Still here in my big chair in the sick room yet—a coolish wave to-day, but pleasant enough—John Burroughs has been to see me, the good hearty affectionate nature-scented fellow, very welcome—he left yesterday en route to visit Johnson (Century staff) at Sea Girt, on the N J sea coast—J B lodged at Tom Harned's, & T H and Horace liked him muchly—J B is not so hardy & brown & stout as formerly—that bad fiend insomnia haunts him as of old—he thinks himself it affects his literary power, (style, even matter)—Horace told him my half-suspicion that his association with the superciliousness & sort o' vitriolic veneering of the New York literati had eat into him, but he denied & pooh-pooh'd it—attributed it to his bad health, insomnia &c—said he knew himself he could not (or did not) write with the vim of his better days—(probably makes more acc't of that by far, than really is)—
I expect to get a specimen copy of November Boughs from the binder this evening—Shall not feel out of the woods & all safe, until I see the October Century, with my Army Hospital piece printed—accepted & paid for by them two years ago—as I consider myself obligated not to print from it until it has been first published by them—(But I have heard they give it—intend to—in the Oct. number)—
Afternoon—Horace comes with spec[imen] of Nov: B bound for sample—it is satisfactory—looks plain, larger than expected—I give an order or two changing the lettering on cover, &c.—the picture printing gives satisfaction—In fact all will do—("Only think" said the Irish girl "what ye'd said if it was ever so worser")—I have been expecting Alma Johnston of N Y to-day (or yesterday)—but no sign—a dear & prized friend—"good roots" for the meter (slang from N Y vagabonds, for favorable prophecy)—It gets cooler & I have donn'd my big blue wool overgown—as I end with love & thanks to you—
Walt Whitman