write out); our work is under our own control; we are
out in fresh air half the day, sometimes half the night, making intimate
acquaintance with all sorts of people & places & with far distant p=
arts
of Boston.
We have all the
responsibility that it is good for young doctors to have, i. e., in all
difficult or obscure & dangerous cases we are obliged to call in older
heads & are obliged to report verbally to the visiting physician of the
month all our cases & our treatment. Only two students live at the
Dispensary--Dr. Wiley (the coloured Philadelphia student you saw) & mys=
elf.
In tastes we have much in common & on the whole I prefer to live with h=
er
rather than with any of the other students. We share rooms. We have a bedro=
om,
a drug-room, a treatment room, waiting room for patients, & take our me=
als
in the kitchen.
A widow woman with
two children housekeeps.
I think Boston a =
very
beautiful city. The public Gardens & Commons in the busiest part, slopi=
ng
down from the gilt domed state house on Beacon hill, threaded by paths in a=
ll
directions, traversed by the business men, the fine ladies, the beggars, et=
c.,
etc. One broad, sloping path is given up to the boys who want to coast,
temporary wooden bridges being thrown over the cross paths. Then, crossing
South Bay to South Boston is a beautiful walk I take from one to four times=
a
day. South Boston looks rather dingy; it is inhabited mostly by artisans &a=
mp;
mill hands & fishermen, but walking up 3rd St., as you cross the letter=
ed
streets A, B, C, D, etc., you look down upon the harbour--on bright days br=
ight
blue, & a few sails to be seen--at sunset the colours of course are
reflected gorgeously.
Somehow or other =
the
sea looks doubly beautiful set in dingy S. Boston.
Far over in the W=
est
End too we have patients. Last Tuesday I had twins all by myself; only one,
however, was born alive; the other had been dead a week. How delightful that
you are feeling so much better. Shall you not be coming to Boston sometime
before I leave, 1st June?
The Boston I know=
is
not the Boston I knew in books; I am as far off from that as if I lived in
England--is not the "hub"--I was reminded of that last Sunday whe=
n I
had time for once to go to church & went to hear Mr. E. E. Hale preach =
and
went home to dinner with him....
I like his daught=
er
whom we knew in Philadelphia. She is a clever young artist. Dr. Wiley is ve=
ry
popular with her patients, far more so than I.
Please remember m=
e to
all the Staffords & give my especial love to Mrs. Stafford. Also to Mrs.
Whitman.
Yours affectionat=
ely,
BEATRICE C.
GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
112 Madison Ave. March
18, 1879.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I hope you are
enjoying this splendid, sunshiny weather as much as we are--the atmosphere =
here
is delicious. In the morning Giddy and I set at home busy with needle work,
letter writing, and reading. After lunch we go out for a walk or to pay
visits--and of an evening very often to receptions (but they are not half so
jolly as our evenings at Philadelphia). Still we have a lively, pleasant ti=
me.
I like Miss Booth very much, with her kindly, generous character and active
practical mind. So I do Mrs. Croly--she is more impulsive and enthusiastic.
Kate Hillard often goes with us, & she is always good company. I had a =
note
from Edward Carpenter the other day brought by a lady who had been living n=
ear
him at Sheffield--an American lady with two very fine little girls who has
lately lost her husband in England and was on her way back to her parents' =
home
in Pennsylvania--somewhere beyond Pittsburg. She is one who loves your poem=
s,
& has great hopes of seeing you in New York. She told me her little gir=
ls
were so fond of Carpenter he of them--he is first rate with children. I hope
you will not put off coming to New York till we are returning to Philadelph=
ia,
which will be some time in May. I find Beatrice is so anxious to get further
advantages for study in England or Paris before she begins to practise, and
Herby is so strongly advised by Mr. Eaton, of whose judgment & experien=
ce
he thinks very highly, to study in Duron's Studio in Paris for a year, that=
I
have made up my mind to go back, for a time at any rate, this summer; but I
shall leave my furniture here, and the question of where our future home is=
to
be, open. Herby is making great progress. I wish you could see the head of =
an
old woman he has just painted--and I wish he had had as much power when he =
had
such splendid chances of painting you. I cannot tell you how vividly and pl=
easantly
Chestnut St. on a sunny day rose before me in your jottings. Love from us a=
ll.
Tell your sister I often think of her & shall enjoy a chat ever so.
A. G.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
112 Madison Ave. March
26, '79.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
It seems quite a =
long
while since I wrote, & a very long while since you wrote. I am beginnin=
g to
turn my thoughts Philadelphia-wards that we may have some weeks near you be=
fore
we set out on fresh wanderings across the sea; and though I feel quite chee=
ry
about them, I look eagerly forward to the time beyond that when we have a
fixed, final nest of our own again, where we can welcome you just when and =
as
you please. Whichever side the Atlantic it is, you will come surely? for you
belong to the one country as much as to the other. And I shall always feel =
that
I do too. I take back with me a deep and hearty love for America--I came in=
deed
with a good deal of that, but what I take back is different--stronger, more
real. I went over to see friends in Brooklyn yesterday, & it was more
lovely than I can tell you on the Ferry--in fact, it was just your poem,
"Crossing Brooklyn Ferry". Herby still painting away con amore, &=
amp;
making good progress. I met Joaquin Miller at the Bigelows last week, &=
he
was very pleasant (which isn't always the case) and said some very good thi=
ngs
to me. Thursday we are going to lunch with Mrs. Albert Brown--perhaps you m=
ay have
heard of her as Bessie Griffiths. She was a Southern lady who, when she was
about 18, freed all her slaves & left herself penniless. On Sunday we t=
ake
tea at Prof. Rood's of Columbia College. Kate Hillard we often see & ha=
ve
lively chats with. We meet also & see a good deal of General Edward Lee=
--a
fine soldierly looking man, & I believe he distinguished himself in the=
war
& was afterwards sent to organize the new Territory of Wyoming, & w=
as
the first governor. I wish very much that if you or your brother knew him o=
r know
anything about him, you would tell me--for reasons that I will tell you by
& bye. Bee is seeing a great deal of the educated coloured people at
Boston--was at the meeting of a literary club--the only white among 20 or 30
coloured ladies--likes them much.
Write soon, dear
Friend. Meanwhile, best love & good-bye.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
No letters from England this long w=
hile.
Please give frien=
dly
greetings from me to your brother & sister.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Glasgow Friday, =
June
20, 1879.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
We set foot on dry
land again Wednesday morning after a good passage--not a very smooth one--a=
nd
not without four or five days of seasickness, but after that we really enjo=
yed
the sea & the sky--it was mostly cloudy, but such lovely lights and sha=
des
& invigorating breezes! and as we got up into northern latitudes, dayli=
ght
in the sky all night through. The last three days we had glorious
scenery--sailed close in under the Giant's Causeway on the north coast of
Ireland--great sort of natural ramparts & bastions or rock, wonderfully
grand. Then we sailed on Lough Fozle to land a group of Irish folk at
Moville--some of them old people who had not seen Ireland for forty years, =
and
who were so happy they did not know what to do with themselves. And what wi=
th
this human interest, and the first getting near land again and the rich
green-and-golden gorse-covered hills & the setting sun streaming along =
the
beautiful lough with golden light, it was a sight & a time I shall never
forget. Then we entered the Firth of Clyde & sailed among the
islands--mountainous Arran, level Bute--& on the other hand the green h=
ills
of Ayr, with pleasant towns nestled under them, sloping to the Clyde--this =
was
during the night--we did not go to bed at all it was so beautiful--& th=
en
came a gorgeous sunrise--& then the landing at Greenock & a short
railway journey to Glasgow, the tide not serving to bring our big ship up so
far. We had very pleasant (& learned withal) companions on the voyage--=
the
Professor of Greek & of Philosophy from Harvard and a young student from
Concord, all of whom we have seen since we landed and hope to see often aga=
in,
especially the young student, Frank Bigelow, who is a very nice fellow. Her=
by
enjoyed the voyage much & so did Giddy. Glasgow is a great, solidly bui=
lt
city, very pleasant [in] spite of smoky atmosphere--full of sturdy,
rosy-cheeked people with broad Scotch accent. We have been rushing about
shopping--have not yet seen Per.--shall meet him at Durham in a week's time
& spend a month together there where he will be superintending your wor=
ks.
Meanwhile we are going to Edinburgh for a few days. I kept thinking of you =
on
the voyage, dear friend, & wondering how you would like it--& wheth=
er
you could stand being stowed away in the little box-like berth at night. I
should recommend any American friend coming over to try this line--we had a
fine ship--fine officers & crew--& the latter part, fine scenery. L=
ove
to your Brother & Sister & to Mr. Burroughs. Address to me for the =
present.
Care Percy C. Gilchrist Blaenavon Poutzpool Mon.
Love from us all.=
I
shall write soon again. Good-bye dear Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Lower Shincliffe Durham August 2d, '79.
DEAREST FRIEND:
I am sitting in my
room with my dear little grandson, the sweetest little fellow you ever saw,
asleep beside me. Giddy and Norah (my 3d daughter) are gone into Durham to =
do
some shopping. Bee is up in London on her way to Berne in Switzerland, where
she has finally decided to complete her medical studies. Herby is, I think,
staying with Eustace Conway at Hammersmith just now. He has been spending a
week at Brighton with Edward Carpenter & his family--but I will leave h=
im
to tell his own news. We are lodging in this little village with its red-ti=
led
roofs & gray stone walls, lying among wooded hills, corn fields, meadow=
s,
and collieries on the banks of the Weir, for the sake of being near Percy &=
amp;
his wife. He is superintending here the erection of some kilns for making t=
he
peculiar kind of basic firebricks needed in his dephosphorization process.
