Journey : A collection of heartfelt poems written by Gail Tennyson Hicks

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The Greeley Raymond Forney sort of newspaper is gone for good—gone, rather, for evil. I do not suppose anybody pretends that the present newspaper with all its parts—and it has parts—I concede them: great parts—stands for that something or other above money and the monitions of money which controlled and inspired the journalist of the ideal stamp. Forney was not the last of his line but certainly was one of the last.

Personally, to me, he was always noble, gracious, conciliatory: he had in a certain sense the grand manner, as polite writers are pleased to call it, but was a simple man of most loveable traits under all hauteurs. I can taste his fruit—I can hear the birds sing. It is an old letter—it has been about this room now many a year. John was fresh at Esopus then: he had a tussle there at first—but he has won out: he is a master vine-dresser these days: and all the time his grip on himself has grown firmer—his intuitions have grown cuter.

John is a wood wizard: things come out of their holes—present themselves—ask for orders—when John goes into the woods. May John's power is in his simplicity. He writes well because he does not try to write. Your writing is deliberate enough. Let me say it another way.

We make one sort of impression by sincerity and another sort of impression by trickery. I mean that we should not try to make an impression by trickery. John might get real mad—his kettle boil over—but his language would remain conciliatory. William O'Connor under the same excitation would blow fiercely and leave his mark on the landscape. Why do you take all the good things out of my mouth?

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No mail, except a note from Frank Gilman, asking W. This made W. I saw the process people about the Hicks picture with a result which induced W. If the reproduction comes anywhere near it I shall be satisfied. I do not know that such a picture as this would in itself have been recognizable. I was too young when I saw Hicks. But Inman was a famous man in his day—one of the greatest of the artists—and I do not know but he is still highly regarded.

I have always understood that this particular portrait of Hicks is as good as it is rare—and it is rare indeed. What a study it all is—this of portraits: no two of them identical: every interpreter getting another view. What amazing differences develope in the attempt of a dozen observers to tell the same story!

No man has been photographed more than I have or photographed worse: I've run the whole gamut of photographic fol-de-rol. Spoke of Last of the War Cases. He had put "last" into the title because the incidents cited "were left over after the close of the war, having to do with the final batch of the injured and needy. It was a rather long letter. We had better finish our talk first. Was he satisfied with it? It is so far—so very far—from the thing I dreamed of doing. It was to have been a very complete story—I had the largest hopes, designs, for it—still, as I read it now, it's not so bad though bad enough as I feared it would be.

I must be satisfied now if I have succeeded in hinting at matters which it was a part of my original scheme to enlarge upon. On the whole it is not a radical failure—neither is it a radical success. Having read the full account of Cortland Palmer's funeral yesterday W. He is one of the very few—the very select few—who are alive and keep others alive with them.

He never spoke but to cut—cut somewhere: with a keen blade, infallibly cut. Called my attention to a newspaper clipping in which he was again taken to task for not going to the front and fighting during the war. I could never think of myself as firing a gun or drawing a sword on another man. I often used it at that time in going about Washington—in the hospitals—among the soldier boys: slung it over my shoulder in a way to make it comfortable. I have never once used it since I came to Camden. Ingram called today but was not admitted to W.

Ingram was hurt, Musgrove tells me. But W. This is the way it reads:. Was there not something grand—and a perennial proof of American grandeur—in that war. I told him I thought you made lots of use of pens, inks and papers. He is a patient man. He suffered a heap from us, didn't he? This letter is alive all through—every word of it.

It carries me back with you into that old experience. I think I can see you there writing in the hospital and see that boy looking at you and smell the medicines. My main motive would be to say things: not to say them prettily—not to stun the reader with surprises—with fancy turns of speech—with unusual, unaccustomed words—but to say them—to shoot my gun without a flourish and reach the mark if I can. The days in the hospitals were too serious for that. He got to like Baker but Musgrove rubs him the wrong way. Did not go down stairs yesterday. For the first time fully dressed this evening—gray coat and all—as he sat in his chair.

I had with me concluding proofs of Last of the War Cases. Letters from Bucke and Logan Smith today. The latter writes from London. Every letter I receive condoles with me over the heat by which I am tortured. He often plays with his penknife, opening and shutting as he talks. Speaking of churches: "I never made any vows to go or not to go: I went, at intervals, but anywhere—to no one place: was a wanderer: went oftenest in my earlier life—gradually dropped off altogether: today a church is a sort of offense to me.

I never had any 'views'—was always free—made no pledges, adopted no creeds, never joined parties or 'bodies. I said to him: I always dressed as I do now and spoke and acted as I do now—that's all I know about it—that's all I can tell you. And that's what I could say now about churches and views: I am as I was: I have not changed.

