There is nothing special to write about, yet I will send you a line. I wrote to Nelly between two & three weeks ago2—with a line to you and Charles Eldridge—which I suppose came all right at the time. I have been having a comfortable time, absolutely doing nothing, sleeping a good deal, eating & drinking what suits me, and going out a few hours a day, a good part of the time on the water. Mother has had an attack of illness, somewhat severe, the last few days—& I have been sort of nurse & doctor—(as none of my sisters are home at present)—result is that Mother is very much better this morning—
John Burroughs3 has called on me—looking well.
I must tell you that the Westminster4 for July has for the 2d article of the number a long article of 33 or 4 pages, headed "The Poetry of Democracy: Walt Whitman" and capped with the names of the three last issued books—rather quiet in tone, but essentially very favorable & appreciative—undertakes to define the character of democratic art & poetic literature, as discriminated from aristocratic—quotes freely from all my books—will please you, I think.
Wednesday's brush in N. Y. you have seen in the papers5—in five sixths of the city, it was curiously almost unfelt, every thing went on the same—30 or 40 killed and a hundred wounded—yet it all falls very languidly on our people—we have supped full of horror of late years—the Policemen looked & behaved splendidly—I have been looking on them & been with them much, & am refreshed by their presence—it is something new—in some respects they afford the most encouraging sign I have got—brown, bearded, worn, resolute, American-looking men, dusty & sweaty—looked like veterans—the stock here even in these cities is in the main magnificent—the heads either shysters, villains or impotents—Love to Nelly, Charles Eldridge & Jeannie—
Walt