Durham Cathedral, which was mainly built soon after the Norman conquest, is=
in sight,
crowning a wooded hill that rises abruptly from the river-side. It looks as=
solid,
majestic, venerable as the rocks & hills--the interior is of wonderful
grandeur & beauty. When you enter one of these cathedrals you are tempt=
ed
to say architecture is a lost art with us moderns so far as sublimity is
concerned--except in vast engineering works. You would not dignify the Weir
with the name of a river in America--it is no bigger than Timber Creek--but=
it
winds about so capriciously through the picturesque little city as to make
almost an island of the hill on which the castle & cathedral stand &=
; to
need three great solid stone bridges within a quarter of a mile of each oth=
er,
& with its steep wooded sides carrying nature right into the heart of t=
he
old town. But the rainy season (we have scarcely seen the sun since we have
been in England & I believe it is the same in France & Italy) and t=
he
great depression in trade, especially the coal & iron, which chiefly
concerns this district, seem to cast a gloom over everything. There are who=
le
rows of colliers' cottages in this village empty. Where they go to no one
knows, but as soon as the collieries reopen they will all reappear. We often
meet Colliers returning from work--they look as if they had just emerged fr=
om
Hades, poor fellows--their faces black as soot--their lean, bowed legs bare=
--I believe
the mines are hot here; they work with little on--but they are really the c=
leanest
of all workmen, as they take a bath every night on their return before supp=
ing.
The speech here is almost like a foreign tongue to any one from the south or
middle of England. I wonder if you have yet read Dr. Bucke's book.[29] It is
about the only thing I have read since my return. It suggests deeply
interesting trains of thought.
I wonder if you a=
re
at Camden, taking your daily trips across the ferry & strolls up Chestn=
ut
St. I hardly realized till I left it how dearly I love America--great sunny
land of hope and progress--or how my whole life has been enriched with the
human intercourse I had there. Give my love to those of our friends whom you
know & tell them not to forget us. I have had a long letter from Emma
Lazarus. I suppose Hattie and Jessie are spending their holidays at Camden
& that Hattie has pretty well done with school. We have been chiefly bu=
sy
with needlework since we came--preparing dear Bee for Berne. I miss her
sadly--had quite hoped we should have all been together at Paris this
winter--but it seems the course is much longer & more arduous [there]. =
We
spent a week in Edinburgh before we came on here. It is by far the most
beautiful city I have ever seen. The journey between it and Berwick-on-Tweed
lies through the richest & best cultivated farm land in Britain--the sea
sparkling on one side of us & these fertile fields dotted with splendid
flocks & herds--with large comfortable-looking farmhouses, & here &=
amp;
there an old castle; it was singularly enjoyable. How I have wished everywh=
ere
that you were with us to share the sight--and the best is that you would re=
turn
home more than ever proud & rejoicing in America. It is a land where
humanity is having, and is going to have, such chances as never before. Gid=
dy
sends her love. Mine also & to your brother & sister. Good-bye, dear
Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
Please write soon; I am longing for=
a
letter.
WALT WHITMAN TO A=
NNE
GILCHRIST
&n=
bsp;
(Camden, New Jersey.) (August, 1879.)
Thank you, dear
friend, for your letter; how I should indeed like to see that Cathedral[31]=
, I
don't know which I should go for first, the Cathedral or that baby.[32] I w=
rite
in haste, but I am determined you shall have a word, at least, promptly in
response.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
1 Elm Villas, Elm Row, Heath St. Hampstead, Dec. 5, '79, Londo=
n,
England.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
You could not eas=
ily
realize the strong emotion with which I read your last note and traced on t=
he
little map[33]--a most precious possession which I would not part with for =
the
whole world--all your journeyings--both in youth & now. Mingled emotion=
s!
for I cannot but feel anxious about your health, & if I didn't know it =
was
very naught to ask you questions, should beg you [to] tell me in what way y=
our
health has failed--whether it is the rheumatic & neuralgic affection th=
at
troubled you the last spring we were in Philadelphia, or whether the fatigu=
es
& excitements & the very enjoyments & full life, & burst of
prophetic joy, as it were, had proved too great a strain. But you have
accomplished another thing, that had to be done in your life & I exult =
with
you--have seen the vast magnificent theatre, the free, unfettered conditions
whereon humanity will enact a new drama, with the parts all so differently
cast! the rest--the moving spirit of it all--hints of this, at least--flash=
es, glimpses,
I find in your greatest poems. But, dear Friend, I think humanity moves for=
ward
[slowly] even under splendid conditions--you must give it a century or two
instead of 50 years--before at least the crowning glories of a corresponding
literature & art will develope themselves--Nature has got plenty of time
before her, & obstinately refuses to be hurried; witness her dealings w=
ith
the mere rocks & stones.
Bee is at Berne,
working away merrily, rejoicing in the really splendid advantage for medical
study there open to her. She mastered German so as to be able to speak &
understand it--lectures & all--with ease during the two months at Wiesb=
aden
& she has found a thoroughly comfortable home with some excellent,
intelligent ladies who are fond of her & see to her bodily welfare in e=
very
possible way. I have my dear little grandson with me here--as engaging a li=
ttle
toddler as the sun ever shone upon--so affectionate & sweet-tempered &a=
mp;
bright. I wish I could see him sitting on your knee. You will certainly hav=
e to
come to us as soon as ever we have a comfortable home, won't you? Giddy is =
well
& as rosy as ever. She & Herby send their love. I have seen
Rossetti--he was full of enquiries & affectionate interest in all that
concerns you--& loth we were to break off our conversation & hurry
back--but Hampstead, the pleasantest & prettiest of all our suburbs, is
terribly inaccessible & cuts us off a good deal from the intercourse wi=
th
old friends I had looked forward to. It is on the top of a high hill (as hi=
gh
as the top of St. Pauls), & looks down on one side over the great city =
with
its canopy of smoke, & on the other over a wide, pleasant stretch of gr=
een
& fertile Middlesex--has moreover pleasant lanes, solid old houses, sha=
ded
by big elms, & other picturesque features & such an abundance of ke=
en,
fresh air this cold weather too! We sigh for the warmth of an American house
indoors often & for American sunshine out of doors. Rossetti has a
beautiful little group of children growing up around him--I think the eldest
girl will grow up a real beauty & the boy too is a noble little fellow.=
I
meet numbers so delighted to hear about you. I believe Addington Symonds is
preparing a book which treats largely of your Poems.
Glad to hear that
Brother & Sister & nieces are all well. I wish I could write to som=
e of
them, but what with needlework, an avalanche of letters, the care of my dear
little man--the re-editing of my husband's life of Blake, to which there wi=
ll
be a considerable addition of letters newly come to light, I hardly know wh=
ich
way to turn. Per. & my nephew & the "Process" have made a
great stride forward. Won two important law suits at Berlin, where the Bess=
emer
ring & Krupp at their head were trying to oust them of their patent rig=
hts.
Also it is practically making good way in England. So by & bye the money
will begin to flow in, I suppose--but has not done so yet.
I trust, dearest
Friend, this will find you safe & fairly well again at Camden, with ple=
nty
of great, happy thoughts to brood over for the winter.
Love from us all.
Good-bye.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
5 Mount Vernon Hampstead Jan. 25, '80.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Welcome was your
postcard announcing recovered health & return to Camden! May this find =
you
safe there, well & hearty, able to go freely to & fro on the ferries
& streets. I wish one of those old red Market Ferry cars were going to =
land
you at our door once more! What you would have to tell us of western scenes
& life! What teas & what evenings we would have--you would certainly
have to say "there is a point beyond which"--& would have pre=
tty late
trips back of moonlight. Strange episode in my life! so unlike what went be=
fore
& what comes after--those evenings in Philadelphia--yet so natural,
familiar, dear! If I were American-born, I certainly should not want to cha=
nge
it for any country in the world, and if as you have dreamed--as I too have
dreamed--it is given us hereafter to have another spell of life on this old
earth, may my lot be cast there when the great time dimly preparing is actu=
ally
come. But meanwhile, dear Friend, my work lies here: innumerable are the ti=
es
that bind us. And I can only hope & dream that you will come & stay
with us awhile when we have a home of our own. That dear little grandson st=
ayed
with me two months till I really didn't know how to part with him, & gr=
ew
more & more engaging & pretty in his ways every day--rapid indeed is
the opening of the little bud at that age--between 1 & 3--& the way=
he
had of looking up & giving you little kisses of his own accord would win
anybody's heart. Bee's letters continue as cheery as ever--she is heartily
enjoying work & life, and accomplishing the purpose she has set her hea=
rt
upon, & the people she is with are so good and kindly, it is quite a ho=
me.
She is working a good deal with the microscope. Her outdoor recreation is s=
kating.
Herby is getting on very nicely. He has had a commission to make some desig=
ns
for a new kind of painted tapestry--and his figures "Audrey &
Touchstone" are very much admired & have been bought by a rich
American, & he has a commission for more. But the summer work he has set
his heart upon is a portrait of you from all the material he brought with
him--the many attempts he made there--handled with his present improved ski=
ll
with the brush. I hope you will be able by & bye to send him the photog=
raph
he asked for--but no hurry. Edward Carpenter came up from Sheffield and spe=
nt
an evening with us--which we all heartily enjoyed--he is a dear fellow. We
talked much of you. He has been giving lectures this winter on the Lives of=
the
Great Discoverers in Science. Carpenter knows intimately, goes freely among=
, a greater
range & variety of men than any Englishman I know--he has a way of maki=
ng
himself thoroughly welcome by the firesides of mechanics & factory work=
ers--his
own kith & kin are aristocratic.
