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  Sir:

To say that Walt Whitman is the chief singer in America is to say little. That leaves unexpressed the fact that no other champion has stepped into Poetry's Arena who has determined by so much as a conjecture the issues involved.

It has become now, happily a mere act of piety to put one's self on record. It is a very brief silent ceremonial—but this votive leaflet must come:—the rushing wind leaves now some bit of calm in a rather bare call. The return current goes underground unexpressed—yet is felt.   I have been tempted to make too much perhaps of my chosen association with our greatest in England this century & your good nature must [damage] by any sort of reply even if such were possible.

Yet I cannot refrain from expressing the feeling as I rise from a completed task—3 dramas—that just a faint breath of that larger air that breathes from you has come my way.

These plays are:

(1) The Troubador—who nurses wounded heroes during the war of the Rebellion

(2). The Cynic—an American statesman of the future who put a great fool on "Confections and persiflage."

 

(3). The Adept—a prophet in mean raiment surrounded by the inanest crazes of modern times and unexpectedly enouncing a gospel that startles idolators by showing them to themselves greater than they knew.

A good few rather paltry Buddhas must be swallowed up the Tiger's maw, and we need not grumble at such a destiny since the en masse doctrine has been preached. We can accept obscurity.

"Tui Moriamus te salutamus," Walter May Rew

[cut-away]AMERICA.

BY WALTER M. REW, M.D., Author of Dion, Poems, etc "Marks of a fine Genius."—Carlyle. "Many passages as remarkable."—London Aca'my. "Although this novel minutel[cut-away]
  Walter M Rew