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Dear boy Pete, Both your letters came this week—also one from my friend Eldridge, he too speaks of meeting

with snow, as I look out—not the least thaw to-day, as it is cloudy—I rise pretty late mornings—had my

mutton-chop, coffee, nice brown bread & sweet butter, very nice—eat with very fair appetite—I enjoy my

the same as before described—no worse, no better, (nothing to brag of anyhow) I have mentioned about my

I still keep a little at work—there is a printing office here, where I am doing my work—they are young

considerate & respectful to me—fix every thing in type, proof, &c. just to suit me—I am leisurely preparing my

Come when you can, my darling boy.

morning—have something of the kind pretty often—Still it seems certain I am improving, generally,—& that my

rec'd a letter from Chas Eldridge—& another from Walter Godey, the young man who is working for me as my

to-day—nothing particular—send the Herald Did I tell you that a doctor I have talked with here says my

most are blanks —I was at Pike's Peak—I liked Denver City very much—But the most interesting part of my

bridge over the Mississippi river —I often go down to the river, or across this bridge—it is one of my

I often think of you & no doubt you often do of me—God bless you, my darling friend, & however it goes

June 5 Am getting along somewhat better last two days—As I write this, (3 p. m.) have had my dinner—&

that's about the best I can say—continue to get out a little every day when the weather will permit—but my

last night) is to wear over—I got the stuff, it is first rate Middlesex flannel, cost $5, (same as my

necessary—must then be washed by some one experienced in washing nice flannels—I sent Graphic with my

portrait —(as they sent me some)—also my Capitol letter —I rec'd your good letter last Tuesday Dear

Nash—give them both my love—(I see just a line in the paper that Mr.

Dear son, I am sitting here in my room home, alone—it is snowing hard & heavy outside, & cold & wintry

—I have attended to the bringing out the new edition of my book, but as the plates were all ready before

fire—here now I am not like I am in Washington—you would laugh to see me hovering over the fire)— —My

October 31 . 1873 1874 or 5 Dear boy Pete, My condition remains about the same—I don't get ahead any

to notice—but I hold my own, as favorable as I have stated in my late letters, & am free yet from the

Besides I think upon the whole, my general strength is the best it has been yet—for an interval every

Eldridge that he had paid Godey, my substitute, the money I sent on for his October pay.— Washington

Good bye for this time, my loving boy. Walt.

I am about the same as to my sickness—no worse. Walt. Walt Whitman to Peter Doyle, 31 May [1873]

Though some bad spells still, things decidedly more favorable in my condition. I shall get up yet.

Dear Son, I am sitting here in my room, having just eat a hearty dinner with my mammy , (who has this

month entered on her 76th year, but to my eyes looks young & handsome yet.)

c—he has one fault, & a bad one—that is he will drink, & spree it—which spoils all—True it is none of my

would give it up, & find his pleasure in some other way—Pete, should you see Allen again, give him my

Pete, I am sitting in my room home, finishing this—have just had a bath, & dressed myself to go over

Foul Play" —if not, I have one here I will send you— Dear son, I believe that is all this time—I send my

love, dear son, & a good loving kiss—I think of you every day—Give my best regards to all enquiring

friends, & inform them I expect to be back in about three weeks— Good bye, my darling boy—from your comrade

Dear Pete, Well here I am home again with my mother, writing to you from Brooklyn once more.

New York to visit the lady I went down to the ferry with—so you see I am quite a lady's man again in my

old days—There is nothing special to write about—I am feeling in first-rate spirits, & eat my rations

to-day—a stiff breeze blowing & the smell of the salt sea blowing up, (sweeter than any perfume to my

Pete—& I wont be so long again writing to my darling boy.

Jersey Friday afternoon Jan January 30, 2 o'clock Dear Pete, I am having another of my bad spells to-day—but

folks, every one I know—I am feeling as well as usual, as I finish this letter—Good bye for this time my

Dearest Son, I saw the RR. smash the first thing in the paper in the morning, & run my eyes over the

others , of such accidents, is because they run such a route, over a single track —you may remember my

still I have a sort of feeling not to give it up yet—keep real good spirits—don't get blue, even at my

weather is bright & pleasant here to-day, but cool for the season, & the most backward I have ever known—My

—love to my darling son— Walt Walt Whitman to Peter Doyle, 30 April [1875]

Captain "Tim" Buchanan, a conductor on one of the trains, was hospitalized.

As I am now sitting in my room & have no desire to go to bed yet, I will commence another.

Give my best respects to George Smith —also to Pensey Bell & his brother George —also to Mr.

