I

In the early afternoon of Thursday, 20th March, 1884, I drove with Irving to the house of Thomas Donaldson, 326 North 40th Street, Philadelphia. We went by appointment. Thomas Donaldson it was who had, at the dinner given to Irving by the Clover Club on December 6, 1883, presented him with Edwin Forrest’s watch.

When we arrived Donaldson met us in the hall. Irving went into the “parlour”; Hatton, who was with us, and I talked for a minute or so with our host. When we went in Irving was looking at a fine picture by Moran of the Great Valley of the Yellowstone which hung over the fireplace. On the opposite side of the room sat an old man of leonine appearance. He was burly, with a large head and high forehead slightly bald. Great shaggy masses of grey-white hair fell over his collar. His moustache was large and thick and fell over his mouth so as to mingle with the top of the mass of the bushy flowing beard. I knew at once who it was, but just as I looked Donaldson, who had hurried on in front, said:

“Mr. Irving, I want you to know Mr. Walt Whitman.” His anxiety beforehand and his jubilation in making the introduction satisfied me that the occasion of Irving’s coming had been made one for the meeting with the Poet.

When he heard the name Irving strode quickly across the room with outstretched hand. “I am delighted to meet you!” he said, and the two shook hands warmly. When my turn came and Donaldson said “Bram Stoker,” Walt Whitman leaned forward suddenly, and held out his hand eagerly as he said:

“Bram Stoker—Abraham Stoker is it?” I acquiesced and we shook hands as old friends—as indeed we were. “Thereby hangs a tale.”