
Your good letter (so kind of you to remember me in my loneliness of grim work) rec'd this Eve. Mrs K. is in Boston at a Symphony Concert and a precious ½ hour for my soul being at my disposal I feel a strong inner impulse to pour out here in the evening solitude, my heart to you in a genuine heart-letter of affection, welling up out of the of the deeps you long ago touched as no other ever did or can. Dear friend whom I have for so long admired, do you not feel that all is well with you & the great cause of freedom for which you have laid down yr life? I do. I feel somehow that the future is going to be with you, with us. Humanity is sweeping on into the larger light. To we who have drank at all fountains of literature, the world over, & climbed the lonely peaks of thought in every land & age, your Leaves of Grass still towers up above everything else in grand aspiration, right philosophy, & the heart beats of true liberty. Hugo does not satisfy, he saddens & depresses me. He is a giant of despair, the limner of scélerats (rascals & beggars chiefly)


You are very kind to offer to send me the new big vol. I shall prize it highly. I hope you will pardon the brevity & inadequacy of my notice of "Nov. B." in Transcript. I am really ill with hard work—nerves trembling, eye fluttering & above all sleepy. The rush of Holiday printing will be over in a month I hope, & then I shall be able to breathe again. We are rolling out 90–100 books at once, & every page must pass under my eye twice & receive my fecit before it goes out,—my guarantee.
Dear Burroughs writes me that I had better come & raise fruit,—buy land adjoining him. Perhaps I may some time.
How I wish you were going to live 50 yrs more. You may hold out 25 yrs yet, I shldn't wonder. Live & make us happy, noble friend. You are the only great literatus left alive in the world just at present. We can't spare you. The Infinite must wait.
I must stop & copy a page or so (my daily stint) of my Whitman bibliography (sawdusty job rather, but of some little use I hope). Wife is well as can be & we are cheery & busy. Regards to all friends.
Goodbye once more. I press yr hand, W.S. Kennedy.Jo. B. Alder has bt my railway book plates.

Baxter & Prof Morse must be having a jolly nice thing of it in Berlin, "Soft snap"—this globe jogging & junketing is. I feel glad for good solid, moral Baxter. He will enjoy the trip, & I repeat Horace's ode ("Sic Te diva potens Cypri" &c) for his safe return.