[Boston—Friday, 21 December 1866]
Friday morning. Professor Holmes and Adj. Genl Read of New York—(a young man despite his title) breakfasted here at eight o’clock. They were both here punctually at ¼ past 8, which was early for the season, especially as the Genl was late out, at a ball, last night. He was only too glad of the chance however to meet Dr Holmes and would have made a far greater effort to accomplish it. The talk at one time turned upon Dickens. Dr Holmes said he thought him a greater genius than Thackeray & was never satisfied with admiring his wondrous powers of observation and fertility of reproduction: his queer knack at making scenes too was noticeable but especially the power of beginning from the smallest externals and describing a man to the life though he might get no farther than the shirt buttons for he always failed in profound analysis. Hawthorne beginning from within was his contrast and counterpart. But the two qualities which Dickens possesses and which the world seems to take small account of but which mark his peculiar greatness are the minuteness of his observations and his endless variety. Thackeray had sharp corners in him, something which led you to see he could turn round short upon you some day although sadness was an impressive element in his character—perhaps a sadness belonging to genius. Hawthorne’s sadness was a part of his genius—tenderness and sadness.
Talking of story-telling he said it was a terrible responsibility to him to listen to a story, he could never be rid of the feeling of responsibility. There was one story, an excellent one, which Richard Dana was fond of telling which tried him more than anything he knew in the world—of the kind. He felt like one of the old Greek chorus—with strophe and antistrophe and it was a weight upon his mind lest he should not laugh properly at the end.
The talk turned upon Walt Whitman; he said he hated criticism, he abhorred playing the critic, partly because he was not a good reader, had read too cursorily and carelessly, but he thought the right thing had not yet been said about W.W. His books sell largely and there is a large audience of friends in Washington who praise and listen. Mr Emerson believes in him, Lowell not at all, Longfellow finds some good in his “youth” but the truth is he is in an amorphous condition. His ideas might be made over by two or three poets, first by a rough poet, yet one who understood form, next by a poet of refinement when by and by something valuable would come out of it.
He said the privilege of age was his now and he did not intend going to Mr Norton’s tonight, he wished us well for Xmas week. What was age good for if it did not bring some privileges—he used to think old age was a blessing for his mother lived till ninety and preserved every faculty of her mind, but in his wife’s family it was different, three uncles and her mother now living without their minds—it made age terrible indeed.
He did not stop long at this pathetic point but started off as if on a tour of mental amusement.