I have met many preachers in my time—some of the sleek kind, but many of them personally good fellows, who treated me well. Always remember, though I hate preaching I do not hate preachers. America should be an example not an echo—therein lies her chief function—not to follow, oh no, but to lead the way. The boys should have their ball or any frolic they choose: the grown folks should do very much as they please: theaters should be open—there should be plenty of music.

Sunday should be a light, not a dark, day. Any law that interferes with innocent enjoyment is a barbarous law no matter who is in favor of it. I would wipe such laws out with a sponge—every one of them,—if I could. Some one asked W. I did think that Thoreau and Emerson, both of them, years ago, in the Brooklyn days, were a little bookish in their expression of love: I say I used to think so, for I don't know how the thing would strike me now. Said he would "like to read the Sterling—indeed, thought" he "should do it" but imagined "the Frederick is much too big a big thing for" him "to tackle at this late day.

It is an assault, an immense noise, somebody driven off the field—a victory won: that is all. It is like trying to photograph a tempest. Who put you on to my secret? It's a great thought, Horace,—you have said it all. I am willing to acquiesce in Heine's notions of criticism. Heine would ask of a book and its writer, not, 'has he written it as I would like him to do it? Leland's translation of the Reisebilder is, however, a joy and a delight. My nature, my temperament, my blood, should take me close to the Teuton.

Take Democracy, for instance: the American, the average American, thinks he has a new idea. The truth is that even our proud modern definitions of democracy are antiquated—can be heard reflected in the language of the Elizabethan period in England—in the atmosphere created by Bacon, Ben Jonson, and the rest of that crowd. I would not like to say there might not have been latent in the utterances of that group of men the seed stuff of our American liberty—not to speak of the still older suggestions of it to be found in Greek and Roman sources.

The popular fury now seems to be applied to them—and what have they done, indeed? I wonder if our people really believe the Chinese menace our institutions—the industrious, quiet, inoffensive Chinese? Maybe our institutions ain't no good if they're as thin-skinned as that.

Reward Yourself

Pointing to a scrapbook on the floor at his feet: "It is a strange miscellany—a hodge-podge, some of it only pulp, some of it very vital: curious, rejected reviews, critiques, odds and ends of newspaper gossip—all of it in the past, the far past—gathered together fifty years ago and on from that time for many years. I have always had it about me as a book for personal reference. It was mislaid for a long time, then reappeared—has been fished out of its barrel again lately: I am again making use of it.

How much of it has come and gone like last night's rain! Here was my first tally of life—here were my first tries with the lute—in that book I am just like a man tuning up his instrument before the play begins. Bucke in Notes and Fragments. I have talked like a man with a new dictionary—have celebrated my re-entrance into clothes by tooting for two hours on my tin horn. Appetite not bad. Still weak. He stepped into the hallway yesterday and threw some soiled clothes down stairs.

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Davis cried: "You must be feeling stronger! He had read the Press article about himself today. It contained a good picture of the house and lots of cheap talk about W. Changes not many—several of them, however, characteristic: for instance, where he had "father and mother" he made it now "dear, dear father and mother.

Nothing left to go into type except the Hicks notes and the Fox paper. It is curious and unfortunate that this should be the best of the lot so far. What will America do? Is she for the great mass of men? No man is a democrat, a true democrat, who forgets that he is interested in the welfare of the race. Who asks only, what is best for America?

Is a man a citizen of Camden only? No—no indeed. And if not of Camden, not of New Jersey, nor even of America. No—no—no—no: a man is no democrat if he takes the narrow in preference to the broad view. He may talk of democracy, of the people, but it's all a lie—all false—nothing but nuts crackling under a pot.

I am not interested in what Carnegie is doing to establish libraries abroad but in what he is doing to keep peace with and render justice to his men here. I haven't grown conservative on that question with age. To-morrow I'm going to make a motion for doing so though I don't know as the motion will be carried: I must go, if only for a few minutes. I want to prove to you fellows—to myself—that I've not entirely gone up the spout. He laughed. I shall go only when the spirit moves me: if it don't move then not at all.

I find the best way to spend my days—at least did long ago—is the free way: not to make plans, but to go this path or that as the mood dictates. On a November Boughs proof page given me for size W. When he speaks a confused sentence he corrects it at once. I suggested that he should preserve the manuscript of November Boughs. He acquiesced. But I make nothing of that—of the money value of the manuscripts—attach no importance to curios. The collectors are inflamed with the curio desire but to me the appetite is unwholesome—at least never excited even my momentary interest.

