Yours of Nov: 27 rec'd. Console yourself for suffering f'm rheumatism—for it might be paralysis—I still keep around—am much more comfortable than four years ago, but am very lame & clumsy, (yet red and stout)—
Bjornson1 did not come to see me—America you know is a big country, & he had many places to go to—I think Clemens Petersen2 is still some where in this country—very likely doing well—the last time I saw him he came up to me (personally looked well) in New York, between two & three years ago, in a crowd, & only a few words—he is a quite well known literary person & if he had died or any thing happened, I should have heard of it—
I too mourn the death of Elster3—though unknown I had formed a liking for him—I shall forward one of my books to Thorsteinsson4—Dr Bucke's book5 will not be published for some months—perhaps a year—I send you, same mail with this, a copy of my new edition6—
As I write it is Sunday, just before sunset—& we have had a fine day—indeed a fine mild winter so far—have been in my room all day, writing &c, very comfortable—shall now walk to the post office, & probably sail once or twice across the river, the Delaware here, a mile wide—
The London publisher & agent for my new edition is David Bogue, St Martin's Place, Trafalgar Square—
I have heard that my book is to be translated into German, by some friends in Dresden7—also into Russian by some Russian exiles & a Mr Lee a Russ-English scholar8—I have been written to about both propositions & of course have expressed warmest assent—So good bye, my dear friend—& affectionate wishes to you & yours—
Walt Whitman