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  Copied: see notes May 22, 1890 My Dear Walt Whitman—

I have got up very early this morning, expressly to write you, knowing I should have no other chance to-day; but the getting-up, of itself, is unusually remunerative—for, if the sun of America & righteousness streams into your window at this moment, as it does into mine, you will feel glad that you have lived to see another May. The papers tell me more or less about you, and I often think of you—be sure—& most certainly about lilac- and Lincoln-time. However, you have not been off my perturbed mind for many months; nor has the treasured book of "Camden's compliments" been off my table. Traubel sent it to me; I know I have not thanked him—you must do it for me, most heartily. Moreover, the Brinton-Davidson "Bruno" came, and nothing is ever more grateful to me than to receive a bit of your strong handwriting, like that on its wrapper,—a "personally remembered," as it were. The truth, at last, is that I had purposed to go down to Camden (for the first time) & see you this last winter, & so have not written you. ('Tis a trip I shall yet make, D. V.—to use the protestant adjuration). But I have had a bad time, with much trouble about money—owing to neglect to earn it while engrossed with driving through the "Lib. Amer. Literature," and then with my beautiful mother's death, my reckless son's divorce, and other Orestean cumulations of trouble. At last the clouds are lifting, & I am trying to get into routine & self-poise.

Everything is all right in the world, of course, for both you and me. What particularly draws me to you, as we grow older and more general, is that your optimism strengthens my own. Your later poems on life, death, immortality, are of the highest worth to me. I read them often, and intend to refer considerably to them in my Johns Hopkins lectures on poetry—which I am now beginning to prepare. In tone, rhythm, feeling, breadth & depth of thought, they seem to me at the apex of your life-works—they reach in the Empyrean.

You know I am one of those who have the privilege of sharing my scrip with you, my dear elder bard, when there is anything in it, and now, for the first time in months I have paid up my borrowed money, & have something that is my own to share. I wish the little enclosure were more—and I want to say that, the very next time you find your own scrip empty, Traubel must again give me a chance with the rest of your devoted friends.

Pray don't feel moved to acknolwedge this tardy letter. I should feel miserable to add the grasshopper that is a burden to one's afternoon of life. My table is covered with letters I can't get time & strength to answer. When telepathy can take the place of manual writing, we shall be blessed indeed.—I miss O'Connor. Was fortunate in having an evening with him, in Washington, before he passed away. His widow is thinking of a memoir, or memorial volume. Forgive this long, yet hasty, letter. Vol. XI (& last!) of the "Library" will soon be out; & I am, with increased honor & affection

Your Devoted Friend, Edmund C. Stedman.