Giddy is taking
singing lessons again, & hoping by the time you next see her to be able=
to
contribute her share of the evening's pleasure. Percy is still working away
indomitably at the "process," which is gaining ground rapidly on =
the
continent, & I hope I may say slowly & surely in England. I see the
Gilders now & then--indeed they are coming up to lunch with us to-morro=
w--Mr.
Gilder[34] is the better for rest--& they seem to enjoy England; but
England has done her very worst in the way of climate ever since they have =
been
here. O I do long for a little American sunshine. We met Henry James at the
Conways last Sunday & found him one of the pleasantest of talkers. Ross=
etti
& all your friends are well. Please give my love to your brothers &
sister. Were Jessie & Hattie at home in St. Louis, I wonder, when you w=
ere
there? Love from us all.
Good-bye, Dearest
Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
Please give my love to John Burroug=
hs
when you write or see him.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Marley, Haslemere England
Aug. 22, '80.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I have had all the
welcome papers with accounts of your doings, and to-day a nice long letter =
from
Mrs. Whitman, which I much enjoyed, giving me better account of your health
again, & of your great enjoyment of the water travel through Canada. So=
I
hope, spite of drawbacks, you will return to Camden for the winter quite se=
t up
in body, as well as full of delightful memories. If only we were at 22nd St=
. to
welcome you back & talk it all over at tea! Ah, those evenings! My frie=
nds
told me I looked ten years younger when I came back from America than when I
went. And I am not yet quite re-acclimatized; & what with missing the
sunshine & working a little too hard, was feeling quite knocked up: so =
Bee
insisted on my coming down, or rather up, here to stay with some very kind
& dear friends. The house stands all alone on a great heath-covered hil=
l,
and below & around are endless coppices, so that you step from the lawn
into [a] winding wood-path, along which I wander by the hour: and from my w=
indow
I look over much such a view as we had at Round Hill Hotel, Northampton, th=
is
time two years, only that with the soft haze that is so often spread over o=
ur
landscape, the distant hill looks more ghostly in the moonlight. My friend =
is a
noble, large-hearted, capable woman, who devotes all her life and energies =
to
keeping alive an invalid husband; and he well deserves her care, for he has=
a
beautiful nature, too, & their mutual affection is unbounded. He is just
ordered by the doctors to leave the home they have made for themselves up
here--which is as lovely as it can be--& to spend two years at least in
Italy. So it is a sorrowful time with them--they have no children, but have
adopted a little niece. Our new house is just ready & we are daily
expecting our furniture from America. Herby has been working as usual, maki=
ng
good progress & has just done a beautiful little drawing for the new
edition of his father's book. Bee, you will be glad to hear, has decided to
continue her medical studies & is going to be assistant to a lady docto=
r at
Edinburgh, who is to pay her sufficient salary to cover all remaining expen=
ses.
Meanwhile we have got her at home for a few weeks to help us through with t=
he
move in, and a sad pinch it will be to part with her again. Giddy has been
paying a delightful visit to some friends of Carpenter's near Leeds--a Quak=
er family--the
daughter very lovable & admirable. We do not forget the Staffords[35] n=
or
they us. Mont. often sends Herby a magazine or a token. Love to them when y=
ou
see them, & to Mr. & Mrs. Whitman & Hattie & Jessie &
kindest remembrance to Dr. Bucke. Send me a line soon, dear Friend--I think=
of
you continually & know that somewhere & somehow we are to meet agai=
n,
& that there is a tie of love between us that time & change & d=
eath
itself cannot touch.
With love,
A. GILCHRIST.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST
TO WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner, England 12 Well Road, Hampstead, Lond=
on November 30th, 1880.
MY DEAR WALT:
Your postcard cam=
e to
hand some little time ago. I was pleased to get it, to hear of your being w=
ell,
& with your friends. I have been extremely busy seeing after the new
edition of my father's book;[36] the work of seeing such a richly illustrat=
ed
"edition de luxe" through the press was enormous, but it is done!=
The
binders are now doing their work, & next Tuesday the reviewers will be
doing theirs--I defy them to find any fault with the book. I dare say you t=
hink
it "tall" talk, but I think that it is the most perfectly gotten =
up
book that I ever have seen. My mother has written an admirable memoir of my
father at the end of the second vol.
POND MUSINGS (Pen
sketch of a butterfly) =
by
=
WALT
WHITMAN
I thought that th=
is
was to be the title of your prose volume. I will undertake the illustration=
s,
choosing the paper (hand made), everything except the expense of reproducin=
g,
etc. I should say London is the place to have things executed in: if you wi=
sh
to give photos they must be drawn by an artist and reproduced; no photo ever
looked well in a book yet! they haven't decorative importance and don't ble=
nd
with type. I should suggest that we should imitate the artistic size &
style of your earliest edition of "Leaves of G.," a large, thin, =
flat
volume, a fanciful, but as inexpensive as possible, cover written in gold on
blue, a waterlily say: but I could think this over. I will design fanciful
tailpieces to be woven in with the text; as a frontispiece the drawing that=
I
gave you, retouched by me, and reproduced by the Typographic Etching Compan=
y,
23 Farringdon street, London, E. C. All these are only suggestions, which I=
am
prepared to execute in right earnest thought. I read your letter to mother =
with
interest. We like our new house so much, & I am sure that you would. Yo=
u must
come and stay with us & stroll on Hampstead Heath, & ride down into=
London
upon an omnibus & sit to some good sculptor here in London (Boem say). =
And
you yourself could make arrangements with the publishers. With remembrance =
to
friends,
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Wel=
l Rd.,
Hampstead Apr. 18, '81.=
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I have just been
sauntering in our little but sunny garden which slopes to the South--survey=
ing
with much satisfaction some fruit trees--plum, green gage, pear, cherry,
apple--which we have just had planted to train up against the house and
fence--in which fashion fruit ripens much better with our English modicum of
sunshine, besides taking no room & casting no shade over your little bi=
t of
ground--Then we have filled our large window with flowers in pots which make
the room smell as delicious as a garden. Giddy is assiduous in keeping them
well watered & tended.--Welcome was your postcard--with the little rain=
-bird's
coy note in it. But I had not before heard of your illness, dear friend--the
letter before, you spoke of being unusually well, as I trust you are again =
now,
& enjoying the spring. I am well again so far as digestion &c. goes;
but bronchitis asthma of a chronic kind still trouble me. My breath is so s=
hort
I cannot walk, which is a privation. I am going, at the beginning of June, =
to
stay with Bee in Edinburgh, as she will not have any holiday or be able to =
come
& see us this year, & much am I longing to be with her. Have you be=
gun
to have any summer thoughts, dear Walt? And do they turn towards England, &=
amp;
our nest therein? Yes, I have received & have enjoyed all the papers &a=
mp; cuttings--dearly
like what you said of Carlyle. Everyone here is speaking bitterly of the ha=
rsh
judgments & sarcastic descriptions of people in the "reminiscenses=
."
But I know that at bottom his heart was genial and good & that he wrote
those in a miserable mood--& never looked at them again afterwards. I h=
ope
you received the little memoir of my husband all right. Herby is very busy =
with
a drawing of you--hopes that with the many sketches he made, & the vivid
impress on his memory & the help of photographs, it will be good. I wis=
h he
had possessed as much power with the brush when he was in America as he has
now--he is making very great progress in mastery of the technique. I observ=
e,
too, that he reads & dwells upon your poems--especially the "Walt
Whitman"--with growing frequency & delight. We often say, "Wo=
n't
Walt like sitting in that sunny window?" or "by that cheery open
fire" or "sauntering on the heath"--& picture you here i=
n a
thousand different ways. I believe Maggie Lesley is coming from Paris, where
she is studying art in good earnest, at the beginning of May, & then wi=
ll
come and spend a few days with us. Welcome are American friends! The Buxton
Forman's took tea with us last week & we had pleasant talk of you &=
of
Dr. Bucke. Mrs. Forman is a sincere, sympathetic, motherly woman whom you w=
ould
like. The Rossetti's too have been to see us--we didn't think William in the
best health or spirits--& his wife was not looking well either, but then
another baby is just coming.
This Easter time =
the
poorest of London working folk flock in enormous numbers to Hampstead Heath=
; it
is a sight that would interest you--they are rougher & noisier & po=
orer
than such folks in America--& the men more prone to get the worse for
drink--but there is a good deal of fun & merriment too--the girls &
boys racing about on donkeys (who have a pretty hard time of it)--plenty of
merry-go-rounds--& enjoyment of the pure air & sunshine, & such
sights, more than they know. The light is failing, dearest friend; so with =
love
from us all, good-bye.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Friendliest greeting to your brother
& sister & to Hattie & Jessie when you write & to the
Staffords.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST
TO WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner, Well Road North London Hampstead, England June 5th, 1881, Sunday aftern=
oon 5 P. M.
MY DEAR WALT:
You don't write m=
e a
letter nor take any notice of my magnificent offers concerning "Pond
Musings", etc. however, I will forgive you this oft-repeated offence. I
often think of you, very often of America and things generally there, and
nearly always with pleasure.
My mother is away
staying with Beatrice in Edinburgh city, recruiting her health, which has m=
ost
sadly needed it of late. So I and Grace & a new Scotch lassie, one
Margaret, who officiates as servant most efficaciously too, I can tell you
(such scrubbing & cleaning as you never saw the like) we three, I say, =
are
alone at Keats Corner; cool sitting here in our long drawing-room (hung with
innumerable pictures as of yore), although it has been scorchingly hot this
past month. The morning I spend sketching on Hampstead Heath, which is love=
ly
just now, all the May-trees are in full bloom the gorse & broom are a b=
laze
of yellow, the rooks fly constantly by a quarter of a mile (seemingly)
overhead, the sly fellows giving some side like dart when you look up at th=
em
even at that height. I am painting one of them; so I have to look up pretty
often. In the early morning the nightingale sings, oh, so sweetly, long tri=
lls
& roulades in the most accomplished manner.
