Guide A Man By Any Other Name Is Somebody Else Altogether: The Complete Alex Cheradon Volume One

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Hapgood was very decent with me: Hapgood was Paymaster: Eldridge was his clerk. The Major had a room about the size of this: here was one desk, there was a second desk, for Charles: and over in the corner, like that" —pointing towards the door— "there was a little desk he put up for me—for my use, my private use: it was near a window. Charles was a good accountant, bookkeeper, clerk generally: so, with a little influence, he readily got a berth at Washington.

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I wrote letters: some for the New York Times, some for The Tribune, some for a Brooklyn paper: these letters met with a certain show of acceptance: I made a fair living by it and was satisfied. On one occasion, Raymond was particularly tickled by one of the letters—something in its style—and sent me an extra check for fifty dollars. I was silent.

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Then he said: "It would be hard to make William's manifold magnetisms understood simply by descriptions in words: have you seen, known, Boyle O'Reilly? O'Connor is much the O'Reilly sort of a man—much apt like Boyle to hit you at once. We talked of Lincoln: "What was your first impression of Lincoln? Lincoln's composure was marvelous: he was self-contained—had a thorough-going grip on himself.

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For two or three years he was generally regarded darkly, scornfully, suspiciously, in Washington, through the North. Now, O'Connor took to Lincoln unhesitatingly, at the first glance—never wavered: was warmly, even hotly, favorable, right along. He came to Washington: some of us grew to realize his great keenness, his splendid intellect. What did he live on? When he was taken sick a family who knew him—Eames by name—Judge Eames, we called him a lawyer —took him in, got him a nurse: he died in their home.

O'Connor was told by Gurowski's doctor later that one day the Count asked if there was any hope: that he was told that from the symptoms it could hardly be said that there was: Gurowski thereupon replying, brightly: 'Well, a brave man must not be afraid to die'—turning over on the pillow and lapsing into silence.

That sounds authentic: it was just like the Count: if I had been asked what he would do under such conditions I should have said he would do what the Doctor told William he did do. Something my sister Agnes said to me concerning Ray Walton's interest in Walt's magazine war memoranda led W.

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I wrote my mother voluminously from the War: ah! She was in Brooklyn, alone: I wrote every day or so: sometimes in a general way: frequently all sorts of personal quips, bits, oddities, interspersed—family jottings: no letter in the whole lot absolutely clear of them.

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Looked at me gravely. The light was lowered. His head was dropped in his right hand. Was aroused at my entrance. Musgrove in to-day. His impressions of W. Gilchrist in yesterday "for ten minutes. Got W.

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Took notes to Ferguson this morning. James, there in New York, afterwards Postmaster General, was a man who seemed to me to be of sterling merit: such a man should be held on to—should not be let go of after a term or two: the trouble is that we don't live in an age of public emulation but of private greed. Bucke is expected. Had W. Then: "But I 'm the chief mix-up myself: so why should I growl?

The tariff sneak-thieves seem to expect another generation of rule: they are arrogant, almighty: but there 's another something coming: maybe they can't guess it: I can: let them not be too certain: pride comes before the fall: it 's when they seem most sure, sufficient, self-satisfied, prosperous, that there comes the smash-up: heap up your treasure—gold, goods: heap them high—way up: then beware!

The Greeks—nearly all of them: the writers, the race traditions: are full of this idea: the idea that the gods hate prosperity—this sort of prosperity: the idea that when men sit heaped all round with possessions, loot, then the end is near—then look out! Bucke's letter of the 9th to me.

He read it aloud. To-day he 's not so sassy! He does! At the end of the letter came this passage: "Should this meter go it is my dream to devote the rest of my life not many years perhaps, but still a few to the study and promulgation of the new religion 'the great idea' and I should hope to find younger men to pass on the" —the rest of the sentence was "work to when I lay it down," but W.

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He is hazy about it. He remarked that his little note on the poets sent to The Critic had not yet appeared. The question was not addressed to me alone: it was a circular, filled in for me: it was no doubt widely circulated. There 's little profit in such cogitation: none, I sometimes think: it tends rather to do harm than good. Emerson says somewhere that no matter how much the critic fails to tell the history of his book he never fails to tell his own.

