We have been having a visit from an extraordinary Pole named Lutoslawski, 36 years old, author of philosophical writings in seven different languages,--"Plato's Logic," in English (Longmans) being his chief work,--and knower of several more, handsome, and to the last degree genial. He has a singular philosophy--the philosophy of friendship. He takes in dead seriousness what most people admit, but only half-believe, viz., that we are _Souls_ (Zoolss, he pronounces it), that souls are immortal, and agents of the world's destinies, and that the chief concern of a soul is to get ahead by the help of other souls with whom it can establish confidential relations. So he spends most of his time writing letters, and will send 8 sheets of reply to a post-card--that is the exact proportion of my correspondence with him. Shall I rope you in, Fanny? He has a great chain of friends and correspondents in all the countries of Europe. The worst of them is that they think a secret imparted to one may at his or her discretion become, _de proche en proche_, the property of all. He is a _wunderlicher Mensch_: abstractly his scheme is divine, but there is something on which I can't yet just lay my defining finger that makes one feel that there is some need of the corrective and critical and arresting judgment in his manner of carrying it out. These Slavs seem to be the great radical livers-out of their theories. Good-bye, dearest Fanny.... Your affectionate W. J. _To Mrs. Henry Whitman._ LAMB HOUSE, RYE, _Oct. 5, 1899_.