by Frank Harris
You've given me an extraordinary, life-like portrait of a great man, blind, so to speak, in one eye, a sort of Cyclops. If he had been a Communist, how much greater he'd have been.» I ventured to disagree and we were soon at it hammer and tongs. I wanted to see both principles realized in life, individualism and socialism, the centrifugal as well as the centripetal force, and was convinced that the problem was how to bring these opposites to a balance which would ensure an approximation of justice and make for the happiness of all.
Smith, on the other hand, argued at first as an out-and-out Communist and follower of Marx, but he was too fair minded to shut his eyes for long to the obvious. Soon he began congratulating me on my insight, declaring I had written a new chapter in economics. His conversion made me feel that I was at long last his equal as a thinker. In any field where his scholarship didn't give him too great an advantage, I was no longer a pupil but an equal, and his quick recognition of the fact increased, I believe, our mutual affection.
Though infinitely better read, he put me forward in every company with the rarest generosity, asserting that I had discovered new laws in sociology. For months we lived very happily together, but his Hegelianism defied all my attacks: it corresponded too intimately with the profound idealism of his own character. As soon as I had written out the Bradlaugh story, Smith took me down to the Press office and introduced me to the chief editor, a Captain Forney: indeed, the paper then was usually called «Forney's Press,» though already some spoke of it as the Philadelphia Press. Forney liked my portrait of Bradlaugh and engaged me as a reporter on the staff and occasional descriptive writer at fifty dollars a week, which enabled me to save all the money coming to me from Lawrence. One day Smith talked to me of Emerson and confessed he had got an introduction to him and had sent it on to the philosopher with a request for an interview. He had wished me to accompany him to Concord. I consented, but without any enthusiasm: Emerson was then an unknown name to me.
Smith read me some of his poetry and praised it highly, though I could get little or nothing out of it. When young men now show me a similar indifference, my own experience makes it easy for me to excuse them.
They know not what they do! is the explanation and excuse for all of us. One bright fall day Smith and I went over to Concord and next day visited Emerson. He received us in the most pleasant, courteous way, made us sit, and composed himself to listen. Smith went off at score, telling him how greatly he had influenced his life and helped him with brave encouragement. The old man smiled benignantly and nodded his head, ejaculating from time to time, «Yes, yes!» Gradually Smith warmed to his work and wanted to know why Emerson had never expressed his views on sociology or on the relations between capital and labor. Once or twice the old gentleman cupped his ear with his hand, but all he said was, «Yes, yes!» or «I think so,» with the same benevolent smile. I guessed at once that he was deaf, but Smith had no inkling of the fact, for he went on probing, probing, while Emerson answered pleasant nothings quite irrelevantly. I studied the great man as closely as I could. He looked about five feet nine or ten in height, very thin, attenuated even, and very scrupulously dressed.
His head was narrow, though long, his face bony; a long, high, somewhat beaked nose was the feature of his countenance. A good conceit of himself, I concluded, and considerable will power, for the chin was well-defined and large. But I got nothing more than this; and from his clear, steadfast grey eyes I got an intense impression of kindness and good will, and-why shouldn't I say it?-of sweetness even, as of a soul lifted high above earth's cares and stragglings. «A nice old fellow,» I told myself, «but deaf as a post.» Many years later his deafness became to me the symbol and explanation of his genius. He had always lived «the life removed» and kept himself unspotted from the world: that explains both his narrowness of sympathy and the height to which he grew! His narrow, pleasantly smiling face comes back to me whenever I hear his name mentioned.
