A WASHINGTON CLERK
While Whitman was at home, during the latter part of 1864, he doubtless
put the finishing touches to _Drum-taps_, which was printed at New
York early in the following summer. Several of the poems in this
collection had been written in that city during the two years which
had elapsed since the last publication of _Leaves of Grass_, before he
set out for Washington. The manuscript had remained at home, tied up
in its square, spotted, stone-colour covers,[418] but was sent on to
him, to be discussed in the Washington circle. Early in 1864 a friend
seems to have taken it the round of the Boston publishers, but without
success.[419]
If we are to understand Whitman's attitude towards the war, we must
glance at the little brown volume of seventy-two pages, _Walt Whitman's
Drum-taps_. Among the poems which preceded his visit to the capital
were probably the song of "Pioneers,"[420] with its cry of the West,
and the poem of the "Broadway Pageant,"[421] of 1860, celebrating the
Japanese Embassy, and forming a complementary tribute to the maternal
East. To these one may add the lines to "Old Ireland"[422] and the
noble "Years of the Modern".[423]
In this last he proclaims the growing consciousness of solidarity among
the peoples of the world. Artificial boundaries seem to be breaking
down in Europe, and the people are making their own landmarks--witness
the rise of a new Italy. Everywhere men among the people are awaking to
ask pregnant questions, and to link all lands together with steam and
electricity.
Are all nations communing? Is there going to be but one heart to
the globe?
Is humanity forming en-masse? for lo, tyrants tremble, crowns grow
dim,
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine
war,
No one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days and
nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to
pierce it, is full of phantoms,
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me,
This incredible rush and heat, this strange ecstatic fever of
dreams, O years!
Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me! (I know not
whether I sleep or wake);
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow
behind me,
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon
me.[424]
The war poems follow.
* * * * *
Whitman's attitude towards war is not obvious, but it is, I believe,
logical and consistent. On one side it approximated to the Quaker
position, but only on one side. Or rather, perhaps, the Quaker position
approximates to one side of Whitman's. He was devoted to a social
order, or republic, which could not be realised by deeds of arms. He
had no hatred for any of his fellows, and recognised in his political
enemy a man divine as himself--one cannot say that he had any personal
enemies, though there were men who would like to have been accounted
such.
The fat years of peace had, however, awakened doubts in him of the
average American's capacity for great passions.[425] These seemed to be
rare among them, and Whitman had been driven to seek them in nature and
her storms. It was with exultation, then, that he felt the response of
New York and of the whole of America to the call of the trumpet.[426]
Men of peace are accustomed to lament the contagion of the war-fever,
and with a large measure of justice. But so long as civilisation tends
to render the common lives of men cheap or calculating, there will
remain a divine necessity for those hours of fierce enthusiasm which,
like a forest fire or religious revival, sweep irresistibly over a
nation. Whitman shared the rhythmic answer of the blood, and of the
soul which is involved therewith, to the imperious throbbing of the
drums.[427] He knew that it represented in some, perhaps barbaric, way
the throbbing of the nation's heart, and that the cry "To Arms!" called
forth much that was best in men.
The call to arms is one thing; the actual fighting, which converts
men, to use his own phrase, into "devils and butchers," is another.
The call to arms awakes something in a man more heroic than the life
he ordinarily lives; he seems to hear in it the voice of the Nation
calling him by name, and when he answers he feels the joy of the
Nation in his heart. He becomes consciously one with a great host in
the hour of peril. He hears the voice of a Cause in the bugles and the
drums. He shares in a new emotion, which is his glory because it is
not his alone. He finds a fuller liberty than he has ever known in the
discipline of the ranks; he accepts the petty tyrannies to which he is
subjected, feeling that behind the officers is the will of the Nation
to which he has yielded his own.
This, for better and worse, we may call the mysticism of war, and it
appealed forcibly to Whitman. For him, war was illuminated by the idea
of solidarity; an idea which was constantly present to him from this
time forward. He no longer saw the great personalities only, nor only
their divine comradeship in the life of God; all that remained as
vivid as of old; but now he was being constantly reminded of the way
in which individuals share consciously in the life of the nation; and
this suggested to him how, presently, they will come to be conscious of
their part in the life of the Race.
