First, thank you for the knife and the distinction of membership in
the Ancient and Honorable Order of Knifers. I have made little use of
the blades and other appliances, but the corkscrew is in constant use.
I'm enclosing a little missive from the editor of _Harper's_. Please
reserve these things awhile and sometime I may ask them of you to
"point a moral or adorn a tale" about that poem. If we can't get it
published I'd like to write for some friendly periodical a review of
an unpublished poem, with copious extracts and a brief history of it.
I think that would be unique.
I find the pictures of Marian interesting, but have the self-denial to
keep only one of them--the prettiest one of course. Your own is rather
solemn, but it will do for the title page of the Testimony, which is
still my favorite reading.
Scheff showed me your verses on Katie's baby, and Katie has since sent
them. They are very tender and beautiful. I would not willingly spare
any of your "personal" poems--least of all, naturally, the one
personal to me. Your success with them is exceptional. Yet the habit
of writing them is perilous, as the many failures of great poets
attest--Milton, for example, in his lines to Syriack Skinner, his
lines to a baby that died a-bornin' and so forth. The reason is
obvious, and you have yourself, with sure finger, pointed it out:
"Remiss the ministry they bear
Who serve her with divided heart;
She stands reluctant to impart
Her strength to purpose, end, or care."
When one is intent upon pleasing some mortal, one is less intent upon
pleasing the immortal Muse. All this is said only by way of admonition
for the future, not in criticism of the past. I'm a sinner myself in
that way, but then I'm not a saint in any way, so my example doesn't
count.
I don't mind * * * calling me a "dignified old gentleman"--indeed,
that is what I have long aspired to be, but have succeeded only in the
presence of strangers, and not always then. * * *
(I forgot to say that your poem is now in the hands of the editor of
the Atlantic.)
Your determination to "boom" me almost frightens me. Great Scott!
you've no notion of the magnitude of the task you undertake; the
labors of Hercules were as nothing to it. Seriously, don't make any
enemies that way; it is not worth while. And you don't know how
comfortable I am in my obscurity. It is like being in "the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land."
How goes the no sale of Shapes of Clay? I am slowly saving up a bit of
money to recoup your friendly outlay. That's a new thing for me to
do--the saving, I mean--and I rather enjoy the sensation. If it
results in making a miser of me you will have to answer for it to
many a worthy complainant.
Get thee behind me, Satan!--it is not possible for me to go to
California yet. For one thing, my health is better here in the East; I
have utterly escaped asthma this summer, and summer is my only "sickly
season" here. In California I had the thing at any time o' year--even
at Wright's. But it is my hope to end my days out there.
I don't think Millard was too hard on Kipling; it was no "unconscious"
plagiarism; just a "straight steal."
About Prentice Mulford. I knew him but slightly and used to make mild
fun of him as "Dismal Jimmy." That expressed my notion of his
character and work, which was mostly prose platitudes. I saw him last
in London, a member of the Joaquin Miller-Charles Warren
Stoddard-Olive Harper outfit at 11 Museum Street, Bloomsbury Square.
He married there a fool girl named Josie--forget her other name--with
whom I think he lived awhile in hell, then freed himself, and some
years afterward returned to this country and was found dead one
morning in a boat at Sag Harbor. Peace to the soul of him. No, he was
not a faker, but a conscientious fellow who mistook his vocation.
My friends have returned to Washington, but I expect to remain here a
few weeks yet, infesting the woods, devastating the mountain larders,
supervising the sunsets and guiding the stars in their courses. Then
to New York, and finally to Washington. Please get busy with that fame
o' yours so as to have the wealth to come and help me loaf.