And yet," he reflected, "for Eddy's sake it might be wise for me to husband such stuff—though I don't know: even that seems to me rather wide of the mark. I have for years done so many things with reference to Eddy—have stinted, spared, saved, put by, cherished, watched—so that I might not slip cable some day with him unprovided for.

Eddy is helpless: has been at Moorestown—is shortly to go elsewhere: was a poor, stunted boy almost from the first. Eddy had much to do with the inspiration of that poem. The little property—Lord knows it's little enough: all, all, for Eddy—for such boon as it may bring to him after I am gone. I made this guess to W. He said: "Let me see it. Get the book—let's hear how the poem reads. I read to him. He concluded: "You guessed right first time. That's more than I could have done. Democracy, the destined conqueror— yet treacherous lip-smiles everywhere, and death and infidelity at every step.

The last phrase had originally read: "to those who, coming after me, do better. Here—take this bunch with my blessing and be happy. He was ahungry and I gave him meat: I feed you with the food you love! Then he passed a little package over to me. If they arouse any questions you can put your questions to me to-morrow.

Macaulay, W. I looked them over a bit before going home and said to W. One of my main concerns in life nowadays is to keep you in good humor. This has been one of W. I haven't cast out all of my devils yet. Was astonished to find that the Last of the War Cases made nine pages. Harned and his little girl Anna came in. No letter from Bucke. Spoke of it. Bucke's letters have become a part of W. Quite so—remarkably so—interested in the big things always—a rare beautiful woman: sweet, equable, calm. I have no doubt it will be very bright—brighter than Donnelly himself, by far.

But while Donnelly's knowledge is not novel, he has put it better than any of his predecessors—than Delia Bacon, for instance, to cite one of them. To me Donnelly's general argument was conclusive: I was in fact ready to be convinced and he passed along and drew me after him. Mine was no sudden conversion, however—it was the outcome of years of study and thought: I drifted, drifted, always in one direction, and arrived at last. Harned sat down. They went on for some time about Bacon.

He laughed: "If I get out of it what I put into it I will be lucky: if I got in addition a little fob of bills for my vest-pocket here I would feel like a millionaire. The people with money wouldn't buy me anyhow. I must make it possible for the people without money to buy me.

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  7. They received me with open arms when I was rejected—they were my dearest, dearest friends, staunchest from the start. They have had their profound sorrows—children lost, two children, one of them a girl, a fine girl who almost grew up. What is there for anybody to enthuse over? The real issues are not in politics yet. I notice the Press has its flings, slanders—prods itself into anger: but what does that amount to? We then had some talk over the letters he gave me yesterday.

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    5. I spoke in such enthusiastic terms of the O'Connor letter that W. Read it.

      September 3, 2006

      I never sold them before, I have never sold them since. The next thing to being fashionable is to be unfashionable. Did you notice William's fling at Comstock? What a foolish question—of course you noticed it. The best or the worst of it is, it is all deserved. Of course we should always admit with regard to Comstock that he is what he is for reasons: he is quite honest in all his imbecility.

      Macaulay W. Didn't you like his letter? It was very warm—very comfortable: like a fire for your backbone when you go in out of the cold. I just nestle up to some letters as if I needed them the worst way. He settles himself comfortably in his chair or on the bed listening, sometimes interrupting with comments, though inarticulate. So he had me read Macaulay, though he was quite well aware of the contents of the letter. After I was through reading the letter I had to get out to meet an engagement.

      I wanted to talk with W. You mustn't suppose Watson is the only member of the household who is worth while: after you see Mrs. Watson you will find yourself acknowledging a divided allegiance. Women are often the silent partners but they are quite as essential to the business of life as the men-crowd with their incessant catawauling. Look at me—sitting here all my days now, talking, talking, like a dictionary with legs on and a mouth. Favorable change in W. Still no letter from Bucke. I believe I told you O'Connor is better than for a long time.

      It is as though he had reached a high plateau with a clear stretch of a country ahead of him, the winds blowing free, the air tonic. William might now go to his journey's end uninterrupted. I believe William knows a good lot more than Donnelly about the subject—draws deeper water. I had been stirred by the last paragraph of the Fox. You find that all there—just as you say it? I am glad—glad: there is at least that much to it all. I have never made any full statement on religion in any of my writings but I have always intended to. We do not want the figures for it. Well—maybe, maybe. No doubt I have said enough on the subject—said really all there was in me to say: a few figures more would not have helped.