Shedd —and in fact to all my railroad friends, whenever they inquire after me— Dear son, I can almost

about the heavenly bodies—& in the midst of it I look around & find you fast asleep, & your head on my

shoulder like a chunk of wood—an awful compliment to my lecturing powers.

laying off, & of the playing of the band under Schneider and Petrola —also about City RR. men—I send my

sore & ready to have them, almost if I move across the room—I am sitting here, feeling pretty bad, my

feel better, & strong enough to come back to Washington—Still I don't know—I think it best to face my

I will certainly send you word, or telegraph—I will write Monday or Tuesday next—We have moved into my

—My head is feeling very sore & touchy & sensitive—I dont don't go out—I have re-written my will —What

There is nothing new or special in my affairs or doings.

My folks all continue well—mother first rate, & brothers ditto. I do not have such good luck.

I have taken three or four of my favorite rides on Broadway.

I believe I described them to you in my letters a year ago.

Tell Johnny Lee I send him my love, & hope he is well & hearty. I think of him daily.

I am still the same—am all alone in the house to-day, as my brother has gone to New York & my sister

Jersey , Dec. 3—noon Dear Pete, Dear son, I am getting over my late bad spell—I have been very sick indeed

, the feeling of death & dizziness, my head swimming a great deal of the time—turning like a wheel—with

expected—& shall go out, or try to, to-day, as it is very pleasant—You must not be needlessly alarmed, my

partially well & strong enough—The doctor is quite encouraging—comes every day—& I feel a good heart yet—My

paper—I have some spurts of visits, & company—but very little that goes to the right spot, with me—my

I send you my love—& to Charley the same—Mention how Charley's young one is getting along— I will now

bid you good bye for this time, my loving friend, & God bless you, dear comrade, & keep you all right

I will write a line to No. 6, & will speak to the other boys in my next.

been real pleasant—I have been out most of the time—It is now between 4 and 5—I am writing this up in my

room home—am going out, & over to New York this evening—nothing special to write about— Pete, my darling

August 29 . 75 My dear son, Your letter came all right last Monday, & the papers.

needn't mind the other Sunday papers—I send you Harper's magazine for September—I am still holding my

Dear Son Pete, Here I sit again by the heater in the parlor, writing my weekly letter—I have just had

my dinner, some cold turkey & glass of Missouri wine &c.

—had been out to the P.O. some five or six squares distant—but have to take my time—Am still getting

is undoubtedly better, which, I hope will in time bring improvement in my walking, & in my head, &c

November 25, they print a portrait of my beautiful phiz. & a criticism on my books, one of the best &

skeleton, faculties good, but voice only a low whisper—I returned last night, after midnight —Well bub, my

time here is short—I have had a good quiet visit—the best in some respects yet—& I feel satisfied —My

I delivered my poem here before the College yesterday. All went off very well.

I will send you the little book with my poem, (& others) when I get back to Brooklyn.

Pete did my poem appear in the Washington papers—I suppose Thurs-day or Friday— Chronicle or Patriot

sunny to-day here, though middling cool—I am sitting here in the parlor alone—it is about 10—I have had my

off—they go by constantly—often one right after another—I have got used to them & like them— —Did you see my

Nash—& to Parker & Wash Milburn—& in short to all my friends— Your old Walt Walt Whitman to Peter Doyle

feel well enough to come on to Washington & make out several weeks—& we'll have a good time together, my

chicken for his dinner—then went to a nice reading room & library we have here, very handy—then home to my

own dinner chicken & nice roast potatoes—& now (2½) up stairs in my room writing this, & feeling very

what you wrote about your mother—Every thing about fellows' old mothers is interesting to me— —Give my

March 26 1874 Thursday afternoon 2½ —I have just had my dinner—roast beef, lima beans, graham-bread &

Pete your short letter came to-day, written on the cars—dear son, come whenever you can—As I said on my

My little dog is stretched out on the rug at full length, snoozing.

He hardly lets me go a step without being close at my heels—follows me in my slow walks, & stops or turns

Pleasant & bright weather—have been out on the side walk in front, once or twice, with my shawl around

alone & think, for two hours on a stretch—have not formed a single acquaintance here, any ways intimate—My

in the morning, & keeps me a good bed & room—All of which is very acceptable—(then, for a fellow of my

run foul of any)—Still I generally keep up very good heart—still think I shall get well—When I have my

have got a letter from Charley Towner—I am finishing this by the open window—still in the rooms where my

Pete, I am not having a very good time—My head troubles me—yesterday was as bad as ever—as far from well

close, as we have had real winter here, snow & bad weather, & bad walking—I have been quite alone, as my

off to Delaware on Wednesday on a Christmas visit, to return to-morrow, Saturday—I am about the same—My

strength still keeps quite encouraging—I think is better than any time yet—my walking no better, & still

a good deal of distress in the head—but, as I said in my letter of Monday last, (did you get it Tuesday

is so much complicated machinery about one of these heaters with all the late improvements—give me my

It is now Thursday afternoon, between 3 and 4—& I am writing this in my room in Portland av.

Pete, one month of my leave exactly is up to-day.

On my way back, I went up in the pilot house & sailed across the river three times—a fine breeze blowing

Then home—took a bath—ate my dinner—& here I am all alone, most stript stripped , taking things as cool

I work several hours a day keeping things straight among the printers & founders, on my books.

