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I consider McClellan as in some respects a seamed man: he paltered with the army. An allusion to O'Connor led W.

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In our uphill history such, if we may say it, spiritual signs serve to indicate where we are, how far we have to, what we can hope for. Rhys alludes to the Lincoln lecture as if it was some kind of a literary success: no, it was not: it was a good fellowship affair, rather: more than anything else, that: I took it as that, not as a literary victory.


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I found Harned with W. They are talking politics. Harned just back from Boston, where he had been most of the week. Harned said: "I consider Harrison good for eight years now. Some wise man somewhere says: 'Let him not rejoice who putteth on the armor, but him who putteth it off. This is bound to come: I rest my faith in the final good sense of the nation.

America has its purpose: it must serve that purpose to the end: I look upon the future as certain: our people will in the end read all these lessons right: America will stand opposed to everything which means restriction—stand against all policies of exclusion: accept Irish, Chinese—knowing it must not question the logic of its hospitality. Mary spoke of his bad condition. Ed said: "He was done up by the trip to the bathroom yesterday. He had expected to find him worse. Thought Bucke had exaggerated. Now Ed says: "I see that the old man is after all in a pretty bad way.

William is never a half-way man: he has the temperament of a soldier. Indeed, it was this anti-slaveryism, this Republicanism, which made him complain of me that I was too indifferent to the issues of that time: and I had to confess that I did not feel as hot about it as he did. I said a similar complaint was also made concerning Emerson.

Some day we 'll make that word real—give it universal meanings: even ministers plenipotentiary and extraordinary will thrive under its wings. He was exceedingly pleased. I said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking of. I went in to see McKay. Hunter had been in ahead of me.

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He reported W. If Myrick could proceed with it at once, giving me a proof in the afternoon, I was to let it go through: if he could not I was to bring it back to W. His first suggestion of head line had been, "Note of Introduction" for one, "Note of Conclusion" for the other. He had revised these to "Note at Beginning" and "Note at End. On the reverse of "Note at Beginning" I found a rejected passage—obviously an earlier draft of the account of his "sixth recurrent attack" in "Note at End.

He at once replied: "Yes: my reasons against it might be stated that way. We talked over details in connection with this new material. Told him W. But he said: "I meant it serioulsy: the Butlers had twelve hundred dollars' worth of cuts spoiled by dampness in their new vaults on Arch Street. He picked something up off the table reaching it out towards me.

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I now call the "Horace corner" the "amen corner. I found that he had saved and was giving me an old Rossetti letter. And there are still others. Could Napoleon match them? They told me down stairs that he had had a shaky day. Now better. Bright and willing to talk. I had brought along proofs of Notes. The Notes went each in a page. I shall go over it to-morrow—probably add something. Did it seem like too much? What an advantage it would be all around if an author could sell his own books!

He had laid aside a Garland letter for me.

I asked: "What is your theory about Garland's tactics in introducing the prose first? Of course Garland will say he has the evidence of his own eyes and that that is enough—is conclusive: I don't say it 's not—for Garland: but for me? Well, while what Garland says seems profoundly probable in special cases, I am not convinced of the rule: I like best the idea of trusting the people at once to the full programme—not being afraid that they can't stand the dose. I of course respond heartily to Garland's beautiful brotherliness: that takes right hold of me—that is wholly convincing. Bucke writes me referring to the proposal that he should speak in Clifford's church.

That is Doctor's thunder anyway: the evolution of the race from low to high, good to better, slowly, surely, inevitably: Bucke is primed—full to the brim: can sit down by the hour, anytime—talk the best talk about big things. Now, keep at him: don't let him evade you. I fancy not. He said: "No doubt: or at a hundred and twenty: but my ought-to-have-been, like most ought-to-have-beens, is upset, made light of, scattered, put to rout, by what is: the what-ares are harder to contend with than the ought-to-have-beens.

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As to free-trade, one thing is fixed: the deck is cleared. The argument so far has been tentative, coarse, partisan, slanderous: now the real battle will commence—we will have the higher statements. Go under the surface, study the undertones. For instance, have you thought, there may be five or six or eight of the Southern States almost unanimously opposed to the new administration?

Hasn't that a peculiar, a sinister, significance?

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This is one of the dark spots, the puzzles, in our system of government: all our Presidents now are elected by minorities—a fact of unfortunate import: on a popular vote the parties, the two parties, are nearly balanced—at a standstill: yet we see the sectional supremacy of one party ensuing.

Now, let this not be driven too far! America is yet to achieve things of which these men little dream! All the real problems, the fundamentals, are yet ahead of us—will have to be tackled by us or by our children or theirs: not skin-ticklers, like the tariff, but life and death challenges which will line us up fiercely on this side or that.

I 'm afraid! They call it gout—rheumatic gout—which often has swift, fatal endings. You know, Horace, Tennyson is pretty far along: has been going down hill for some time—is eighty years old or so: things go hard with a man at that stage of the game. Then: "And Darwin—the sweet, the gracious, the sovereign, Darwin: Darwin, whose life was after all the most significant, the farthest-influencing, life of the age.

Poor Carlyle! I always found myself saying that in spite of my reservations. Some years ago Jennie Gilder wrote me in a hurry for some piece about Carlyle. I said then that to speak of the literature of our century with Carlyle left out would be as if we missed our heavy gun: as if we stopped our ears—refused to listen: resenting the one surest signal that the battle is on.

We had the Byrons, Tennysons, Shelleys, Wordsworths: lots of infantry, cavalry, light artillery: but this last, the most triumphant evidence of all, this master stroke: this gun of guns: for depth, power, reverberation, unspeakably supreme—this was: Carlyle. I repeat it now: have made no change of front: to-day, here, to you, I reaffirm that old judgment—affix to it the seal of my present faith. Then he advised me: "You seem to enter into the spirit of that: take it along. Turned up a copy of the Thayer and Eldridge Leaves in the next room. He said, pointing to the frontispiece: " There 's the portrait Blauvelt had in mind, for one.

Would he like to see it? I felt that he knew—that he understood what he was talking about. He picked up the Washington hatted portrait, Gilchrist and Herbert the artist of that picture there " —pointing to the wall— "always liked this. I have no great admiration for the picture myself: it is one of many, only—not many in one: the sort of picture useful in totaling a man but not a total in itself. Now, take 'the laughing philosopher' picture—the Cox picture: that is the picture I sent over to Tennyson: he liked it much—oh! I 'm not wholly sure: yet I call it that.

I can say honestly that I like it better than any other picture of that set: Cox made six or seven of them: yet I am conscious of something foreign in it—something not just right in that place. Referred to Thomas G.