But at the time I was indignant with his deafness and out of temper with Smith because he didn't notice it and seemed somehow to make himself cheap. When we went away, I cried: «The old fool is as deaf as a post!» «Ah, that was the explanation then of his stereotyped smile and peculiar answers,» cried Smith. «How did you divine it?» «He put his hand to his ear more than once,» I replied. «So he did,» Smith exclaimed. «How foolish of me not to have drawn the obvious inference!» It was in this fall, I believe, that the Gregorys went off to Colorado. I felt the loss of Kate a good deal at first, but she had made no deep impression on my mind, and the new life in Philadelphia and my journalistic work left me but little time for regrets; and as she never wrote to me, following doubtless her mother's advice, she soon drifted out of my memory. Moreover, Lily was quite as interesting a lover and Lily too had begun to pall on me. The truth is, the fever of desire in youth is a passing malady that intimacy quickly cures. Besides, I was already in pursuit of a girl in Philadelphia who kept me a long time at arm's length, and when she yielded I found her figure commonplace and her sex so large and loose that she deserves no place in this chronicle.
She was modest, if you please, and no wonder. I have always since thought that modesty is the proper fig leaf of ugliness. In the spring of this year, 1875,1 had to return to Lawrence on business connected with my boardings. In several cases the owners of the lots refused to allow me to keep up the boardings unless they had a reasonable share in the profits. Finally I called them all together and came to an amicable agreement to divide twenty-five per cent of my profit among them, year by year. I had also to go through my examination and get admitted to the bar. I had already taken out my first naturalization papers and Judge Bassett of the district court appointed the lawyers Barker and Hutchings to examine me. The examination was a mere form. They each asked me three simple questions, I answered them, and we adjourned to the Eldridge House for supper and they drank my health in champagne. I was notified by Judge Bassett that I had passed the examination and told to present myself for admission on the twenty-fifth of June, I think, 1875. To my surprise, the court was half full. Judge Stephens even was present, whom I had never seen in court before. About eleven the judge informed the audience that I had passed a satisfactory examination and had taken out my first papers in due form, and unless some lawyer wished first to put questions to me to test my capacity, he proposed to call me within the bar. To my astonishment, Judge Stephens rose. «With the permission of the court,» he said, «I'd like to put some questions to this candidate who comes to us with high university commendation.» (No one had heard of my expulsion, though he knew of it.) He then began a series of questions which soon plumbed the depths of my abysmal ignorance. I didn't know what an action of account was at old English common law: I don't know now, nor do I want to. I had read Blackstone carefully and a book on Roman law, Chitty on evidence, too, and someone on contracts-half a dozen books, and that was all. For the first two hours Judge Stephens just exposed my ignorance: it was a very warm morning and my conceit was rubbed raw when Judge Bassett proposed an adjournment for dinner. Stephens consented and we all rose. To my surprise Barker and Hutchings and half a dozen other lawyers came round to encourage me. «Stephens is just showing off,» said Hutchings. «I myself couldn't have answered half his questions!»
Even Judge Bassett sent for me to his room and practically told me I had nothing to fear, so I returned at two o'clock, resolved to do my best and at all costs to keep smiling. The examination continued in a crowded court till four o'clock and then Judge Stephens sat down.
I had done better in this session, but my examiner had caught me in a trap on a moot point in the law of evidence, and I could have kicked myself. But Hutchings rose as the senior of my two examiners who had been appointed by the court, and said simply that now he repeated the opinion he had already had the honor to convey to Judge Bassett, that I was a fit and proper person to practice law in the state of Kansas.
«Judge Stephens,» he added, «has shown us how widely read he is in English common
law, but some of us knew that before, and in any case his erudition should not be made a purgatory to candidates. It looks,» he went on, «as if he wished to punish Mr. Harris for his superiority to all his classmates. «Impartial persons in this audience will admit,» he concluded, «that Mr. Harris has come brilliantly out of an exceedingly severe test; and I have the pleasant task of proposing, your Honor, that he now be admitted within the bar, though he may not be able to practice till he becomes a full citizen two years hence.» Everyone expected that Barker would second this proposal, but while he was rising, Judge Stephens began to speak.
