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the ports of the Lombardo…Venetian Kingdom； though he might have
recognized the terms of my commission if I had reminded him of them。
I faltered a moment in my longing to address him； and then I decided that
every one who forebore to speak needlessly to him； or to shake his hand；
did him a kindness； and I wish I could be as sure of the wisdom of all my
past behavior as I am of that piece of it。 He walked up to the
watercooler that stood in the corner； and drew himself a full goblet from
it； which he poured down his throat with a backward tilt of his head； and
then went wearily within doors。 The whole affair； so simple； has always
remained one of a certain pathos in my memory； and I would rather have
seen Lincoln in that unconscious moment than on some statelier occasion。
V。
I went home to Ohio； and sent on the bond I was to file in the Treasury
Department； but it was mislaid there； and to prevent another chance of
that kind I carried on the duplicate myself。 It was on my second visit
that I met the generous young Irishman William D。 O'Connor； at the house
of my friend Piatt； and heard his ardent talk。 He was one of the
promising men of that day； and he had written an anti…slavery novel in
the heroic mood of Victor Hugo； which greatly took my fancy； and I
believe he wrote poems too。 He had not yet risen to be the chief of Walt
Whitman's champions outside of the Saturday Press； but he had already
espoused the theory of Bacon's authorship of Shakespeare； then newly
exploited by the poor lady of Bacon's name； who died constant to it in an
insane asylum。 He used to speak of the reputed dramatist as 〃the fat
peasant of Stratford；〃 and he was otherwise picturesque of speech in a
measure that consoled； if it did not convince。 The great war was then
full upon us； and when in the silences of our literary talk its awful
breath was heard； and its shadow fell upon the hearth where we gathered
round the first fires of autumn； O'Connor would lift his beautiful head
with a fine effect of prophecy； and say； 〃Friends； I feel a sense of
victory in the air。〃 He was not wrong； only the victory was for the
other aide。
Who beside O'Connor shared in these saddened symposiums I cannot tell
now； but probably other young journalists and office…holders； intending
litterateurs； since more or less extinct。 I make certain only of the
young Boston publisher who issued a very handsome edition of 'Leaves of
Grass'； and then failed promptly if not consequently。 But I had already
met； in my first sojourn at the capital； a young journalist who had given
hostages to poetry； and whom I was very glad to see and proud to know。
Mr。 Stedman and I were talking over that meeting the other day； and I can
be surer than I might have been without his memory； that I found him at a
friend's house； where he was nursing himself for some slight sickness；
and that I sat by his bed while our souls launched together into the
joyful realms of hope and praise。 In him I found the quality of Boston；
the honor and passion of literature； and not a mere pose of the literary
life； and the world knows without my telling how true he has been to his
ideal of it。 His earthly mission then was to write letters from
Washington for the New York World； which started in life as a good young
evening paper； with a decided religious tone； so that the Saturday Press
could call it the Night…blooming Serious。 I think Mr。 Stedman wrote for
its editorial page at times； and his relation to it as a Washington
correspondent had an authority which is wanting to the function in these
days of perfected telegraphing。 He had not yet achieved that seat in the
Stock Exchange whose possession has justified his recourse to business；
and has helped him to mean something more single in literature than many
more singly devoted to it。 I used sometimes to speak about that with
another eager young author in certain middle years when we were chafing
in editorial harness； and we always decided that Stedman had the best of
it in being able to earn his living in a sort so alien to literature that
he could come to it unjaded； and with a gust unspoiled by kindred savors。
But no man shapes his own life； and I dare say that Stedman may have been
all the time envying us our tripods from his high place in the Stock
Exchange。 What is certain is that he has come to stand for literature
and to embody New York in it as no one else does。 In a community which
seems never to have had a conscious relation to letters； he has kept the
faith with dignity and fought the fight with constant courage。 Scholar
and poet at once； he has spoken to his generation with authority which we
can forget only in the charm which makes us forget everything else。
But his fame was still before him when we met； and I could bring to him
an admiration for work which had not yet made itself known to so many；
but any admirer was welcome。 We talked of what we had done； and each
said how much he liked certain thing of the other's； I even seized my
advantage of his helplessness to read him a poem of mine which I had in
my pocket； he advised me where to place it； and if the reader will not
think it an unfair digression； I will tell here what became of that poem；
for I think its varied fortunes were amusing； and I hope my own
sufferings and final triumph with it will not be without encouragement to
the young literary endeavorer。 It was a poem called； with no prophetic
sense of fitness； 〃Forlorn；〃 and I tried it first with the 'Atlantic
Monthly'； which would not have it。 Then I offered it in person to a
former editor of 'Harper's Monthly'； but he could not see his advantage
in it； and I carried it overseas to Venice with me。 From that point I
sent it to all the English magazines as steadily as the post could carry
it away and bring it back。 On my way home； four years later； I took it
to London with me； where a friend who knew Lewes； then just beginning
with the 'Fortnightly Review'； sent it to him for me。 It was promptly
returned； with a letter wholly reserved as to its quality； but full of a
poetic gratitude for my wish to contribute to the Fortnightly。 Then I
heard that a certain Mr。 Lucas was about to start a magazine； and I
offered the poem to him。 The kindest letter of acceptance followed me to
America； and I counted upon fame and fortune as usual； when the news of
Mr。 Lucas's death came。 I will not poorly joke an effect from my poem in
the fact； but the fact remains。 By this time I was a writer in the
office of the 'Nation' newspaper； and after I left this place to be Mr。
Fields's assistant on the Atlantic； I sent my poem to the Nation； where
it was printed at last。 In such scant measure as my verses have pleased
it has found rather unusual favor； and I need not say that its
misfortunes endeared it to its author。
But all this is rather far away from my first meeting with Stedman in
Washington。 Of course I liked him； and I thought him very handsome and
fine； with a full beard cut in the fashion he has always worn it； and
with poet's eyes lighting an aquiline profile。 Afterwards； when I saw
him afoot； I found him of a worldly sple