      In the days when I was planning to write and deliver lectures I designed one lecture at least on religion—indeed, collected a great mass of material for it. I never felt as though the discussion of religion should be left to the priests: it never seemed to me safe in their hands:". Took him this evening the Hicks notes and the Fox paper, which together make three galleys. This puts the whole book in type. Gave me his flexible Epictetus for sample of paper but said: "Don't leave it with the printers—show it to them—then bring it back: it's a precious book to me—I don't want to even risk losing it.

      Made many changes of the make—up in order to get the Hicks started on an odd page. Instead of having it closed in by shifting the pages he simply added a line. He always knows the easiest way out of printer's puzzles. Harned brings him fruit almost daily. He is not backward at any time in asking Harned for any choice bit of food he craves. I quoted something Huxley said about evolution—that he did not hold it as a dogma but as a working hypothesis. Can the churches, the priests, the dogmatists, produce anything to match it?

      How can we ever forget Darwin? Was ever a great man a more simple man than Darwin? Was ever a beautiful character a more simple character than Darwin? He was one of the acme men—he was at the top. I could hope for no better fate for my book than that it should grow strong in so beneficent an atmosphere—breathe the breath of its life.

      Mitchell was over today and tells me of a letter from his father—S. Weir—who is in Italy now and encountered there a furious snow-storm which drove him over the mountains. When Mitchell first came he thought he should do something so ordered several drugs, none of which I would take. I took calomel and calomel until it was of no effect. Drugs are not for me nor I for them—Mitchell himself now admits it. They do me no good. Of course I do not set it down as a doctrine for everyone to observe, under all circumstances, but I do insist upon it for now, to meet existing conditions.

      Talked of Bucke: "Bucke is a marked man—a man you would accept as such from his mere appearance—but not contemplative in any severe sense, though including contemplation, too. Bucke I should describe as an ensemblist with supreme steadiness and nerve force—not brutally but always truly heroic. We usually associate courage with battles or brawls but Bucke shows courage in peace—never quails before anything life can crowd on him—the worst, the most tragic.

      Bucke includes the whole of life in his province: he is vehement, eager, inquisitive, even militant in the best sense of that violent word. You ask about Mrs. She gives me the ideal of maternity.

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      While not a striking woman in what are called intellectual matters she is a great mother—a noble mother. Do you know anything in all this universe superior to a noble mother? I have seen Mrs. Bucke and a group of the children going about together there in London, and the manner of it all was to me most beautiful, convincing. Bucke is a man of sane habits—disbelieves in stimulants for young or old, sick or well—don't dogmatise about it or impose his theory on others—leaves the other doctors up there who work with him perfect freedom to use stimulants if they want to do so with patients in their charge—yet is firm, unyielding, exacting, with himself.

      And after all that is a thing for which there can be no rule—no rule to use, no rule not to use. Henley's book of poems inscribed to "Walt Whitman from the author" : "It is peculiar—a third or so of it about hospital cases, the work of doctors, and so forth—a curio, I should say in work of that sort: not wanting in power, yet not all-powerful. Eddy was here today and was to remain over night. Is being transferred from Moorestown to Blackwoodtown.

      The meeting between the brothers mostly and impressively silent—Eddy mentally inarticulate, W. They talked in monosyllables. I noticed that while Walt will kiss Jeff he merely takes Eddy's hand and holds it and says nothing. He talked to me of Eddy. Finally he said to Mrs. Davis: "I think you had better go now," and to Eddy: "Good-bye, boy—I will send for you soon again: you shall come whenever you choose: good-bye!

      I deserved his whip, maybe. I don't believe you believe you deserved his whip. Have you got the letter in your pocket? Well—don't let's talk just yet: read the letter to me—let me hear it again. I seem to have various feelings about Emerson but I am always loyal at last. Emerson gratified me as a young man by what he did—he sometimes tantalized me as an old man by what he failed to do.

      You see, I both blaspheme and worship. But I got my roots stronger in the earth—master would not do anymore: no, not then: would no longer do. The staple of our talk was the book, but he wandered off from time to time into general matters, and I did not try to stop him. My method all along has been to not trespass and not to ply him too closely with questions necessary or unnecessary. When a lull occurs I sometimes get him going again by making a remark that is not a question. Other times we sit together for long seances of silence, neither saying anything. One evening during which we had not done much more than sit together, he on his chair, I on his bed, he said: "We have had a beautiful talk—a beautiful talk.

      But oh! I could get about then, a few blocks, anyway, which is more than I can do now. The Leaves if Grass we made then was very vigilantly proof-read—I gave it more than my usual attention: examined it, word for word, with the copy in my hand, which is an unusual caution for me. Replying to a question: "I am curious to know the result of the Burroughs-Kennedy camping out venture—what will come if it, especially for Kennedy.

