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  Dear Walt,—

The old war refrain—"All's quiet on the Potomac"—seems to have a new rendering in my thought as I go about my daily work: "All silent in Camden." I hear nothing & see nothing in the public prints. But I dare say if I could cross the old ferry & stop at "328"—I suppose you still insist on your own number—I should find life enough vocal & contented.

I frequently chance upon your friends here in this city.   One such wrote a 2 column article for the Evening Journal of May 31. He allows me to send it to you on condition that I will charge you to return it, as it is the only copy he owns, & wishes it for his scrap book. He is an Englishman—knows George Elliot, Tennyson, Carpenter, I believe & others. Prof Dowden of Somersham—one of your English friends, is his friend. He detests Swinburn, & will have an article in Tribune Sunday on Gladstone's saying that .S would be next poet-laureate.   He asked how you took Swinburn's "apostacy." I answered,—"Serenely." But he is a bit mad, & says he has long been so knowing the "sham" that Swinburn is.

This man's name is Henry Latchford. He was sent to me the other day by Mr Dalton, the Ethical preacher here. He seems a man of ideas & good sympathies—is a journalist—independent; that is, not attached to one journal, but writing for several on topics of his own selection. He came and chatted with me an hour or so,   and, on departing, asked permission to write a paragraph for the journal about my work. I enclose the "paragraph." He got some things mixed & not as I would have had it stand, had I seen the proof—or knowing he was going to "report" at such length. One thing, I would not have spoken of your Georgia friend as a "nuisance." Nor did I imply. I recall just what I said. "He stayed some time & almost came to be a nuisance, but made up for   it in part at least, by the bright things he would say, & then told "old varmint" story. I have always kept green a kind feeling for the old man, for there was something rather poetic in his leaving his home & journeying so far to see the man whose poems had so much interested him. Peace be to him, any way, & may he not see this half-unkind printed word of mine.

Nor did I quite say that you get "tired & sleepy." I think I said something about your sitting silently   museing—or something like that. I don't remember that he asked me the question he puts in print at all. But it fitted in for him to report that "property" recital.

But he made the worst mess about the Holmes talk, & my contempt for facts. I was only arguing as to what the fact is, in any portraiture, & against reliance on the merely critical faculty—the conscious criticism—or fault-finding, tinkering criticism. That was where "brains" got in the way. Holmes never cried, "Hold on!" &c, but told the little story accidentally one   day.

But—its all in a life time. All sores heal now-a-days inside a week.

I mean to send some George Elliot plaques to Camden when I get them out—The original is done—& waits only for duplicates.

Latchford likes the Whitman bust as represented in front of Horace's book. He laughed out—"Its more like Walt than anything I've ever seen."

Well, I am here yet in   the toils—trying to sing cheerily—"Blessed be poverty." I have many friends—more friends than money, & I suppose that is as it should be. If they could not forever be taking me for a millionaire! Its awkward when your pennies are few to have it expected that thus you will easily enough spend time & dollars for their good pleasure. I manage after a fashion to either conquer or disgust them.   I calculate that H. is busy, busy. I see his articles now & then in "New Ideal."

Chicago is after the World's Fair with a vengence on all contesters. Its so like Chicago. I never was in so partizan​ partisan​ an atmosphere, as I encounter here by Lake Michigan. You must be "d___d sure" of Everything, or you are nobody. You don't count. You're like the democrats in Speaker   Reed's house; present, yet absent.

I've made a little painting of you which is by far the best painting I have ever done. I expect to sell it to a lady here in C. I'd like you Camden folk to see it, but dont see how you can.

I find myself drawing toward a renewal of the little statue first began in your parlor. I can reproduce that from memory, & go on with it; but incline to some change in posture.

Is Mrs Davis still with you—Give her my best regards. I remember the old kitchen, & all things well. And Aunt Mary.

If you can, send me a line. If not, tell Horace to send it & one for himself

With much love— Sidney Morse     Sidney Morse | 374 E Division St | Chicago.