He recognised how essential was the sense of citizenship to fuller
soul-life. The barriers in which our individual lives are isolated must
be broken, if liberty is to be brought to the soul. If we are to live
fully, we must feel the tides of being sweep through our emotional
natures. Hence his welcome to war, which, in spite of all the fiendish
spirits which follow in its wake, does thrill a chord of national
consciousness in the individual heart.
We may well ask whether there is no errand worthier of this sense of
solidarity than that of slaughter. Surely the affirmation of such an
errand underlies the whole thought of _Drum-taps_, with its call to a
"divine war".[428]
The hour has come when the Social Passion is about to rouse the peoples
to a nobler crusade against oppression than any yet; when the nations
shall be purged by revolutions wholesomer than those of 1789 or 1861.
Whitman's whole life, throbbing in every page he wrote, proclaims it.
He regarded the Civil War as a sort of fever in the body politic,
caused by anterior conditions of congestion. War had become necessary
for the life of that body, and only after a war could health re-assert
itself. To compromise continually, as we boast in England that we do,
may sustain a sort of social peace, but it is almost certain to drive
the disease deeper into the very heart of our national life, and there
to sap the sheer ability for any kind of noble enthusiasm. You may
purchase a sort of peace with the price of a life more sacred than even
that of individual citizens. Whitman demanded national health, without
which he could see no real peace.
He did not suppose, indeed, that war could of itself effect a cure.
Health could only return in so far as the aroused conscience of
the nation--which had lived in its soldiers and in the wives and
families who had shared in their devotion--was carried forward into
the civil life. Peace itself must be rendered sentient of that heroic
national purpose which had for a moment flashed across the fields of
battle.[429] Peace, indeed, is only priceless when it has become more
truly and wisely heroical than war; when it has become affirmative
where war is cruelly negative; when it creates where war destroys,
quickening the heart of each citizen to fulfil a sacred duty.
Whitman well knew that in order to have such a peace we must set
before the peoples a mission, a sublime national task. What party is
there to-day, either in England or America, which dares to hold up for
achievement any programme of heroism?
Read in this light, and only so, I believe, will _Drum-taps_ yield up
its essential meaning. It is a Song of the Broad-axe, not a scream of
the war-eagle.[430]
* * * * *
In alluding to _Drum-taps_, I have somewhat anticipated the natural
course of the story, to which we must now return. Even at home on
furlough, Whitman could not wholly relinquish the occupation which he
had assumed, and became a frequent visitor at the hospitals of Brooklyn
and New York.
Early in December, 1864, he was back again at his post, suffering from
the added anxiety for his brother's welfare; for George was a prisoner
in the hands of the Confederates, enduring the almost inconceivable
horrors of a winter imprisonment at Dannville. At the beginning of
February Walt made an application to General Grant, through a friend
in the office of the _New York Times_,[431] for the release of his
brother, together with another officer of the 51st New York Volunteers;
alleging, as an urgent reason, the deep distress of his aged mother
whose health was breaking. The application appears to have been
successful, and George, who had been captured early in the preceding
summer, and upon whom fever, starvation, exposure and cold had wreaked
their worst for many months, returned alive to Brooklyn, his excellent
constitution triumphant over all hardships.
In the same month Whitman obtained a clerkship in the Indian Bureau of
the Department of the Interior, and thoroughly enjoyed the contact into
which he was thus brought with the aboriginal Americans. They on their
side appear to have distinguished him as a real man among the host of
colourless officials, and to have responded to his advances.[432]
This was the early spring of Lincoln's death; and Walt was at the
President's last levee.[433] He looked in also at the Inauguration Ball
held in the Patent Office--strangely converted from its recent uses
as a hospital. There he remarked the worn and weary expression of the
beloved brown face; for still the great tragedy dragged on.
Five or six weeks later, a young Irish-Virginian, one of Walt's
Washington friends,[434] was up in the second gallery of the crowded
theatre upon the tragic night of the assassination, and saw the whole
action passing before his bewildered eyes. Whitman was at home again in
Brooklyn: seeing George, we may presume, and making final arrangements
for his _Drum-taps_; on his return he seems to have heard the whole
graphic story from his friend.
It is doubtful whether Whitman and the dead President had ever spoken
to one another, beyond the ordinary greeting of street acquaintances.