That was one of Emerson's characteristic slaps. I intended that you should see it. His fad is Keats: he thinks Keats is the man. He offered me some very free criticisms of Leaves of Grass. I wish I had the letter here: I must have sent it to Bucke: I did not intend to—I wanted you to see it, know about it, before it went.

You don't refer to him often or familiarly. He is often called Greek. Shakespeare's Sonnets, not the Greek: you know, the Sonnets are Keats and more—all Keats was then a vast sum added. For superb finish, style, beauty, I know of nothing in all literature to come up to these Sonnets: they have been a great worry to the fellows: and to me, too: a puzzle: the Sonnets being of one character, the Plays another. Has the mystery of this difference suggested itself to you? Try to think of the Shakespeare plays: think of their movement: their intensity of life, action: everything hell-bent to get along: on: on: energy—the splendid play of force: across fields, mire, creeks: never mind who is splashed—spare nothing: this thing must be done, said: let it be done, said: no faltering.

With Coquelin it is—what is the end to be sought? If so what has to be done to make that point? I asked: "Is that for me? He looked around. Before I left W. Take my love to all the boys: the typos: tell them Walt Whitman not only was but is one of them. Good night!

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I stood there. He looked up, seeing me. We shook hands. He gave me the proofs of title pages. Changes few. Wants still another proof and then three sets for his own use. Morse is to be there: he is to talk on Evolution. Well, that 's a big enough job to give Morse plenty to do: it 's like starting at the beginning—at the root or the seed before the root. Is this Morse the Japanese man? Tell them after they have had Morse upon Evolution they should have him for Japan—to describe what he saw there, what Japanese life signifies, to an American, in this nineteenth century.

But I said now: "Why Walt—that must be the sketch I brought down for you to see or the one you read: that was about Millet and it was in The Nineteenth Century. I consider it remarkable that Bucke should without knowing your view repeat it here almost line for line.

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I asked: " Did n't the resemblance strike you? He answered, after a little hesitation: "Oh! Shaw's—three or four of us. Shaw had a wonderful collection of curios, gathered in the East, Syria, Spain: the walls were everywhere covered with paintings: there were swords there, too: cutlery, also—the most interesting and unusual cutlery: I remember the silks—rich silks—kept in rolls as they keep wall papers.

It was while roaming through these rooms that I came upon the Millets: I was there with others: I wanted to be alone: I waived them all off" —here he gestured—threw his head back— "'Here you fellows,' I said, or something in that manner: 'I want you to all go out—to leave me alone: I want to be alone here': they went: and so I got an hour or two to myself—the sweetest, fullest, peaceablest: then I saw Millet. I did n't break in. Millet's color sense was opulent, thorough, uncompromising, yet not gaudy—never gilt and glitter: emphatic only as nature is emphatic.

I felt the masterfulness of The Sowers: its dark grays: not overwrought anywhere: true always to its own truth—borrowing nothing: impressive in its unique majesty of expression. I said to myself then, I can realize now, that there can be no depth of feeling, sympathy, emotional appeal, present in a picture, a painting, anywhere, anytime, going beyond these: here is the fact incarnate.

O'Connor, somewhere, in one of his letters, quoted Victor Hugo: Hugo points to the tramps, the poor, the ignorant peasants: 'these,' he says, 'are not the people—these are but the mournful beginnings of the people': it is something like that, not that just in those words. And he would carry it out to its farthest affirmations. Here W. He referred to prohibition: then to the minor parties that flourished in his youth.

John don't call himself upper circle or anything of that sort, but he is in the elect pit—he belongs to the saved, to the respectables. John is first rate in his own way anyhow—has always been simple enough to break love with me on occasions.


Aroused by my entrance he was at once cordial and inquisitive. Talked well. Looked well. Yet I have made up my mind to be cheerful: to sustain myself by what philosophy I can. Coates said to me at the Club: "Walt Whitman is Olympian.