«I desire,» he said, «to second that proposal, and I think I ought to explain why I subjected Mr. Harris to a severe examination in open court. Since I came to Kansas from the state of New York twenty-five years ago, I have been asked a score of times to examine one candidate or another. I always refused. I did not wish to punish western candidates by putting them against our eastern standards. But here at long last appears a candidate who has won honor in the university, to whom, therefore, a stiff examination in open court can only be a vindication; and accordingly I examined Mr. Harris as if he had been in the state of New York; for surely Kansas too has come of age and its inhabitants cannot wish to be humored as inferiors.
«This whole affair,» he went on, «reminds me of a story told in the east of a dog fancier. The father lived by breeding and training bull dogs. One day he got an extraordinary promising pup and the father and son used to hunker down, shake their arms at the pup and thus encourage him to seize hold of their coat sleeves and hang on.
While engaged in this game once, the bull-pup, grown bold by constant praise, sprang up and seized the father by the nose. Instinctively, the old man began to choke him off, but the son exclaimed, 'Don't, father, don't for God's sake! It may be hard on you, but it'll be the making of the pup.' So my examination, I thought, might be hard on Mr.
Harris, but it would be the making of him.» The court roared and I applauded merrily. Judge Stephens continued. «I desire, however, to show myself not an enemy but a friend of Mr. Harris, whom I have known for some years. Mr. Hutchings evidently thinks that Mr. Harris must wait two years in order to become a citizen of the United States. I am glad from my reading of the statute laws of my country to be able to assure him that Mr. Harris need not wait a day. The law says that if a minor has lived three years in any state, he may on coming of age choose to become a citizen of the United States; and if Mr. Harris chooses to be one of us, he can be admitted at once as a citizen; and if your Honor approve, be allowed also to practice law tomorrow.»
He sat down amid great applause, in which I joined most heartily.
So on that day I was admitted to practice law as a full fledged citizen. Unluckily for me, when I asked the clerk of the court for my full papers, he gave me the certificate of my admission to practice law in Lawrence, saying that as this could only be given a citizen, it in itself was sufficient. Forty odd years later the government of Woodrow Wilson refused to accept this plain proof of my citizenship and thus put me to much trouble by forcing me to get naturalized again! But at the moment in Lawrence I was all cock-a-hoop and forthwith took a room on the same first floor where Barker amp; Sommerfeld had their offices and put out my shingle. I have told this story of my examination at great length because I think it shows as in a glass the amenities and deep kindness of the American character. A couple of days later I was again in Philadelphia.
Towards the end of this year, 1875,1 believe, or the beginning of 1876, Smith drew my attention to an announcement that Walt Whitman, the poet, was going to speak in Philadelphia on Thomas Paine, the notorious infidel, who, according to Washington, had done more to secure the independence of the United States than any other man. Smith determined to go to the meeting, and if Whitman could rehabilitate Paine against the venomous attacks of Christian clergymen who asserted without contradiction that Paine was a notorious drunkard and of the loosest character, he would induce Forney to let him write an exhaustive and forceful defence of Paine in the Press. I felt pretty sure that such an article would never appear, but I would not pour cold water on Smith's enthusiasm. The day came, one of those villainous days common enough in Philadelphia in every winter: the temperature was about zero with snow falling whenever the driving wind permitted. In the afternoon Smith finally determined that he must not risk it and asked me to go in his stead. I consented willingly, and he spent some hours in reading to me the best of Whitman's poetry, laying especial stress, I remember, on When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. He assured me again and again that Whitman and Poe were the two greatest poets these States had ever produced, and he hoped I would be very nice to the great man. Nothing could be more depressing than the aspect of the hall that night: ill-lit and half-heated, with perhaps thirty persons scattered about in a space that would have accommodated a thousand. Such was the reception America accorded to one of its greatest spirits, though that view of the matter did not strike me for many a year. I took my seat in the middle of the first row, pulled out my notebook and made ready. In a few minutes Whitman came on the platform from the to say just what he had to say, neither more nor. He walked slowly, stiffly, which made me grin, for I did not then know that he had had a stroke of paralysis, and I thought his peculiar walk a mere pose. Besides, his clothes were astonishingly ill fitting and ill suited to his figure.
