Here I am back from Pokeepsie in my little study to-night with a maple & hickory fire burning in the open fire place & thinking of you. This little shanty is a real solitude, cut off from the house & standing alone here on the brow of the hill. A wild rabbit lives under the floor & the wild wood mice scamper over head. But few of my friends have loc.01175.002_large.jpg visited me here, but here I sit by my open fire & have long long thoughts of them. How I make them come trooping in. How many times have I planted you there in my big chair by the window, or here in front of the open fire & talked the old talk with you. Alas, alas, that I should never see you here in the body as well as in the spirit. I talk at O'Connors2 picture & think of him too so often, the brilliant one whom I shall see no more. loc.01175.003_large.jpg How sacred is memory! as we grow old how much he lives in the past, how trivial & cheap seems the present. A tender & beautiful light fills my mind when I think of those years in Washington when we were all there; a light I know that never was on sea or land. How solemn & pathetic, as well as beautiful it must seem to you, considering all you passed through there!
Chas. Eldridge3 sends me his wedding cards from California. I am glad he is married & hope he is happy & prosperous. I must write to him. Give him loc.01175.004_large.jpg my love if you write him. I think I told you we were housekeeping in Pokeepsie for the winter. Mrs B4 & Julian5 are there now, but I am back on my farm & at work for the past two days, & I find it much better than hanging about the miserable little city. My winter has been flat stale & unprofitable. I mean to delve the earth with vigor now to make up for it. I have seen nobody nor been anywhere. Should probably have gone to W. had not wife been sick for 5 weeks with the gripe. I get a glimpse of you now & then in the paper. I hope you are comfortable. Do drop me a card if you can, or6 ask Trauble 7 to write me. Our winter has been a perpetual spring as I suppose yours has.
With the old love J BurroughsCorrespondent:
The naturalist John Burroughs
(1837–1921) met Whitman on the streets of Washington, D.C., in 1864. After
returning to Brooklyn in 1864, Whitman commenced what was to become a decades-long
correspondence with Burroughs. Burroughs was magnetically drawn to Whitman.
However, the correspondence between the two men is, as Burroughs acknowledged,
curiously "matter-of-fact." Burroughs would write several books involving or
devoted to Whitman's work: Notes on Walt Whitman, as Poet and
Person (1867), Birds and Poets (1877), Whitman, A Study (1896), and Accepting
the Universe (1924). For more on Whitman's relationship with Burroughs,
see Carmine Sarracino, "Burroughs, John [1837–1921] and Ursula [1836–1917]," Walt Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and
Donald D. Kummings (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998).