I was glad to have the Birthday1 book2 the other day, with its record of so many friendly voices. Traubel3 was very good to let mine be heard so prominently in the throng. I believe I even blushed a little to find my lines so bravely in evidence.
As I write, the snow is falling, & the sky is leaden overhead. A regular English winter's day! I wonder if it is the same at Camden whose streets and ferries I remember best under wintry aspects. At present I am quartered at Hampstead,—not far away from Gilchrist's4 house in Well Road, tell him!
loc.03341.002.jpgHampstead is by far the highest part of London, & this cottage is very near the top of the Heath, approaching 500 feet above the sea. I find it much healthier than the low-lying parts near the river. After the Welsh mountain winds, the regular London air is rather trying,—no oxygen, no stimulus, in it!
There is much at Hampstead that you would like. The high road that runs along the top of the Heath, (called the Spaniards Road, & passing an old inn where Skittles are still played, called "The Spaniards"), has a fine view down to London on the south & the open country on the north. It is a fine walk either on a bright morning, or at night when the glamour in the sky & the glitter of Camps below & the hum of the city tell loc.03341.003.jpg that the monster, London, lies there, hydra-like, with pains untold & pleasures extreme in his various heads.
Edith5 & I went to call on Miss Gilchrist6 on Sunday last, & found her very well. She said that her brother would probably be home in February. Some of his friends were beginning to think he meant to settle oversea for good. I suppose he is waiting to astonish us with a magnum opus.
We have a young American novelist over here at present with his wife,—Henry Harland7 ("Sidney Luska.") They are very bright & interesting, more rapid & restless than we slow Englischers. He however in his turn seems to be astonished at the immense amount of hard writing that English men of letters get through. loc.03341.004.jpg "It is your sedative climate which makes the difference," he says in discussing it. There's no doubt that the English climate does tend to concentrate one's energies.
For my own part, I feel now that concentration is the one thing that I lack. Too many distractions in this hydra-headed London. It would be good to retire for seven years to some mountain solitude, & there, hermit-like, work out the purposes of one's destiny,—as Carlyle did. Meanwhile this probation in a world's city is helpful & good, fortunately, in other ways.
I suppose you had copies of the 'Illustrated London News' with your portrait.8 It figured well in the shop-windows here.
With hearty regards to all friends. Earnest RhysCorrespondent:
Ernest Percival Rhys
(1859–1946) was a British author and editor; he founded the Everyman's
Library series of inexpensive reprintings of popular works. He included a volume
of Whitman's poems in the Canterbury Poets series and two volumes of Whitman's
prose in the Camelot series for Walter Scott publishers. For more information
about Rhys, see Joel Myerson, "Rhys, Ernest Percival (1859–1946)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).