Last Wednesday Mi=
ss
Ellen Terry, whose name you are doubtless familiar with as being the leading
actress in London, well, she called upon me to ask my advice or opinion of a
drawing connected with my father's book. Ellen Terry expressed herself high=
ly
interested in our house, pictures, decorations and so forth. Her manner was=
a
little stagey, but graceful to the extreme, and you could see peeping out of
this theatric manner a kind, good heart, oh, so kind, I feel as if I would =
do
anything for her, her manners were so winning. "Will you come to the s=
tage
entrance of the Lyceum some day soon and you shall have stalls for two; now
will you come? Do." Were her last words to Grace. I called on her at
Kensington last week, returning the drawing, and I was so charmed with two
beautiful children of hers, a tall, fair girl, a pretty mixture of shyness =
and self-possession
that quite won me. She too I should fancy will be a great actress some day,=
she
has such a bright face. The boy, Master Ted, was nice too.
Well, I gave Ellen
Terry a proof of a drawing that I have just completed for Dr. Bucke's book-=
-a
job I got through Buxton Forman, a great friend of Bucke's, done con amore =
on
my part. This drawing has been beautifully reproduced by the new photo
intaglio-process. I hope Dr. Bucke will like it, but I should not expect gr=
eat
things from him in that line, judging from the twopenny hapenny little pen
& ink sketch by Waters which he sent over in the first instance; howeve=
r,
Forman rescued him from that & so far he has been guided by his friend.
Whether he will when he sees my drawing, we neither of us know; but both fe=
el
to have done our best in the matter. I said that Ellen Terry must ask for y=
ou
when she goes to America, which she contemplates some day. I have sold the =
last
drawing I made in New York of you for £10. 10s to Buxton Forman (
50. odd). Church
bells have just commenced chiming in the distance, a sound I like better th=
an
the parsons. I hear that the young American artists are doing capitally fil=
ling
their pockets. My cousin Sidney Thomas is, or was, in America, a good deal =
lionized,
I understand. If at any time you favour me with a letter let it be a letter=
and
not a postcard please. I have been reading Carlyle's reminiscences--good st=
uff
in them, brilliant touches, but dreadfully morbid, don't you think? & o=
ne
shuts the book up with a feeling that in some respect one Carlyle is enough=
in
the world: & yet in some respects a million wouldn't be too many. I oft=
en
think of your remark to us one day that tolerance is the rarest quality in =
the
world.
Interested in tho=
se
Boston scraps you send my mother. You have always been pretty well received=
in
Boston, have you not--I mean in the Emerson days? Pity that when Emerson is=
no
more there will be no fine portrait of him in existence; there was a nobili=
ty
stamped upon his face that I never saw the like of, and which should have b=
een
caught and stamped forever on canvas.
We all see someth=
ing
of the Formans & all like them; they have so much character, rather unu=
sual
in literary folk of the lighter sort, I fancy; but there is something very
fresh and original about Forman. Nice children they have, too. Miss Blind is
bringing out a volume of poems; why will people all imagine they can write
poetry? William Rossetti is writing a hundred sonnets--writes one a day; one
about John Brown is not bad: and many are instructive, but are in no sense
poems. I am going down to tea & must not keep Grace waiting any longer.
Love to you.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
12 Well Road, Hampstead London, Dec. 14, '81.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Your welcome lett=
er
to hand. I have longed for a word from you--could not write myself[37]--was
stricken dumb--nay, there is nothing but silence for me still. Herby wrote =
to
Mrs. Stafford first, thinking that so the shock would come less abruptly to
you.
I heard of you at
Concord in a kind long letter from Frederick Holland, with whose wife you h=
ad
some conversation. Indeed all that sympathy and warm & true words of lo=
ve
& sorrow & highest admiration & esteem for my darling could do =
to
comfort me I have had--and most & best from America. And many of her po=
or
patients at Edinburgh went sobbing from the door when they heard they should
see her no more.
The report of your
health is comforting dear friend. Mine too is better--I am able to take wal=
ks
again--though still liable to sudden attacks of difficult breathing.
Herby is working
hard--has just been disappointed over a competition design which he sent in=
to
the Royal Academy--a very poor & specious work obtaining the premium--b=
ut
is no whit discouraged & has no need to be, for he is making great
progress--works hard, loves his work & is of the stuff where of great
painters are made, I am persuaded--so he can afford to wait. Giddy is not q=
uite
so well & strong as I could wish, but there seems nothing serious. She =
is
working diligently at the development of her voice--& is learning Germa=
n.
Dr. Bucke's friend, Mr. Buxton Forman, & his wife are very warm, staunch
friends of Herby's.
Please give my lo=
ve
to your sister, and tell her that her good letter spoke the right words to =
me
& that I shall write before very long. Thanks for the paper, dear
friend--& for those that came when I was too overwhelmed but which I ha=
ve
since read with deep interest--those about your visit to your birthplace. W=
ith
love from us all--good-bye, dearest Friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
12 Well Road Jan=
29,
'82.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Your letter to He=
rby
was a real talk with you. I don't know why I punish myself by writing to yo=
u so
seldom now, for indeed to be near you, even in that way would do me good--o=
ften
& often do I wish we were back in America near you. As I write this I am
sitting to Herby for my portrait again--he has never satisfied himself yet:=
but
this one seems coming on nicely--and so is the Consuelo picture. Another on=
e he
has in his mind is to be called "The tea-party," and it is to be =
the
old group round our table in Philadelphia--you & me and dear Bee &
Giddy & himself. He thinks that what with memory & photograph &=
the
studies he made when with you, he will be able to put you & my darling =
on
the canvas.
Giddy's voice is
developing into a really fine contralto & she has the work in her to be=
come
an artist, I think & will turn out one of the tortoises who outstrip the
hares. Percy and Norah are spending the winter in London (at Kensington)--a=
nd
we can get round by train in half an hour; so I often see them and the dear
little man. Do you remember the Miss Chases--two pleasant maiden ladies who
took tea with us once in Philadelphia & talked about Sojourner Truth? O=
ne
of the sisters is in London this winter & has been several times to see=
us.
The birds are beginning to sing very sweetly here--& our room is full of
the perfume of spring flowers--indoor ones. Did dear Bee tell you, in the l=
ong
letter she once wrote you, how much she loved the Swiss ladies with whom she
made her home while in Berne? A more tender & beautiful love and sorrow
than that with which they cherish the memory of her never grew in any heart=
. I think
you will like to see some of their letters--please return them, for they are
very precious to me (the little matters they thank me for are some of dear
Bee's things which I sent them for tokens). Love to your sister & broth=
er.
How are Mr. Marvin & Mr. Burroughs? Best love from us all. Good-bye, de=
ar
Friend.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
12 Well Road Ham=
pstead
May 8th, '82.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Herby went to Dav=
id
Bognes[38] about a week ago: he himself was out, but H. saw the head man, w=
ho
reported that the sale of "Leaves of Grass" was progressing
satisfactorily. I hope you have received, or will receive, tangible proof of
the same. Bognes is a young publisher, but, I believe from what I hear, a m=
an
to be relied on. His father was the publisher of my husband's first literary
venture & behaved honourably. Herby brought away for me a copy of the n=
ew
edition. I like the type like that of '73, & the pale green leaf it is
folded in so to speak. I find a few new friends to love--perhaps I have not=
yet
found them all out. But you must not expect me to take kindly to any change=
s in
the titles or arrangement of the old beloved friends. I love them too
dearly--every word & look of them--for that. For instance, I want
"Walt Whitman" instead of "Myself" at the top of the pa=
ge.
Also my own longing is always for a chronological arrangement, if change at=
all
there is to be; for that at once makes biography of the best kind. What dea=
ths,
dear Friend! As for me, my heart is already gone over to the other side of =
the
river, so that sometimes I feel a kind of rejoicing in the swelling of the
ranks of the great company there. Darwin, with his splendid day's work here
gently closed; Rossetti, whose brilliant genius had got entangled in a
premature physical decay, so that his day's work was over too! In a letter =
to
me, William, who was the best, most faithful & loving of brothers to hi=
m,
says, "I doubt whether he would ever have regained that energy of body
& concentration of mental resource which could have enabled him to resu=
me
work at his full & wonted power. Without these faculties at ready comma=
nd
my dear Gabriel would not have been himself." Edward Carpenter's fathe=
r,
too, is gone, but he at a ripe age without disease--sank gently.
The photographs I
enclose are but poor suggestions--please give one to Mrs. Whitman with my l=
ove,
or if you prefer to keep both, I will send her others. Does the idea ever c=
ome
into your head, dear Friend, of spending a little time this summer or autum=
n in
your English home at Hampstead?
Herby is well and
working happily. So is Grace. Little grandson & his parents away in
Worcestershire.
It is indescribab=
ly
lovely spring weather here just now. A carpenter near us has a sky-lark in a
cage which sings as jubilantly as if it were mounting into the sky, & i=
s so
tame that when he takes it out of the cage to wash its little claws, which =
are
apt to get choked up with earth, in warm water, it breaks out singing in his
hand! Love from us all, dearest Friend. Good-bye.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Affectionate greetings to your brot=
her
& sister & Hattie & Jessie.
