I am often inclined to wish that you could have been with me today. As that is impossible I wish that I could give you word pictures of all I have seen. But I must content myself with the briefest hints & suggestions.
I arrived at Hungtington Station1 @ 5. 57 last night, & rode in traincar
to village, putting up @ the Suffolk Hotel where you & Dr Bucke2 stayed 10
years ago. After supper I explored the main street a little—called in at the Library to see if I
could refer to a map of roads &c.—borrowed the copy of "Specimen Days"3 you
presented to the Library in 1883—called on Mr Funell (druggist) to ask particulars of
localities—got copies of the "Long Islander"4 one of which I send to
you—& arranged for
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buggy for today.
At 8.30 this morning it came round—driven by an old man named Dodge—& we drove to West Hills. I need not tell you how interesting the country was to me; nor do I need to describe it. Mr. & Mrs Jarvis5 were very kind & courteous, & showed me round the house. Then to the old homestead. Apple trees every where loaded heavily with fruit—apples lying in unheeded heaps on the ground. So plentiful & so cheap this year that it isn't worth while to send them off. And far more here than they know what to do with.
Kindly received by Mrs Place6 with whom I sat a
little—looking in the old kitchen. Looked over the old farm lands,
at the kitchen garden, the well, the dwelling
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of your great grandfather (now used as a wagon-house &c)—the grove of black walnuts—the
grand old oak (shrunken of late years they say)—the orchard with its plentiful crop—&c.
I went up to the old burial ground & sat there alone for about half an hour. The sky was rather dull—but the clouds were high, the air clear, & the temperature pleasant. A light breeze sounded in the woods a low pensive rhythm—a distant cricket chirped—& all else was silent—"graves under us silent."7
Drove next to the top of Jaynes' Hill.—the great South Bay & the beach beyond in sight to the south—to the north the Channel & the Connecticut Hills beyond—eastward the well wooded undulating panorama of the Island with Dix Hills in the centre—westward woods & woods beyond.8
Then back just in time for dinner @ 12.30.
At 1. 40 Dodge brought the buggy round again & we drove to Cold Spring.9
The sun had come out & a beautiful afternoon was granted us. We didn't know where to find the Velsor
burial ground &c., so called at Warren P. Velsor's10 to enquire. He referred us to his cousin
"Charlie Velsor."11 He (WPV) knew you 50 years ago—attended your school—thought
you boarded (while "boarding round") with his father, & shared bed with him—& asked me to give
you his best respects. He is a butcher—retains the Velsor love for horses—is a good horse doctor
& likes to keep a good horse himself—Drove on past the Harbor—up the hill through the woods,
past Charles H Jones',12 along the level road, then to the left along a lane with
snakefences on each side to "Charlie Velsor's. The old man came out & was
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extremely kind & obliging. He offered to accompany us, & as he was rather lame in one ankle I gave
him my seat in the buggy & walked alongside. He attributed his lameness to the fact that his brother
"Lije"13 & he used to be great "hoppers," & rheumatiz
had settled in his ankle since. He is in his 78th year, but is wonderfully hale,
active & cute. He has a fine old face & head & reminded me of you in his nose & ears.
Face shaven. He said he had been a strong man in his time, but had "got over it." He
remembered taking you & Dr. Bucke, & wished that you could come again. He looked with interest &
pleasure at your portraits in L of G & Dr Bucke's book14 (As also did his
cousin, Mr & Mrs Jarvis & Mrs Place)
Down the hill amongst the trees to the secluded valley below—a turn to the left across a narrow field—& we
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were at the foot of the burial hill.—Up through the bush & we were in the burial ground
itself—surrounded by trees, secluded, still, simple, & natural, with sunlit sky above.
Stood there about 20 minutes, looked for quite a time at your grandfather15 & grandmother's16
graves, & at the rest. ("No finer women ever walked this earth than the women of the Williams family"
said & repeated old C.V.)
Then back to the buggy & along to the Major's homestead. Foundations of house visible & cellar still
there—had quite large cherry trees growing in cellar & in centre of Sitting Room. Big Ash tree
(now getting old) growing near front door. No traces left of barn, wagon-house &c—the grain fields
which were there on your visit in '81 also gone—the ground now planted with trees—smallish—mostly
cedars. The valley very beautiful & peaceful in the late afternoon light.
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I let the buggy get ahead of me, & then turned up to the burial ground again to spend 5 minutes there
alone. The ground itself shaded, the tops of the trees were bright in the sunlight, with beautiful sky
above. The leaves rustled gently in the wind, & all was peaceful & sweet. I stopped at your
grandmother's grave (—I could have loved her, & even from description love her sweet
memory—) & plucked one or two small fronds of fern—(will enclose one for you.) Then walked
alone up the lane—the sunlight streaming through the trees—up to the house. Shook hands
with the old man, who sent his regards to you, & we drove back.
It has been a blessed day to me—a true Sabbath—in many ways & will be long memorable to me.
And apart from all its old associations I can understand & share your love for this beautiful country. I am glad to have seen it, even for a day, & wish that I could explore it more fully. But its spirit & influence—inland & on the coast—are embalmed in your book—& that at least I have.
Tomorrow morning, if fine, I will drive over to Centreport to see Gilchrist17—returning to Brooklyn in the evening.
I think I had better spend 2 days in New York & come to Camden on Thursday. But I will write again. In any case Andrew Rome18 will accompany me for the day.
Tender & loving thoughts & wishes to you tonight & always. Good night & God bless you J.W. WallaceCorrespondent:
James William Wallace
(1853–1926), of Bolton, England, was an architect and great admirer of
Whitman. Wallace, along with Dr. John Johnston (1852–1927), a physician in
Bolton, founded the "Bolton College" of English admirers of the poet. Johnston
and Wallace corresponded with Whitman and with Horace Traubel and other members
of the Whitman circle in the United States, and they separately visited the poet
and published memoirs of their trips in John Johnston and James William Wallace,
Visits to Walt Whitman in 1890–1891 by Two
Lancashire Friends (London: Allen and Unwin, 1917). For more
information on Wallace, see Larry D. Griffin, "Wallace, James William (1853–1926)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).