He must have been nearly six feet in height and strongly made; yet he wore a short jacket which cocked up behind in the perkiest way. Looked at from the front, his white collar was wide open and discovered a tuft of grey hairs, while his trousers that corkscrewed about his legs had parted company with his vest and disclosed a margin of dingy white shirt. His appearance filled me-poor little English snob that I was-with contempt: he recalled to my memory irresistibly an old Cochin-China rooster I had seen when a boy; it stalked across the farmyard with the same slow, stiff gait and carried a stubby tail cocked up behind. Yet a second look showed me Whitman as a fine figure of a man with something arresting in the perfect simplicity and sincerity of voice and manner. He arranged his notes in complete silence and began to speak very slowly, often pausing for a better word or to consult his papers. Sometimes hesitating and repeating himself-clearly an unpracticed speaker who disdained any semblance of oratory. He told us simply that in his youth he had met and got to know very well a certain colonel in the army who had known Thomas Paine intimately. This colonel had assured him more than once that all the accusations against Paine's habits and character were false-a mere outcome of Christian bigotry. Paine would drink a glass or two of wine at dinner like all well-bred men of that day; but he was very moderate and in the last ten years of his life, the colonel asserted, Paine never once drank to excess. The colonel cleared Paine, too, of looseness of morals in much the same decisive way, and finally spoke of him as invariably well conducted, of witty speech and a vast fund of information, a most interesting and agreeable companion. And the colonel was an unimpeachable witness, Whitman assured us, a man of the highest honor and most scrupulous veracity. Whitman spoke with such uncommon slowness that I was easily able to take down the chief sentences in longhand: he was manifestly determined to say just what he had to say, neither more nor less, which made an impression of singular sincerity and truthfulness. When he had finished, I went up on the platform to see him near at hand and draw him out if possible. I showed him my card of the Press and asked him if he would kindly sign and thus authenticate the sentences on Paine he had used in his address. «Aye, aye!» was all he said; but he read the half dozen sentences carefully, here and there correcting a word. I thanked him and said Professor Smith, an editor of the Press, had sent me to get a word-for-word report of his speech, for he purposed writing an article in the Press on Paine, whom he greatly admired.
«Aye, aye!» ejaculated Whitman from time to time while his clear grey eyes absorbed all that I said. I went on to assure him that Smith had a profound admiration for him (Whitman), thought him the greatest Ame
rican poet and regretted deeply that he was not well enough to come out that night and make his personal acquaintance. «I'm sorry, too,» said Whitman slowly, «for your friend Smith must have something large in him to be so interested in Paine and me.» Perfectly simple and honest Walt Whitman appeared to me, even in his self-estimate an authentic great man! I had nothing more to say, so hastened home to show Smith Whitman's boyish signature and to give him a description of the man. The impression Whitman left on me was one of transparent simplicity and sincerity: not a mannerism in him, not a trace of affectation, a man simply sure of himself, most careful in speech, but careless of appearance and curiously, significantly free of all afterthoughts or regrets. A new type of personality which, strangely enough, has grown upon me more and more with the passing of the years and now seems to me to represent the very best in America, the large unruffled soul of that great people manifestly called and chosen to exert an increasingly important influence on the destinies of mankind.
I would die happily if I could believe that America's influence would be anything like as manful and true and clear-eyed as Whitman's in guiding humanity; but alas!… It would be difficult to convey to European readers any just notion of the horror and disgust with which Walt Whitman was regarded at that time in the United States on account merely of the sex poems in Leaves of Grass. The poems to which objection could be taken don't constitute five per cent of the book, and my objection to them is that in any normal man love and desire take up a much larger proportion of life than five per cent. Moreover, the expression of passion is tame in the extreme. Nothing in Leaves of Grass can compare with half a dozen passages in the Songs of Solomon: think of the following verse: I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night… My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him. And then the phrases: «her lips are like a thread of scarlet… her love like an army with banners,» but American Puritanism is more timid even than its purblind teachers.