They had met perhaps a score of times, and it is recorded that
once, when Walt passed the President's window, Lincoln had remarked
significantly--"Well, _he_ looks like a man".[435] It seems possible
that at first Whitman may have felt something of the public uncertainty
about the character of the new President.[436]
How deep-rooted in the average American mind was the distrust or
dislike of his policy is seen in the fact that, only six months before
the death that was mourned by the whole nation, the opposition to his
re-election was represented by a formidable popular vote. The South
was in revolt, and therefore of course disfranchised; but even so,
McClellan polled as large a total as had the President at the previous
election; though Lincoln himself increased his former vote by a little
more than one-fifth. So strong ran popular feeling against the whole
policy of interference with the seceding States even in the fourth year
of the war.
But Lincoln's death revealed his true worth to America. And the sense
of the almost sacramental nature of that death, as sealing for ever the
million others of the war, and finally consecrating the re-established
union of North and South, grew upon Whitman, who long before had
realised that Lincoln was the father of his country and the captain of
her course.
A sense of some impending tragedy seems to have accompanied Whitman
upon his walks at the time of the assassination. It was early spring
and the lilac was in blossom; a strange association, deeper than mere
fancy,[437] seemed to the poet to establish itself between the scent of
the lilac, the solitary night-song of the hermit-thrush, the fulness of
the evening star at this time, and the passing of "the sweetest, wisest
soul of all my days and lands". It was out of this deeply realised
association that he built up the mystical symphony which he afterwards
called "President Lincoln's Burial Hymn," a poem in many respects
similar to his other great chant of death, "Out of the Cradle".
Mystical and symbolic, it is charged with a vast national emotion; and
this gives a certain vagueness to its solemnity, better befitting its
theme than a more concrete treatment. The poet was not writing of "him
I love," but rather attempting to express the feeling of lonely loss
which thousands experienced on that dark April day. Hence his poem is
the hymn of a nation's bereavement rather than the elegy of a great man
dead. Whitman, in his attitude toward Lincoln, had come to regard him
as an incarnation of America. He thought of him as he thought of the
Flag; and his personal reverence for the man took almost the form of
devotion to an ideal.
* * * * *
The President's death had been already noted in _Drum-taps_, but
when he conceived the longer poem, Whitman seems to have recalled
the edition,[438] in order to add this and certain other verses as a
sequel, thus delaying its publication till about the end of the year.
Another of the new poems calls for a word in passing. "Chanting the
Square Deific"[439] is an attempt to express his theory of ultimate
reality, that is to say, of the soul. Four elements go to the making
of this, and these he calls respectively, Jehovah, Christ, Satan and
Santa Spirita--adopting, as he sometimes would, a formula of his own
inventing, that was of no known language. In other words, he conceived
of the soul's reality,[440] as characterised by four essential
qualities; first, its obedience to the remorseless general laws of
being; second, its capacity for attraction to and absorption into
others--its love-quality; third, its lawless defiance of everything but
its own will; fourth, its sense of identity with the whole.
Condemnation, compassion, defiance, harmony, these he says are final
and essential qualities of the Divine; only as they are united can
our idea of God or of the Soul, which is the Son of God, be complete.
In the traditional Satan of revolt and pride, he saw an element
without which the harmony was immaterial and unreal. Evil and perilous
in itself, in its relation to the rest it is the solid ballast of
the soaring soul. In this, he suggests much of the attitude which
Nietzsche was afterwards to make his own.
* * * * *
During the composition of some of these poems a crisis occurred in his
new official career. The war was over, but the hospitals still were
full, and Walt was busy there as usual in his leisure hours; and at his
desk in the Indian Bureau, whenever his duties were not pressing, he
was at work upon his manuscripts,[441] when some hostile fellow-clerk
seems to have called the attention of the newly appointed chief of the
department to the character of these private documents.
Whitman had been a favourite with the chief clerk in the bureau, and
had been given a good deal of latitude; perhaps the hostile person
had observed this with a jealous eye. The manuscript proved to be not
the innocuous _Drum-taps_, but an annotated copy of _Leaves of Grass_
preparing for a new edition. A reading of the volume decided the chief
upon a prompt dismissal of its author, and this is not surprising when
we remember that Mr. Harlan had been appointed through the pressure of
the powerful Methodist interest which he commanded. The Methodist eye
in him must have regarded many of these pages with suspicion and not a
few with disgust.