I suppose you got my second letter last Wednesday.

I put down off hand, & write all about myself & my doings, &c. because I suppose that will be really

what my dear comrade wants most to hear, while we are separated.

I am doing a little literary work, according as I feel in the mood—composing on my books.

Among the pilots are some of my particular friends—when I see them up in the pilot house on my way to

—Pete there is nothing new in my case, & no prospect more than usual of anything sudden —but it seems

may-be there is something more favorable ahead—I busy myself a little every day writing—I want to fix my

again & have some good times—but for all that it is best for you to be prepared for something different—my

My head has some bad spells, & a touch or more nearly every day, & my locomotion is still as clumsy as

am happy in not having any of those spasms of three weeks since, & indeed I have glimpses again of my

Louis, from my brother Jeff—I am very fond of it for breakfast, can eat it every day—(My appetite is

my love to Wash Milburn—I am writing this up in my room, 3 o'clock, pleasant weather, sun shining, window

Good bye for this time, my loving boy. Walt. Walt Whitman to Peter Doyle, 24 October [1873]

first rate— I spent yesterday down on the sea-shore—was all by myself—had a splendid good day—took my

first part of next week if nothing happens— Well, Pete, I believe that is all this morning—Good bye, my

Milburn, or any of the railroad boys, or other friends that may inquire after me, that I send them my

best respects—not forgetting my friends Mr. & Mrs.

every thing lovely—It will not be long now before I shall be back—Till then, take care of yourself, my

Monthly just out (February)—shall have another in the March number —Can't seem to do, without occupying my

day—nights are worst for me—I cant can't rest well—has been so now for a month—But I must not fill my

letter with my complaints—To-day is just a Year, since I was paralyzed, (23 d Jan.

January '73)—What a year it has been to me—Good bye my loving boy—write me all the news & gossip.

My cold hangs on, though not so bad as at first.

The state of the weather, & my cold, &c. have rather blocked me from having my usual enjoyment here,

trouble)—I go out a couple of hours middle of the day, but keep in nights— —I have got the new edition of my

enclosed, as you may need it—Should you want more, you write, as I have plenty—I am writing this up in my

butter—every thing tip-top—get along well enough—you must try to do the same—so good bye, for this time, my

Philadelphia by cars & ferry—but bad, very bad spell all night—Eat my breakfast this morning, & here

I write this early in the forenoon, sitting in my room in 55th street, after breakfast.

As to getting my leave extended so that I might stay to vote, I have settled (as I spoke of in a former

I am now going out down town, & across to Brooklyn, to spend a few hours with my mother.

I don't know whether I told you that my sister with her two young children from St.

I am very much the same—My being disabled & want of Exercise for 16 months, (and many other wants too

what the doctor calls gastric catarrh, very obstinate, causing me really more suffering & pain than my

I have bad spells enough, thank God I also have middling good ones—& as I write this have just had my

I have been home—six weeks— —I am middling well, go out some every day, but not much—Best thing is my

Good bye, my darling son—So the new shirts turn out a success do they?

I have a great mind to be jealous—Give my love to Wash Milburn, Adrian Jones, & all the RR boys.

I am still about the same as when I last wrote—am no worse, & not much better—though I perceive my general

strength is at least as good as any time since I have been sick—My head still troubles me with pain

thinking that every thing with me might be a great deal worse—I can put up with all but the death of my

mother—that is my great sorrow that sticks—affects me just as much now, or more, than at the time.

cut out the piece below from a Philadelphia paper, thinking it might interest you—As is I sit here in my

while said this morning—"Why Walt you are fatter & saucier than ever"— but I will close by sending my

love, to my darling son—& to him I shall always be the same old Walt.

car, 50 cts extra—plenty of room & a very easy riding car—thought while I was sitting up here now in my

yesterday afternoon & evening—took a ride up & down Broadway—am now laying off & taking it easy in my

just as natural into habits of doing nothing—lie on the sofa & read the papers—come up punctually to my

it for Sunday—I am feeling well & enjoying myself doing nothing, spending a great deal of time with my

Dear Son Pete, Nothing very new with me—I continue about the same—my general strength the best it has

—As I write this holding the paper on my lap I am sitting here in the parlor, by the heater—have had

my dinner—drank quite a goblet of wine, which I believe has flown into my head.

I wear my old gray suit, & the old black overcoat,—& when very cold, or stormy my gray shawl—If you should

see me now leaning against Milburn's counter, you wouldn't see any difference from last winter —(but my

I have thought of you, my darling boy, very much of the time.

I have not been out of the house since the first day after my arrival.

of, insulting to you, never for one moment in my thoughts.)

Dear Pete, dear son, my darling boy, my young & loving brother, don't let the devil put such thoughts

I will write again before long—give my love to Johnny Lee, my dear darling boy, I love him truly—(let