It is a stupid, dull, dark, sulky day—ground white with snow but nothing
approaching sleighing. A mixture of mud & snow (the worst possible mixture). But
I have a good fire in my office, have just had a good dinner of roast turkey and
potatoes boiled in their jackets, (which is the only way a potato should ever be
cooked), and have a very middling book to read (Obiter Dicta, 2d Series, Augustine Birrell),2 so I feel that I
can defy the Pope the Devil and the Pretender—(an old loc_es.00497.jpg expression of my father's). In fact I am
feeling first rate "and hope these few lines will find you enjoying the same
blessing"—seriously I trust all is going well with you—and with the big
book3—I hope to get my unbound copy of that early
this week. There is nothing further from Gurd4 and I feel my
patience wearing thin again—all quiet and going well at the asylum—it is
a year today since our fire—hope it will be a good
many untill the next—I had a proof5 of my report from Toronto last week to correct it will
not be published untill the house meets abt 10th January,
shall send it to you then—it is quite elaborate—Remember me to Mrs
Davis6 and Ed. Wilkins7
Correspondent:
Richard Maurice Bucke (1837–1902) was a
Canadian physician and psychiatrist who grew close to Whitman after reading Leaves of Grass in 1867 (and later memorizing it) and
meeting the poet in Camden a decade later. Even before meeting Whitman, Bucke
claimed in 1872 that a reading of Leaves of Grass led him
to experience "cosmic consciousness" and an overwhelming sense of epiphany.
Bucke became the poet's first biographer with Walt
Whitman (Philadelphia: David McKay, 1883), and he later served as one
of his medical advisors and literary executors. For more on the relationship of
Bucke and Whitman, see Howard Nelson, "Bucke, Richard Maurice," Walt Whitman: An
Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New York:
Garland Publishing, 1998).