The dismissal itself was perfectly colourless; it ran:--
"DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR,
"WASHINGTON, D.C., _June 30th, 1865_.
"The services of Walter Whitman, of New York, as a clerk in the
Indian Office, will be dispensed with from and after this date.
"JAS. HARLAN,
"_Secretary of the Interior_."[442]
It is obvious that the chief had no right to open his clerk's desk
and examine what he knew to be private papers; but having done
so, and being presumably of an unimaginative, narrowly pious and
over-conscientious character, we cannot wonder at his action. From
Whitman's point of view the matter was serious; he could ill-afford a
peremptory dismissal from the public service. And to his friends the
dismissal appeared not so much unjust as enormous.
O'Connor, hearing the news, went straight to Hubley Ashton, in the
fiery heat of that generous and righteous wrath which scintillates and
flashes with perfervid splendour through the pages of his _Good Grey
Poet_.[443] Mr. Ashton was not so fierce, but he was indignant. He
was a member of the Administration, and used his power to Whitman's
advantage. Finding all remonstrance with Mr. Harlan to be vain, he yet
induced him to make some sort of exchange by which Whitman was not
actually dismissed from the service, but only transferred to his own
department--the Attorney-General's.
Painful at the time, the affair did Whitman little injury. When
Harlan's action became known it was far from popular in Washington,
where every one knew Walt, and where next to nobody had read his
_Leaves_. A section at least of the local press supported the claims of
a fellow-pressman;[444] while in the Civil Service he was a favourite
with the clerks. In literary circles, also, O'Connor's slashing attack
upon the Secretary for the Interior turned the tables in Walt's favour.
In later years assaults of the same character were not infrequent,
both upon _Leaves of Grass_ and its author; but, however annoying,
they always resulted in arousing curiosity, and thus in extending the
circle of readers. Probably the fear of this consequence prevented
their further multiplication, for average American opinion was then
undisguisedly hostile, as, of course, it still remains.
* * * * *
On the whole, Whitman seems to have been happy in his new office. He
never tired of the view from his window[445] in the second storey of
the Treasury Building, overlooking miles of river reaches with white
sails upon them, and the range of wooded Virginian hills. He liked his
companions, and he relished the green tea which came in every afternoon
from a girl in an adjacent office;[446] not, indeed, intended for him,
but resigned to him by its recipient, who was scornful of the cup.
He went on great walks, especially by night, and enjoyed his jaunts on
the cars. One Thanksgiving Day we find him picnicing by the falls of
the Potomac, and on another occasion he is visiting Washington's old
mansion at Mount Vernon.[447] Every Sunday till the close of 1866 he
was in the hospitals, and frequently called at one or other during the
week. He was a regular visitor at the homes of several friends, and his
acquaintance with Mr. Peter Doyle, which seems to have begun during the
last winter of the war, had ripened into a close comradeship.
Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs had always to keep Sunday breakfast waiting for
him; there was a regularity in his lateness.[448] After a chat with
them, and a glance through the Sunday papers, he would stroll over to
the office for his letters on his way to some hospital, and during the
course of the afternoon he dropped in at the O'Connors' for tea. In
the winter he spent much of his leisure by the fire in the comfortable
Library of the Treasury Building reading novels, philosophy and what he
would.
He boarded at a pleasant house on M Street, near Twelfth.[449] It
stood back from the road, with a long sweep of sward in front of
it, and an arbour under a great cherry tree, which became in spring
a hill of snowy blossom. As the evenings grew warmer, Whitman and
his fellow-boarders would draw their chairs out on to the grass and
sit under the trees talking or silently watching the passers-by, or
listening to occasional strolling players.
To his companions and to casual visitors he seemed as strong as ever.
He ate well, avoiding excess, and, still adhering to his resolution,
partaking but sparingly of meat. He went to bed and rose early. Always
affable and courteous, he contrived to take his part in the general
conversation without saying much.
