HAWTHORNE,--Why did not you come to see us when you were in
London? You promised to do so, but we sought you in vain. I wanted to
see you, mainly for your own sake, and also to ask you about an
American book which has fallen into my hands. It is called "Leaves of
Grass," and the author calls himself Walt Whitman. Do you know
anything about him? I will not call it poetry, because I am unwilling
to apply that word to a work totally destitute of art; but, whatever
we call it, it is a most notable and true book. It is not written
virginibus puerisque; but as I am neither the one nor the other, I may
express my admiration of its vigorous virility and bold natural truth.
There are things in it that read like the old Greek plays. It is of
the same family as those delightful books of Thoreau's which you
introduced me to, and which are so little known and valued here.
Patmore has just published a continuation of "The Angel in the House,"
which I recommend to your attention. I am quite annoyed at having
been so long within the same four seas with you, and having seen you
so little. Mrs. Milnes begs her best remembrances. I am yours very
truly,
RICHD. MONCKTON MILNES.
16 UPPER BROOK STREET, June 30.
It is a perpetual marvel with some people why some others do not wish
to be looked at and questioned. Dinner invitations were constantly
coming in, and were very apt to be couched in tones of anxious
surprise at the difficulty of securing my father. An illustration may
be found in this little note from Mr.
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