      There is a good deal in what Rhys told us here about Kennedy's irritability: Kennedy has nerves damn nerves! John has a reputation to keep up and sometimes a hundred dollars to earn I don't mean that in any evil sense —therefore, he cannot always be at his best. He keeps on writing, mostly for the periodicals, his books bringing him in so little of themselves.

      I can see where John's charm should be for a young fellow of your years and tastes: he is a big man just calculated to do a peculiar work. He is a child of the woods, fields, hills—native to them in a rare sense in a sense almost of miracle. My own favorite loafing places have always been the rivers, the wharves, the boats—I like sailors, stevedores. I have never lived away from a big river. Took up Brinton's suggestion that W. Of all things, I imagine I am most lacking in what is called definiteness, in so far as that applies to special theories of life and death.

      As I grow older I am more firmly than ever fixed in my belief that all things tend to good, that no bad is forever bad, that the universe has its own ends to subserve and will subserve them well. Beyond that, when it comes to launching out into mathematics—tying philosophy to the multiplication table—I am lost—lost utterly. Let them all whack away—I am satisfied: if they can explain, let them explain: if they can explain they can do more than I can do. I am not Anarchist, not Methodist, not anything you can name. Yet I see why all the ists and isms and haters and dogmatists exist—can see why they must exist and why I must include all.

      Referring to the Encheiridion sent W. He belongs with the best—the best of great teachers—is a universe in himself. He sets me free in a flood of light—of life, of vista. Even the preface of that little book is good—Rolleston's little book. I do not remember when I first read the book. It was far, far back. I first discovered my book-self in the second hand book stores of Brooklyn and New York: I was familiar with them all—searched them through and through.

      One day or other I found an Epictetus—I know it was at that period: found an Epictetus. It was like being born again. He has inscribed it: "Walt Whitman sent me by my friend the translator T. Rolleston, from Dresden Saxony, Spoke of Moncure Conway: "He is very brilliant, and, I think, if not favorable, at least not averse, to me. I have met him, know him: at one time I wondered whether he really knew me at all—knew Leaves of Grass—what I stood for, what I stood against, if I may say it in that partial way. But however that was settled, he has been kind to me. Conway's fault is that he lacks the scientific spirit—has had a glimpse of it, now and then makes use of it, but lacks it as a characteristic.

      He is the advocate, the debater—more anxious to have his case or his man proved true than to be true. There is in him a strong vein of the sensational—he likes to take odd views because they are odd. I don't know—I only feel—it. You mustn't think I object to odd views when they come natural to a man—are part of a man.

      I only object to them when they are put on for effect. As I said, Moncure is brilliant—he shines—he is used to having his eminent lustre admired. He said of them: "They are a choice bit of our history. The second letter was endorsed in this way by W. The two letters that follow were dictated to a stenographer and signed by Redpath.

      This was W. I read all the letters aloud to W. Redpath said to me once when he was here: 'Walt if you have any money scrapes I want to help you out of 'em. Redpath was one of your radical crowd—he was way out and beyond in all his ideas—stalwart, searching—a sort of pioneer, going on and on, always in the advance. Didn't you tell me that Redpath and Ingersoll were great friends? I shouldn't wonder—they have much in common.

      Sometimes I think some of you fellows have outstripped even me—have gone on even beyond me flaunting your red flag of revolt. Was free enough, and easy, but weak. Take the proofs along—scan them for yourself. I wonder how he is getting on today? Told him I had read the book through. He exclaimed: "All through? Why, I had no idea anybody was capable of that. I read only the fore part of it—the hospital pieces—was peculiarly, intensely, interested in that—but as for the rest—" After a pause: "It struck me as extremely deliberate verse—verse written of malice prepense—all laid out, designed, on mathematical principles.

      Did you get that impression of it? Or did it carry you right along as if you could not help it? It would be ridiculous to think of Leaves of Grass belonging to any one person: at the most I am only a mouthpiece. My name occurs inside the book—that is enough if not more than enough. I like the feeling of a general partnership—as if the Leaves was anybody's who chooses just as truly as mine.

      Speaking of his War pieces he said himself: "Their merit is not chiefly literary—if they have merit—it is chiefly human—it is a presence—statement reduced to its last simplicity—sometimes a mere recital of names, dates, incidents—no dress put on anywhere to complicate or beautify it. And by the way, talking of the War—have you seen what Conway has to say about that?

      It is Conway's opinion that the Rebellion was in great part a war that could have been avoided—a war of the politicians. I want Conway to say it all, of course—preach, write, argue, for his point of view—put in his negative in any form he chooses—but still I am forced to dissent. The War was the boil—that was all: not the root.

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