Such a life was easy, and passably comfortable; he was earning a fair
salary, and making new friends constantly. But he was without a home;
and Washington, after all, as the seat of officialism, shows the seamy
side of democracy. The cynic declares that its population consists
exclusively of negroes, mean whites and officials; thus presenting a
melancholy contrast to the metropolis of the fifties with its large
class of vigorous-minded, independent artisans, the backbone of a city
democracy as the yeoman-farmers are of a nation.
The routine also of the work he was doing must often have been irksome
to him.[450] It is one of the enigmas of Whitman's life that he should
have been content to continue in Washington six years at least after
the hospitals had ceased to claim him; sitting before a Government desk
as third clerk and earning his regular pay of rather more than three
hundred pounds a year.[451] How great the change from his old Bohemian
days! The question obtrudes, was Walt becoming "respectable"?
Whether he were or no, at least he had become noticeably better clad
and less aggressive, a gentler seeming man than of old.[452] And yet
there was always something illusive about this apparent change. He
could still turn the face of a rock to impertinent intruders;[453] he
could still blaze out in sudden anger upon a rare occasion.
But he was near fifty now, and for several years the strong sympathies
of his nature had been fully and continually exercised in the wards.
His individuality was as marked as ever; but with the war he had
experienced a deeper sense of his membership in the life of the Race.
The word "_en-masse_," now so often on his lips, expresses this
constant consciousness. It was not new to him, but its dominance was
new.
Again, while he had seen before that, in general, every soul is divine,
it was the days and nights which he spent in the wards which made
him understand how divine it actually is. The meaning of love grows
richer in its exercise, and this was doubtless true in the case of Walt
Whitman.
The experience of recent years had cleansed his self-assertion of
qualities which were merely fortuitous. Never intentionally eccentric,
he had previously perhaps exaggerated the traits which were peculiar
to a stage in the development of his own personality. But the crucible
heat of the wards rid him of that, while integrating his nature more
perfectly. Living more intensely than ever, he was living more than
ever in the lives of others; and this inevitably made him more catholic.
Other circumstances aided in the same direction. His manner of daily
life had altered. He lived no longer among his own folk at home, but
instead among professional men and clerks, at a middle-class Washington
boarding-house. He worked now with a pen, not a hammer; and his book,
written for the young American artisan, was being read and appreciated,
not at all by him, but instead by students in Old and New England. He
lost nothing of himself by becoming one of this other class in which
for the time he lived with his book. A smaller man might have been
seriously affected by such a change in environment; but while it could
not be without effect upon Whitman, it never made him less true to his
essential self.
In considering this period, I think we may say that the Whitman of the
later sixties was still the large masculine man who wrote the first
_Leaves of Grass_; but having in 1860 completed the first plan of the
book, his task of self-assertion now became as it were a secondary
matter. The suffering and sympathy of the war had developed the saviour
in him; so that some of his portraits, taken at the time, have almost
the air of a "gentle shepherd". His message became increasingly one
of helpful love, newly adjusted to the individuals among whom he was
thrown.
And with the rise of a group of able young champions and admirers, it
became more necessary that he should guard his message and himself from
anything that could encourage that habit of personal imitation which
would have created a group of little Whitmanites, whose very ability
must have limited the original inspiration which had bound them to him.
Thus it was in a sense true that, after the publication of the
volume of 1860, the first Whitman was, as he prophesied he would be,
"disembodied, triumphant, dead".
* * * * *
So much on the matter of Whitman's increased respectability: as to his
prolonged stay in Washington, something further must be said.
It is evident that he was no longer the Titan of old days. In the
spring of 1867 he writes home that he is well, but "getting old";[454]
and every year he seemed to feel the extremes of the Washington climate
more and more. This is further evidence of decreasing vitality.
Had he returned to New York, it must probably have been to write for
the press; and however physically robust he might suppose himself to
be, something at least of the old force of initiative had left him.
There was no longer any immediate need for his presence at home; for
when Jeff went West to St. Louis, as engineer to the city waterworks,
his brother George was there to take his place as the mother's main
support.
Walt was, moreover, earning a sufficient income in an easy fashion.
The work itself was light; he was trusted, and little supervised. His
chief seems to have recognised that he had spent himself unsparingly
for America in the hospitals, without immediate reward; and now, in
consequence, allowed him to arrange his duties as suited him best. He
spent but little of his income upon himself; though the penurious
simplicity and discomfort of the early days was no longer desirable.
