Morning journal and courier., 1886-03-01

1 than elsewhere. We found him late in the afternoon just come in from his drive-a rather infirm but fine looking old man, with long, venerable white beard, 8 high, thoughtful forehead, and great simplicity of manner and a total absence of posing. He received us with ease and even grace, and one almost forgot that he was himself only a poor peasant-a soldier in the great war, and after that 8 ceaseless worker in the army hos pitfalls, and not good for much else in most peoples eyes. Emerson and the Concord and Cambridge folk had some hopes of him at one time, but they ended by looking askance at him; he was clearly out of their orbit out of every ones orbit but his own. In that content---quite unsoured by abuse plain in 1ife-w1th wide, shrewd look at the world and great fund of what Confucius called humanity" Walt sat in his arm chair by the lamp-light, looking good deal older than he is, for he is only 66. ;'Tell me-" he said, ''about Browning. I have had kind words from Tennyson and many of your people, but Browning does not take to me- Tell me about Gladstone. What will become of you alla You are hurrying on, on, but to what kind of democracy are you hurryingF' He seemed more anxious to hear than to speak; he made us talk to him. Once or twice he alluded to Emerson. "I saw him quite in the last days when his memory was gone,'' he said. s'Was not that painful?'' I asked. ''No, no!' he said, with glow ip hts eyes and leaning forward in his chair. ''It seemed to me just right; it was natural; nature slowly claiming back her own-the clements she had lent-he did not seem to feel it painful I did not; it was all as it should be-harmony, not discord. As he Fiived so he died"-then more slowly, and the old habit of thinking in pictures came back to him-''like fine old apple tree going ready for rest, or" and he paused and seem ed to thinking of days long past-''like a sunset"
 But I soon found there was not much to gather from the aftermath of Walt Whitman. He, too, seemed going slowly the way of the old apple tree. His brain went very 1cisurely with only an occasional fash. He gave us one more image. Thought a powerful one. I was alluding to the unknown, immeasur- able public which seemed to engulf immense cheap editions of books. ''Who buys, who reads these tracts, tales, poems, sermons which circulate in millions, and which we should never care to open?" "You forget" said Walt, 'fthere is a sea below the sea. We are but on the surface.'' It would have been difficult to hit upon a more graphic image, or one more nicely to the point. l think Walt, as he likes to be called, was tired, not very communicative at all events-or per haps we had not the power of drawing him out. He was, however, very gentle and courteous to the ladies, and before we left gave us two pamphlets, one containing few poems and another in prose. He wrote his name in each, and, as he seemed to be suffering physically from rheumatism, I rose to go. We left with pleasant, genial feel ing of having been conversing with an agree able and thoughtful man, but scarcely with the Walt Whitman whose name has been fo1 30 years notorious rather than famous throughout the civilized world, and whose works have been freely extolled, execrated, and ridiculed, but probably little bought and 1aes raad