Do you ever see M=
r.
Marvin? If so, give our love, we hope to see him one day.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Wel=
l Rd.,
Hampstead, London Nov. =
24,
'82.
DEAREST FRIEND:
You have long ere
this, I hope, received Herby's letter telling of the safe arrival of the
precious copy of "Specimen Days," with the portraits: it makes me
very proud. Your father had a fine face too--there is something in it that
takes hold of me & that seems to be a kind of natural background or
substratum to the radiant sweetness of that other sacred & beloved face
completing your parentage. I like heartily too the new portraits of you: th=
ey
are all wanted as different aspects: but the two that remain my favourites =
are
the portrait taken about 30 without coat of any kind, and the one you sent =
me
in '69 next to those I love these two latest--& in some respects better,
because they are the Walt I saw & had such happy hours with. The second
copy of book & my lending one, has come safe--too--and the card that to=
ld
of your attack of illness, & the welcome news of your recovery in the
Paper; & I have been fretting with impatience at my own dumbness--but t=
ied
to as many hours a day writing as I could possibly manage, at my little book
now (last night)--finished, all but proofs, so that I can take my pleasure =
in
"Specimen Days" at last; but before doing that must have a few wo=
rds
with you, dearest Friend. First a gossip. Do you remember Maggie Lesley? She
came to see us on her way to Paris, where she is working all alone & ve=
ry
earnestly to get through training as an artist--then going to start in a st=
udio
of her own in Philadelphia. She, like my mother's sister, are to me fine,
lovable samples of American women--in whom, I mean, I detect, like the
distinctive aroma of a flower, something special--that is American--a decis=
ive
new quality to old-world perceptions. Herby is working away still chiefly a=
t the
Consuelo picture--has got a very beautiful model to-day sitting to him. His
summer work was down in Warwickshire, making sketches--& very charming =
ones
they are, of George Eliot's native scenes--one of a garden-nook--up steep, =
old,
worn stone steps bordered with flowers that is enticing--it will make a lov=
ely
background for a figure picture.--Giddy's voice is growing in richness &
strength--& she works with all her heart, hoping one day to be a real
artist vocally--in church & oratorio music. She will not have power or
dramatic ability for opera--nor can I wish that she had; there are so many
thorns with the roses in that path. I fear you will be a loser by Bogne's
bankruptcy. Did I tell you that among our friends one of your warmest admir=
ers
is Henry Holmes, the great violinist (equal [to] Joachim some think--we amo=
ng
them). Per. & wife & little grandson all well. My love to brother &=
amp;
sister & to Hattie [&] Jessie. Good-bye, dear Walt. I hope to write
more & better soon.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
Greetings to the Staffords.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
12 Well Rd. Hamp=
stead Jan. 27, '83.
It is not for wan=
t of
thinking of you, dear Walt, that I write but seldom: for indeed my thoughts=
are
chiefly occupied with you & your other self--your Poems--& with
struggles to say a few words that I think want saying about them; that might
help some to their birthright who now stand off, either ignorant or
misapprehending.
We all go on much=
as
usual.
Feb. 13. I wonder=
if
you will like a true story of Lady Dilke that I heard the other day--I do: =
It
was before her marriage. She was a handsome young heiress, a daring horsewo=
man,
fond of hunting. There was a man, weakly & of good position, who had
behaved very basely & cruelly to a young girl in her neighbourhood, &am=
p;
when (as is the case in England) half the county was assembled on the hunti=
ng
field, Lady D. faced him & said in a voice that could be heard afar,
"Sir you are a black-guard, & if these gentlemen had the right spi=
rit
in them they would horsewhip you." He looked at her with effrontery &a=
mp;
made a mocking bow. "But," she continued, "since they won't,=
I
will"--and she cut him across the face with her riding whip; upon whic=
h he
turned and rode off the field, like a dog with his tail between his legs, &=
amp;
reappeared in that neighbourhood no more. She was a woman much beloved--die=
d at
the birth of her first child (from too much chloroform having been given he=
r).
Her husband was heart-broken. I see you, too, are having floods. With us it
pours five days out of seven, & so in Germany & France. We have made
the acquaintance of Arabella Buckley, who has just written an interesting
article about Darwin, whom she knew well, for the Century. She says his was=
the
most entirely beautiful & perfect nature she ever came in contact with.=
How
I wish we could have a glimpse of each other, dear Friend--half an hour
talk--nay, a good long look & a hand-shake. Herby is overhead painting =
in
his studio--such a pleasant room. How is John Burroughs? We owe him a letter
& thanks for a good art. on Carlyle. Love to you, dearest friend.
Hearty remembranc=
es
to your brother & sister & Hattie & Jessie.
A. G.
HERBERT H. GILCHR=
IST
TO WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Well
Road, Hampstead, London, England April 29th, '83.
MY DEAR WALT:
Your card to hand
last night, with its sad account of dear Mrs. Stafford's health; but what t=
he
doctor says is cheering. I wonder, though, what the doctor would call good
weather--mild spring, I suppose.
Very glad, my dear
old Walt, to see your strong familiar handwriting again; it does one good, =
it's
so individual that it is next to seeing you. Right glad to hear of your good
health--had an idea that you were not so well again this winter. John Burro=
ughs
was very violent against my intaglio; on the other hand, Alma Tadema--our g=
reat
painter here--liked it very much. I take violent criticism pretty
philosophically, now that I see how unreliable it nearly always is. John
Burroughs has got a fixed idea about your personality, and that is that the=
top
of your head is a foot high and any portrait that doesn't develop the
"dome" is no portrait.--Curious what eyes a man may have for
everything except a picture. I finished lately a life-size portrait of James
Simmons, J.P., a hunting (fox) squire of the old school--such a fine old
fellow. My portrait represents him standing firmly, in a scarlet hunting-co=
at
well stained with many a wet chase, his great whip tucked under his arm whi=
lst buttoning
on his left glove, white buckskin trousers in shade relieving the scarlet c=
oat,
black velvet hunting cap, dark rich blue background to qualify and cool the
scarlet. I wish you could see it. Then I have painted a subject "The G=
ood
Gray Poet's Gift." I have long meant to build up something of you from=
my
studies, adding colour. You play a prominent part in this picture--seated at
table bending over a nosegay of flowers, poetizing, before presenting them =
to
mother. I am standing up bending over the tea-pot, with the kettle, filling=
it
up; opposite you sits Giddy; out of the window a pretty view of Cannon plac=
e,
Hampstead. Mater thinks it a pretty picture and a good likeness of you, jus=
t as
you used to sit at tea with us at 1729 N. 22nd St. Now I am going out for a
stroll on Hampstead Heath. Have just come in from a long ramble over the He=
aths--a
lovely soft spring day, innumerable birds in full song. I think J. B. is ri=
ght
when he says that your birds are more plaintive than ours--it's nature's wa=
y of
compensating us for a loss of sunshine: what would England be without the m=
erry
lark, the very embodiment of cheeriness. Are not the Carlyle & Emerson
letters interesting? It seems to me to be one of the most beautiful and
pathetic things in literature, C's fondness for E. But all Englishmen, I mu=
st
tell you, are not grumblers like Carlyle; he stands quite alone in that
quality--look at Darwin!
I should be grate=
ful
for another postcard. With all love,
HERB. GILCHRIST.<= o:p>
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Ham=
pstead
May 6, '83.
DEAREST FRIEND:
I feel as if this=
beautiful
spring morning here in England must send you greetings through me. Our sunny
little mound of garden, which runs down toward the south, is fragrant with
hyacinths and wall-flowers (beautiful, tawny, reddish, yellow fellows laden
with rich perfume)--and at the bottom is a big old cherry tree--one mass of
snowy blossom; in a neighbour's gay garden & beyond is a distant glimps=
e of
some tall elms just putting on their first tender green: our little breakfa=
st
room where I always sit of a morning opens with glass doors into this garde=
n.
Herby is gone with the "Sunday Tramps," of whom he is a member, f=
or a
ten or fifteen-mile walk. Said tramps are some half dozen friends &
neighbours, some of them very learned professors but genial good fellows
withal, who agree to spend every other Sunday morning in taking one of their
long walks together--& a very good time they have. Giddy is gone to hea=
r a
lecture; our bonnie Scotch girl is roasting the beef for dinner, singing the
while in the kitchen; and pussy & I are sitting very companionable &
meditative in the little room before described.
You cannot think,
dear friend, what a pleasure it was to have a whole big letter from you (not
that I despise Postcards--they are good stop-gaps, but not the real thing).
Yes, I have & prize the article on the Hebrew Scriptures. How I wish you
could make up your mind to spend your summer holiday with us.
I am still strugg=
ling
along, striving to say something which, if I can say it to my mind, will be
useful--will clear away a little of the rubbish that hides you from men's e=
yes.
I hear the "Eminent Women Series" is having quite a large sale in
America. Good-bye. Love to Mrs. Whitman. Greetings to your brother. Love fr=
om
us all to you.
A. GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Hampstead, Jul. 30, 1883.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Lazy me, that have
been thinking letters to you instead of writing them! We have Dr. Bucke's b=
ook
at last; could not succeed in buying one at Türbner's--I believe they =
all
sold directly--but he has sent us one. There are some things in it I prize =
very
highly--namely, Helen Price's "Memoranda" and Thomas A. Gere's. T=
hese
I like far better than any personal reminiscences of you I have ever read &=
amp;
I feel much drawn to the writers of them. Also your letter to Mrs. Price fr=
om
the Hospitals, dear Friend. That makes one hand-in-hand with you--then &
there--& gives one a glimpse of a very beautiful friendship. But why &a=
mp;
why did Dr. Bucke set himself to counteract that beneficient law of nature'=
s by
which the dust tends to lay itself? And carefully gathering together again =
all
the rubbish stupid or malevolent that has been written of you, toss it up i=
n the
air again to choke and blind or disgust as many as it may? What a curious p=
iece
of perversity to mistake this for candour & a judicial spirit.[39] Then
again, how do I hate all that unmeaning, irrelevant clatter about what Rabe=
lais
or Shakespeare or the ancients & their times tolerated in the way of
coarseness or plainness of speech. As if you wanted apologizing for or coul=
d be
apologized for on that ground! If these poems are to be tolerated, I, for o=
ne,
could not tolerate them. If they are not the highest lesson that has yet be=
en
taught in refinement & purity, if they do not banish all possibility of
coarseness of thought & feeling, there would be nothing to be said for
them. But they do: I am as sure of that as of my own existence. When will m=
en
begin to understand them?
We have had pleas=
ant
glimpses of several American friends this summer--of Kate Hillard for insta=
nce,
who, by the bye narrowly escaped a bad accident just at our door--the harne=
ss
broke & the cab came down on the horse & frightened him so that he
bolted--struck the cab against a lamp-post (happily, else it would have been
worse)--overturned them & it--but when they crawled out no worse harm w=
as
done than a few cuts from the glass--& Kate & her friend behaved ve=
ry
pluckily, & we had a pleasant evening together after all. Then there was
Arthur Peterson, looking much as in the old Philadelphia days: and Emma &am=
p;
Annie Lazarus--who, owing to some letters of introduction from James the
novelist, have had a very gay time indeed--been quite lionized--and last, n=
ot
least, Mr. Dalton Dorr, the curator of the Pennsylvania Museum in Fairmount
Park--whom we all liked much. He is enjoying his visit here with all his
heart--is a great enthusiast for our old Gothic Cathedrals, and for everyth=
ing beautiful--but
says there is nothing such a source of unceasing wonder & delight as ri=
ding
about London & over the bridges &c on the top of an omnibus watching
the endless flow of people--it is indeed a kind of human Mississippi or
Niagara.
The young folks a=
re
busy packing up to start for the seaside. Herby wants a background for a
picture in which green turf & trees and all the richness of vegetation =
come
down to the very edge of the sea and I seem to remember such a place near L=
ynn
Regis, where I was thirty years ago, when my eldest child was born, so they=
are
going to look it up. We hear the heat is very tremendous in America this ye=
ar.
I hope you are as well as ever able to stand it & enjoy it? I wonder wh=
ere
you are. Friendly greetings to Mr. & Mrs. Whitman & Hattie & Je=
ssie
& the Staffords. Love to you, dear Friend, from us all.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
My little book on Mary Lamb just
out--will send you a copy in a day or two.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Ham=
pstead
Oct. 13, '83.
DEAREST FRIEND:
Long & long d=
oes
it seem since I have had any word or sign from you. I hope all goes well &a=
mp;
that you have had a pleasant, refreshing summer trip somewhere. All goes on
much as usual with us.
Hythe. Kent. Oct.=
21.
Not having felt very well the last month or two, and Giddy also seeming to =
need
a little bracing up, we came down to this ancient town by the sea--one of t=
he
Cinque Ports--on Wednesday, and much we like it--a fine open sea--a delicio=
us
"briny odour"--and inland much that is curious and interesting--f=
or
this part of the Kentish Coast--so near to France--has innumerable old cast=
les,
forts, moats, traces everywhere of centuries of warfare and of means of def=
ence
against our great neighbour. It is a fine hilly, woody country, too, and ve=
ry picturesque
these gray massive ruins, many of them used now as farm houses, look. The m=
en
of Kent are very proud of their country and are reckoned a fine race--tall,
muscular, ruddy-complexioned, and often too with thick, tawny-red
beards--curious how in our little island the differences of race-stock are
still so discernible--keep along this same coast to the west only about a
couple of hundred miles & you come to such a different type--dark--blac=
kest
and Cornish men.--I get a nice letter now & then from John Burroughs. I
also saw this summer two women doctors who were very kind & good friend=
s to
my darling Bee--Drs. Pope--twin sisters from Boston, whom it did me good to
see. They work hard--have a good practice--& say they don't know what a
day's illness means so far as they themselves are concerned. They tell me a=
lso
that the women doctors are doing capital work in America--and that one of t=
hem,
who was with dear Beatrice at the Penn. Med. Col., Dr. Alice Bennett, is the
efficient head of the woman's department of a large lunatic asylum. We are
getting on in England too--but the field where English women doctors find t=
he
most work & the best position is India, where as the women are not allo=
wed
by their male relatives to be attended by men, the mortality was
immense.--Herby has taken a better studio than our house afforded--both as =
to
light & size--& finds the advantage great. I expect he is having a
delightful walk this brilliant morning with the "Hampstead
Tramps"--of whom I think I have told you. They often walk fifteen mile=
s or
so on Sunday morning.
Such a glorious
afternoon it has been by the sea--sapphire colour--the air brisk & elas=
tic,
yet soft. To-morrow Gran goes home & I shall be all alone here.--I hear=
of
"Specimen Days" in a letter from Australia--there will be a large
audience for you there some day, dear Friend. I like what John Burroughs has
been writing about Carlyle much. We have had nothing but stupidities of late
about him here--but there will come a great reaction from all this abuse, I
have no doubt--he did put so much gall in his ink sometimes, human nature c=
an't
be expected to take it altogether meekly. I hope you received my little book
safely. I should be a hypocrite if I pretended not to care whether you found
patience to read it--for I grew to love Mary & Charles Lamb so much dur=
ing
my task that I want you to love them too--& to see what a beautiful
friendship was theirs with Coleridge.
How are Mr. &
Mrs. Whitman and Hattie & Jessie? Send me a few words soon.
Good-bye, dearest
Friend.
ANN GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Ham=
pstead
April 5, '84.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Those few words of
yours to Herby "tasted good" to us--few, but enough,
seeing that we can
fill out between the lines with what you have given us of yourself forever
& always in your books--& that is how I comfort myself for having so
few letters. But I turn many wistful thoughts toward America, and were not I
& mine bound here by unseverable ties, did we not seem to grow & be=
long
here as by a kind of natural destiny that has to be fulfilled very cheerful=
ly,
could I make America my home for the sake of being near you in body as I am=
in
heart & soul--but Time has good things in store for us sooner or later,=
I
doubt not. I could hardly express to you how welcome is the thought of deat=
h to
me--not in the sense of any discontent with life--but as life with fresh
energies & wider horizon & hand in hand again with those that are g=
one
on first.
Herby found the
little bit of gray cloth very useful--but one day save him an old suit. Your
figure in the picture is, I think, a fair suggestion of one aspect of you; =
but
not, could not of course be, an adequate portrait. He will never rest till =
he
has done his best to achieve that. As soon as he can afford it (for it is a
very slow business indeed for a young artist to make money in England, thou=
gh
when he does begin he is better paid than in America) he means to run over =
to
see you. He says he should like always to spend his winters in New York. I =
say
how very highly I prize that last slip you sent me, "A backward glance=
on
my own road"? It both corroborates & explains much that I feel very
deeply.--If you are seeing Mrs. Whitman, please say her letter was a pleasu=
re
& that I shall write again before very long. I feel as if this letter w=
ould
never find you--be sure & let us know your whereabouts.
Remembrance &
love.
Good-bye, dear Wa=
lt.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Hampstead May 2,=
'84.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Your card (your v=
ery
voice & touch, drawing me across the Atlantic close beside you) was put
into my hand just as I was busy copying out "With husky, haughty lips O
sea" to pin into my "Leaves of Grass." I hardly think there =
is
anything grander there. I think surely they must see that that is the very =
Soul
of Nature uttering itself sublimely.
Who do you think =
came
to see us on Sunday? Professor Dowden.[40] And I know not when I have set e=
yes
on a more beautiful personality. I think you would be as much attracted tow=
ards
him as I was. It was he who told me (full of enthusiasm) of the Poems in
Harper's which I had not seen or heard of. We had a very happy two or three
hours together, talking of you & looking through Blake's drawings. He i=
s a
tall man, complexion tanned & healthy, nose finely modelled, dark eyes =
with
plenty of life & meaning in them, hair grayish--I should think he was
between forty & fifty--but says his father is still a fine hale old man=
.
Herby disappointed
again this year of getting anything into the R. Academy.
I think I like the
idea of the shanty, if you have any one to take good care of you, to cook
nicely, keep all neat & clean &c. I wonder if I have ever been in
Mickle St. I, still busy, still hammering away to see if I can help those t=
hat
"balk" at "Leaves of Grass". Perhaps you will smile at =
me--at
any rate it bears good fruit to me--I seem to be in a manner living with you
the while.
Everything full of
beauty just now here, as no doubt it is with you.
Good-bye, dearest
friend--don't forget the letter that is to come soon. Love from us all, love
& again love from
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Aug=
. 5,
'84.
DEAREST FRIEND:
The notion [that]=
one
is going to write a nice long letter is fatal to writing at all. And so I m=
ean
to scribble something, somehow, a little oftener & make up in quantity =
for
quality! For after all the great thing, the thing one wants, is to meet--if=
not
in the flesh--then in the spirit. A word will do it. I am getting on--my he=
art
is in my work--& though I have been long about it, it won't be long--bu=
t I
think & hope it will be strong. Quite a sprinkling of American
friends--some new ones this spring--among them Mr. & Mrs. Pennell[41] f=
rom
Philadelphia--whom you know--we like them well--hope to see them again &
again. Also Miss Keyse (her sister married Emerson's son) from Concord, and=
the
Lesleys--Mary Lesley has married & gone to the West--St. Paul--has just=
got
a little son.