He always sent something to his mother, and seems to have divided the
remainder between any of his hospital boys who still lingered; the
beggars whom he never refused; his friends, and the Savings Bank.
But one suspects that Whitman really stayed on in Washington for the
same reason that he had previously remained in New York. He took
root wherever he stood; and it required the tug of duty to remove
him. Wherever he was, his life was full of incident and material for
thought. Outward occupation or adventure counted for comparatively
little in his experience. His present circumstances favoured the steady
progress of his own writing and the prosecution of his friendships.
Not that he ever forgot his friends in the metropolis, or grew
indifferent to the claims of his family. He contrived to spend at least
a month every summer in his old haunts, living at home and making
daily expeditions on the bay, bathing from the Coney Island beach, and
sauntering along Broadway.[455] He often had business at the printers',
for he was now again his own publisher.
The _Leaves_ had been out of print since the failure of his Boston
friends, and in 1867 he was working on a new edition, completing the
very copy which had roused the wrath of Mr. Harlan. He seems to have
spent a few days with his friend Mrs. Price;[456] and coming down
late to tea one evening, after working on his manuscripts, one of the
daughters has recorded the extraordinary brightness and elation of his
mien. "An almost irrepressible joyousness," she says, "shone from his
face and seemed to pervade his whole body. It was the more noticeable
as his ordinary mood was one of quiet yet cheerful serenity. I knew he
had been working at a new edition of his book, and I hoped if he had an
opportunity he would say something to let us into the secret of his
mysterious joy. Unfortunately, most of those at the table were occupied
with some subject of conversation; at every pause I waited eagerly for
him to speak; but no, some one else would begin again, until I grew
almost wild with impatience and vexation. He appeared to listen, and
would even laugh at some of the remarks that were made, yet he did
not utter a single word during the meal; and his face still wore that
singular brightness and delight, as though he had partaken of some
divine elixir."
But it was not always in joy that he wrote. Other friends have told how
they have noted him turning aside from the street into some door or
alleyway to take out a slip of paper and write, with the tears running
fast across his face.[457] Whether in tears or in ecstasy, it is
certain that he composed his poems under the stress of actual feeling;
and of emotions which shook his whole being and thrilled its heavy,
slow-vibrating chords to music.
FOOTNOTES:
[418] _Wound-Dresser_, 61.
[419] Trowbridge, _op. cit._
[420] _L. of G._, 183.
[421] _Ib._, 193.
[422] _Ib._, 284.
[423] _Ib._, 370.
[424] _L. of G._, 371.
[425] _Ib._, 228.
[426] _Ib._, 220.
[427] _L. of G._, 222.
[428] _Cf._
"I, too ... also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and
retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last), the
field the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers."--_L. of G._, 9, 10.
[429] _L. of G._, 276, 278.
[430] Camden, iii., 160, 161.
[431] Facsimile in Williamson's _Catalogue_.
[432] _In re_, 383; _Comp. Prose_, 411-13.
[433] _Comp. Prose_, 59.
[434] Calamus, 25.
[435] Bucke, 42.
[436] _Wound-Dresser_, 139.
[437] _L. of G._, 255; _Comp. Prose_, 305.
[438] _L. of G._, 263; _cf._ (1865); _cf._ Calamus, 35 n.
[439] _L. of G._, 339.
[440] _Cf._ W. N. Guthrie's _W. W. as Religious and Moral Teacher_
(1897), 80 n.; Symonds, 26.
[441] Bucke, 40-42, 73.
[442] MSS. Traubel; for a further attack see Burroughs (2), 123.
[443] Included in Bucke.
[444] Potter, _op. cit._; Bucke, 19.
[445] Camden, viii., 188-91, etc.
[446] _Ib._
[447] _Ib._
[448] Johnston, 130-40; _cf._ Camden, viii., 220.
[449] Potter.
[450] Camden, viii., 175.
[451] _Ib._, 184.
[452] Potter; _Rossetti Papers_, 492.
[453] Calamus, 22.
[454] Camden, viii.
[455] See Calamus.
[456] Bucke, 32; Miss Price gives date as 1866; the new ed. appeared
late in 1867.
[457] Bucke, 171.