And one day,
in Philadelphia, you should have heard the wise young Philip
Randolph defend you against objections of mine. But when I have
such testimony, I say to myself, the high-seeing austerely
exigent friend whom I elected, and who elected me, twenty years
and more ago, finds me heavy and silent, when all the world
elects and loves him. Yet I have not changed. I have the same
pride in his genius, the same sympathy with the Genius that
governs his, the old love with the old limitations, though love
and limitation be all untold. And I see well what a piece of
Providence he is, how material he is to the times, which must
always have a solo Soprano to balance the roar of the Orchestra.
The solo sings the theme; the orchestra roars antagonistically
but follows.--And have I not put him into my Chapter of "English
Spiritual Tendencies," with all thankfulness to the Eternal
Creator,--though the chapter lie unborn in a trunk?
'T is fine for us to excuse ourselves, and patch with promises.
We shall do as before, and science is a fatalist.
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