How does the
"little shanty" answer, I wonder? Herby has been painting some
charming little bits in an old terraced garden here. I do wish you could he=
ar
Giddy sing now; I am sure her voice would "go to the right spot,"=
as
you used to say. Good-bye, dearest friend. Love from all & most from
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Wolverhampton Oc=
t. 26,
'84.
DEAR WALT:
I don't suppose t=
he
enclosed will give you nearly so much pleasure as it gives me. But Villiers
Stanford is, I think, the best composer England has produced since the days=
of
Purcell & Blow, and your words will be sent home to hundreds &
thousands who had not before seen them. How lovely the words read as themes=
for
great music!
I have been stayi=
ng
with old friends who have a house you would enjoy--it stands all alone on t=
he
top of a heath-clad hill, with miles of coppice (young woods) below it, and
spread out beyond is a rich valley with more wooded hills jutting out into
it--and you see the storms a long way off travelling up from the sea, and y=
ou
can wander for miles & miles through the woods or over the breezy hill-=
-or,
as you sit at your window, feel yourself in the very heart of a great,
beautiful solitude. Very kind, warm friends, too, they are, who leave you as
free as a bird to do what you like. I have had all the papers, dear friend,
& have enjoyed them.
Now I am in the h=
eart
of the "Black Country," as we call it--black with the smoke of
thousands of foundries & works of all kinds--staying with Percy & h=
is
wife. Percy is having a very arduous time here starting some Steel Works--&=
amp;
what with his men being inexperienced & times bad & the machinery n=
ot
yet perfectly adjusted, he seems harassed night & day--for these things
have to be kept going all night too--but I hope he will get into smoother
waters soon. The little son is rosy & bright & healthy--goes to sch=
ool
now, which, being an only child, he enjoys mightily for the sake of the
companionship of other boys.
Love from us all,
dear friend.
A. GILCHRIST.
Grace & Herby well & busy w=
hen I
left.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Hampstead Dec. 17, '84.
DEAREST FRIEND:
At last I have
extracted a little bit of news about you from friend Carpenter, who never c=
omes
to see us and is [as] reluctant to write letters as--somebody else that I k=
now.
That you have a comfortable, elderly couple to keep house for you was a good
hearing--for "the old shanty" had risen before my eyes as somewhat
lonely, & perhaps the cooking, &c., not well attended to.--There se=
ems
a curious kind of ebb and flow about the recognition of you in England--jus=
t now
there are signs of the flow--of a steadily gathering great wave, one indica=
tion
of which is the little pamphlet just published in Edinburgh--one of the
"Round Table" Series--no doubt a copy has been sent you. If not a=
nd
you would care to see it, I will send you one. On the whole I like it (barr=
ing
one or two stupidities)--at any rate, as compared with what has hitherto be=
en written.
My poor article has so far been rejected by editors--so I have laid it by f=
or a
little, to come with a fresh eye & see if I can make it in any way more
likely to win a hearing--though I often say to myself, "If they have n=
ot
ears to hear you, how is it likely one can unstop their ears?" But on =
the
other hand there is always the chance of leading some to read the Poems who=
had
not else done so.--Percy & Norah and Archie, now grown a very sturdy ac=
tive
little fellow, are coming to spend Xmas with us, which is a great pleasure.=
I am deep in Frou=
de's
last volumes of "Carlyle's Life in London". Folks are grumbling t=
hat
they have had enough & too much of Carlyle & his grumblings and
sarcasms. But he is an inexhaustibly interesting figure to me, & will
remain so in the long run to the world, I am persuaded. It grieves me that =
he
should have been so cruelly unjust to himself as a husband--that remorse, t=
hose
bitter self-reproaches, were undeserved, were altogether morbid: he was not
only an infinitely better husband than she was wife: he was wonderfully
affectionate & tender & just--& as to his temper & irritable
nerves, she knew what she was about when she married him. Herby was walking
through the British Museum the other day with a friend when a group, a
ready-made picture, struck him--it was a young student-sculptress, a gracef=
ul
girl high on a pile of boxes modelling in clay a copy of an antique statue,
& standing below, looking up at her, was a young sculptor in his blouse,
criticising her work with much animation & gesture; the background of t=
he
group, a part of the Elgin Marbles. So this is what Herby is painting &=
I
think he will make a very jolly little picture out of it. I have been much a
prisoner to the house with bad colds ever since I returned from Wolverhampt=
on,
but am beginning to get out again--which puts new life into me. I have never
envied anything in this world but a man's strong legs & powers of tramp=
ing,
tramping, over hill & dale as long as he pleases--legs would content me=
and
a sound breathing apparatus! I am in no hurry for wings. Giddy's voice, too=
, is
just now eclipsed by cold.
I hope you have
escaped this evil and are able to jaunt to & fro on the ferries as free=
ly
as ever. And I hope the pleasant Quaker friends are well--and Mr. & Mrs.
Whitman and Hattie & Jessie--there is a fellow student of Giddy's at the
Guild Hall music school who so reminds her of Hattie.
Love from us all,
dear friend. Most from me.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Keats Corner Hampstead, England Feb. 27, '85.
DEAREST FRIEND:
How has the winter
passed with you I wonder? Me it has imprisoned very much with bronchial &am=
p;
asthmatic troubles--and the four walls of the house & the ceiling seem =
to
close in upon one's spirit as well as one's body, all too much. I hope you =
have
been able to wend to and fro daily on the great ferry boats & enjoy the
beautiful broad river & the sky & the throngs of people as of old--=
you
are in my thoughts as constantly as ever, though I have been so silent. Per=
cy
& his wife & the little son spent some weeks with us at Christmas &=
amp;
now they have taken a house quite near, into which they will be moving in a
week or two. I can't tell you what a dear, affectionate, reasonable,
companionable little fellow Archie is--now six years old. Perhaps you will =
have
seen in the American papers that Sidney Thomas, the cousin with whom Percy =
was
associated in the discovery of the Basic process, is dead--he spent his
strength too freely--wore himself out at 35--he was much loved by all with =
whom
he had to do. His mother & sister have been watching & hoping again=
st
hope & taking him to warm climates, he himself full of hope--the mind
bright and active to the last--& now he is gone--& his eldest broth=
er
died only two months before him.--I cannot help grieving over public affairs
too--never in my lifetime has old England been in such a bad way--no honest
& capable man seemingly to take the helm--& what Carlyle was fond of
describing as the attempt to guide the ship by the shouts of the bystanders=
on
shore--the newspapers &c. prospering very ill. A government that tries
perpetually how to do it and how not to do it at the same moment! The best
comfort is that I do not think there is any, the smallest sign, of
deterioration in the English race; so we shall pull through somehow, after
tremendous disasters. How many things should I like to sit and chat with you
about, dear Walt--above all to see you again! I could not get my article in=
to
any of the magazines I most wished. I believe it is coming out in To-Day. G=
iddy
was so pleased at your sending her a paper--a very capital article too it i=
s of
Miss Kellogg. I was interested also in a little paragraph I found about Pul=
lman
town, near Chicago, which confirmed my suspicion that it was not a thing wi=
th
healthy roots--but only a benevolent despotism. I am seeing a good deal of =
your
socialists just now--& I confess that though they mean well, I think th=
ey
have less sense in their heads than any people I ever saw.
I am going to pay=
a
little visit to those friends (friendliest of friends) who live on the lone=
ly
top of a heath-covered hill--with such an outlook, such wooded slopes and b=
road
valleys--and the storms travelling up hours before they arrive--such sweeps=
of
sunshine too!--& they mean to drive me about till I am quite strong aga=
in.
So the next letter I write, dear Friend, shall be more cheery. I am afraid =
to
look back lest this one should read too grumbly to send. I don't feel grumb=
ly
however--only shut in. Herby has been working hard at getting up an exhibit=
ion
here to help along our Public Library. It is so very hard to stir up anythi=
ng
like public spirit & unity of action in London or its suburbs--I suppos=
e because
of its vastness--& alas! also the social cliques & gentilities &=
; snobbishnesses.
Good-bye, dearest Walt, with love from all.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Hampstead May 4,=
'85.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
Delays of
Editors--there is no end to them! I am promised now that the art. shall app=
ear
in the June No., & if it does I will send you at once the number of cop=
ies
you name. And if it does not, I think I had best get it back & have done
with the editors of To-day & try for some other & better opening ag=
ain.
I have been readi=
ng
& re-reading & pondering over Froude's 9 vols of Carlyle--"The
Reminiscences," "Letters," &c. &c.--and am pretty we=
ll
at boiling point with indignation against Froude--boiling point of anger &a=
mp; freezing
point of contempt. His betrayal at every point of a sacred trust! lazy,
slip-shod editing! not even taking the pains to put letters and their answe=
rs
together--but printing the one in 1882 & the others three or four years
after--so that half the meaning and all the mutuality of the letters are lo=
st!
And then the sly malignity of the comments with which they are preceded! If=
I
live I will do my utmost to expose all this & to show that Mrs. Carlyle=
was
no injured heroine, nor he a selfish & neglected husband. Both had their
faults, but the balance of affection & tenderness was largely on his si=
de,
as well as of other great qualities: though I like her too--& think she
would have scorned Froude's ignoble championship.
