I have no excuse to offer for this letter—only an explanation. Of course, I. have been familiar with your name for years, but only recently have I had opportunity to get and study "Leaves of Grass." Being a confirmed and rather melancholy invalid myself—something in that book overwhelmed me with sorrow—a sorrow not quite like anything I ever felt before. I contrast the picture in that book of the sturdy young man, with the one in The "Magazine of Poetry"—and the contrast chokes me with emotion. Then and NOW!! Life's morning—the strong bird, with its wild, jocund song—soaring, singing over the mountain tops, along loc.01209.002_large.jpg the upper ether—at night with broken wings and halting song fluttering to earth to die.
Dear Friend!!—"Watchman, what of the night? Can you see "the lights along the shore"?2 Does the swash of the out-going tide dismay you? This has been my life:—
From early morn till evening, I've labored here for naught, And others coming after— Have found what I have sought. "And some other coming after—," When I've fallen by the way— With a touch completes my lifeI have always been a writer from loc.01209.003_large.jpg early childhood, but was, by fate planted in such a stern, cold, barren soil, that I have, in turn, suffered leaf-flight and twig-flight, and with a fair enough outside, shall fall, at last, with my heart eaten out—dead at the core.
We, writers, ought not to be surprised at any cranky correspondence, but if this letter surprises or annoys you, you must blame the influence of that book; and I trust that some pleasant hour, you will feel strong enough to tell me in a few words what you think is to come for us, or to us, when
"The fever, called living, Is over at last."3 loc.01209.004_large.jpg"Dearly Beloved" There is so much that I would say to you, but fear you are not well enough. Indeed even now you may be—
"Beyond the rock-waste andOh, this compulsory life thrust upon us without wish or will of ours—Crying in the darkness because of scourgings for other's sins, reaching for the hand of one who could support you and missing it—Oh, the riddle of life!!—I loc.01209.005_large.jpg shall be only too glad to give it up. A primary school, is it? I have missed the recess, and shall be glad of the announcement—dismissed.
In closing, I beg that you will not exert one muscle to reply to this—We will get at it all, by and by—or—we will not—Which?
And the night is closing round us— We have toiled through all the day— Loose our bonds, and give usCorrespondent:
Mary Isabella Purington
Cummings (1838–1914), originally from Bowdoinham, Maine, was the daughter
of Rachel Pennell and Isaac Purington. She married the Civil War veteran Amasa
F. Cummings (1822–1898; also known as "Amos"), who was also a native of
Maine, and the couple had two children, Leroy and Francis ("Frank"). The family
moved to San Diego, California, around 1890 and lived on Kearney Avenue until
1910, according to city directories. The directories also indicate that Amasa
Cummings was a joiner, while Leroy and Frank worked as printers. Mary and Amasa
Cummings are buried in San Diego's Mount Hope Cemetery.