Herby has had rat=
her
better luck with his pictures this year. Has one--"The Sculptor's
Lesson"--fairly well hung at the Royal Academy--where it shines out ve=
ry
cheerfully & holds its own modestly, I may say without maternal vanity.=
I think
I described to you the little bit of actual life it depicts--a young girl he
saw at the British Museum modelling a copy of an antique statue & young
sculptor in his blouse standing below & giving her some animated
criticism--a little bit of the Elgin marbles in the background. Herb. has a=
lso
a little picture he calls "Midsummer"--a bit of a very old &
buttressed wall hung with roses in full bloom, & Giddy's figure standing
above--at the Grosvenor. Now if he has the luck to sell too! He has a commi=
ssion
also to paint a small portrait of me for our friends at Marley, on which he=
is
busy just now. As soon as he has a little spare money in his pocket I think=
his
first use of it will be a run across the Atlantic & a glimpse of you, d=
ear
Friend. Giddy is going to sing at a Soiree of socialists & revolutionary
folk in general on Wednesday. Her songs are to be "The Wearing of the
Green"--& "Poland Dirge" & the "Marseillaise&qu=
ot;.
You will think we are getting pretty red hot! But alas! though our sympathy
with the Cause--the cause of suffering millions--is warm, our faith in the
wisdom & ability of those who are aspiring to be the leaders, so far as=
we
know anything of them--is infinitesimal.
What a burst of
beauty we have had during the last ten days! We look out just now on a sea =
of
apple & pear blossoms, from the deepest pink to dazzling white--& t=
he
tenderest green intermingled with all. I hope you are able to be out nearly=
all
day & enjoy all--and that home affairs go smoothly & comfortably &a=
mp;
that Mrs. Davis[42] is attentive & good & every way adequate as
care-taker.
I am looking forw=
ard
very much to the "After Songs" and "Letters of Parting".
Does the sale of "Leaves of Grass" continue pretty steady? I look
forward with a sort of dread to seeing my article in proof, lest I should f=
eel
very disappointed with it.
Your loving frien=
d,
A. GILCHRIST.
Do you ever see or hear from Mr. Ma=
rvin?
He is a favourite with all of us. Do you remember how we laughed at his
dramatic presentation of a negro prayer meeting?
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
Hampstead, London Jan.
21, 85.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
I hope the To-days
have come safe to hand. I am thinking a great deal about the new edition; a=
nd
cannot help hoping you are going to revert to the plan of the Centennial
Edition, which issued your writings in two independent volumes. May I, with=
out
being presumptuous, dear Walt, tell you how I should dearly like to see them
arranged? I want "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," "Song at
Sunset," "Song of the Open Road," "Starting from Pauman=
ok,"
"Carol of Words," "Carol of Occupations" and either as
"As I Sat by Blue Ontario's Shore" or the Preface to edit. 55 put
into "Two Rivulets"--you could make room for them that the volumes
might balance in size by making them exchange places with the "Centenn=
ial
Songs" and the "Memoranda During the War"; not that these are
not precious to me, but I want it dearest because I want in the Two Rivulet
Volume what will best prepare the reader, lift him up to the true point of
view, and make him all your own, before he comes to the inner sanctuary of
"Calamus" & "Walt Whitman" & "Children of
Adam."
Monday morn. Your
letter just to hand. It gives me deep joy, dear Friend. I have sent copies =
of
To-Day to Dr. Bucke & John Burroughs but did not know of his change of
address; so fear it has miscarried. I will send another, and also one to W.
O'Connor.--You did not tell me about your fall--unless indeed a letter has =
been
lost. It fills me with concern because of the difficulty it increases in ge=
tting
that free out-door life that is so dear & essential to your soul &
body, and because, too, I still cherished in my heart a hope that I should =
yet
see you again--here in my own home--& now it seems next to an
impossibility. Right thankful am I to hear about Mrs. Davis--that she takes
good care of you--please give her a friendly greeting from me. I am going to
have rather a bothersome summer--first of all, the house full of workmen to
make all clean & tidy; & then my Scotch lassie, friend & factot=
um
rather than servant, must have a holiday & go to her friends in Scotland
for a month. I shall heartily welcome your friend, no need to say, & be
sure to like her. Love from Grace & Herb. & most of all from me. I =
have
plenty more to say but won't delay this.
Good-bye, dear Wa=
lt.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
ANNE GILCHRIST TO
WALT WHITMAN
&n=
bsp;
12 Well Rd., Hampstead, Eng. July 20, '85.
MY DEAREST FRIEND=
:
A kind of anxiety=
has
for some time past weighed upon me and upon others, I find, who love &
admire you, that you do not have all the comforts you ought to have; that y=
ou
are perhaps sometimes straightened for means. We have had letters from seve=
ral
young men, almost or quite strangers to us, asking questions on this subjec=
t;
and we hoped & thought that if this were so, you would permit those who
have received such priceless gifts from you to put their gratitude into some
tangible shape, some "free-will offering." Hence the paragraph was
put into the Athenaeum which I send with this, and we were proceeding to
organize our forces when your paper came to hand this morning (the Camden P=
ost,
July 3), which seems decisively to bid us desist. Or at all events wait til=
l we
had told you of our wishes and plan. One thing would, I feel sure, give you
pleasure in any case; and that is to know that there is over here a little =
band--perhaps
indeed it is now quite a considerable one, for we had not yet had time to
ascertain how considerable--who would joyfully respond to that Poem of your=
s,
"To Rich Givers."
A friend and near
neighbour of ours, Frederick Wedmore, is coming over to America this autumn,
and counts much on coming to see you. He is a well-known writer on Art here=
--a
friendly, candid, open-minded man with whom, I think, you will enjoy a talk=
.
I am on the looko=
ut
for Miss Smith[43]--shall indeed enjoy a talk with a special friend of your=
s,
dear Walt. I hope she will not fail to come. Giddy is away at Haslemere. He=
rby
just going to write for himself to you.
That is a very
graphic bit in the Post--the portrait of Hugo, the canary & the kitten-=
-I
like to know all that--as well as to hear the talk.
My love, dear Wal=
t.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
So far as can be ascertained this i=
s the
last letter. Anne Gilchrist died Nov. 29th, 1885.
THE END
[1] Reprinted from
the Radical for May, 1870.
[2] Reprinted from
"Anne Gilchrist, Her Life and Writings," by her son Herbert H.
Gilchrist--London, 1887.
[3] Reprinted from
Horace Traubel's "With Walt Whitman in Camden," I, 219-220. Altho=
ugh
addressed to Rossetti, this letter is evidently intended as much for Mrs.
Gilchrist, whose name was not at this time known to Whitman.
[4] Alexander
Gilchrist.
[5] Mrs. Gilchris=
t's
emotion here apparently prevents her memory from doing complete justice to =
her
own past. For a very different expression of her feelings toward Alexander
Gilchrist, written at the time of her betrothal, see her letter announcing =
the
engagement which she sent to her friend, Julia Newton, and which is to be f=
ound
on pp. 30-31 of her son's biography.
[6] William Micha=
el
Rossetti.
[7] To W. M.
Rossetti. See ante, p. x.
[8] First printed=
in
Horace Traubel's "With Walt Whitman in Camden," III, 513.
[9] Evidently mea=
ning
the letter of September 3d.
[10] Missing.
[11] Percy Carlyle
Gilchrist who became an inventive metallurgist.
[12] Herbert
Harlakenden Gilchrist, who became an artist.
[13] Printed from
copy retained by Whitman.
[14] To deliver h=
is
Dartmouth College ode.
[15] William Doug=
las
O'Connor, an ardent Washington friend of Whitman.
[16] John Burroug=
hs,
the naturalist, then a young author and disciple of Whitman.
[17] Anne Gilchri=
st's
son.
[18] Horace Greel=
ey,
nominated by the Democrats as their candidate for the Presidency.
[19] Burlington,
Vermont, where Whitman's sister, Mrs. Heyde, lived.
[20] Henry M.
Stanley, African Explorer.
[21] Undated. Mad=
e up
from copy among Whitman's papers. This letter evidently belongs to the summ=
er
of 1873.
[22] The "Pr= ayer of Columbus" was first published in Harper's Magazine in March, 1874.<= o:p>
[23] John Cowardi=
ne.
See "Anne Gilchrist, Her Life and Writings," pp. 149 ff.
[24] Daughters of
Thomas Jefferson Whitman.
[25] Mrs. George
Whitman.
[26] Sister.
[27] Niece.
[28] Sidney Morse,
the sculptor.
[29] "Man's
Moral Nature," by Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke.
[30] This extract=
(?)
is taken from H. H. Gilchrist's "Anne Gilchrist," p. 252. It is
undated, but it is clearly a reply to the foregoing letter from Mrs. Gilchr=
ist.
[31] Durham
Cathedral.
[32] Anne Gilchri=
st's
grandchild.
[33] Reproduced in
"Anne Gilchrist, Her Life and Writings," facing p. 253.
[34] Richard Wats=
on
Gilder.
[35] Of Timber Cr=
eek,
Camden County, New Jersey, whose hospitality helped Whitman to improve his
health.
[36] The second
edition of Alexander Gilchrist's "William Blake."
[37] Because of t=
he
death of her daughter Beatrice.
[38] Whitman's Lo=
ndon
publisher.
[39] Dr. Bucke, in
his "Life of Whitman," had reprinted at the end of the volume many
criticisms of the poet, adverse as well as favourable;
likewise W. D.
O'Connor's "Good Gray Poet."
[40] Edward Dowde=
n,
of the University of Dublin.
[41] Artists, fam=
ous
for their etchings. Mr. Pennell made several etchings for Dr. Bucke's biogr=
aphy
of Whitman.
[42] Mrs. Mary Da=
vis,
who was Whitman's housekeeper until his death.
[43] Daughter of
Pearsall Smith, of Philadelphia.