
I did not get your letter of September 27th till I was leaving for New England, and today I have yours of October 4th, which Nelly sends me.
I felt so miserably unwell that I decided to try a vacation, and left Washington on
the 30th of September for Providence, intending to come down at once here to the
island of ConauientConneaut, opposite Newport,
where I now am. But a severe cold, and a week of unsettled and stormy weather delayed
me in Providence till the 6th, when
I arrived here. I intended to stay at the Light House on the end of the island (Beaver
Tail L.H.) but the Keeper could not accommodate me, so I am boarding with a private family.
My purpose was to kill two birds with one stone—get well and fix up the
"Carpenter", but I fear neither are likely to be effected. I feel
wretchedly unwell, and can't think of composition. I never was so tired in my
life, and am so sleepy that I drop off in slumber if I sit a few minutes in a
chair—a new experience for me. I slept twelve hours last night, and after
dinner today (one o'clock) fell asleep in a rocking chair
and slept till six! I never felt such lethargy. I expect some day I shall fall asleep
like Rip Van Winkle or (more appropriately) the Sleeping Beauty, and my beard grow down
all over the rocks like sea-weed, and cover the sea, and my hair spread backward over the
island, and smother the inhabitants. Selah.
I shall probably leave here by the first of next week. I intended to stay longer, but
it is dull and lonely to me, not feeling able to occupy myself with writing, and the
beauty of the sea is half-lost and indifferent to my sick eyes. My only pleasure is
a daily delicious
swim in the ocean—all too-brief, for the water is too cold to stay in
long—but oh, how good it is! It electrifies and braces me for a few minutes,
but then I get dull and sleepy again.
So far, thanks to not feeling well, I haven't had a good time at all.
Dear Walt, I hope you will come to Providence. Dr. Channing and Jeannie quite count upon it, and will be much gratified. I hope you will be there while I am, and then we can go around. I shall return there about the 12th or 13th, and if you fulfil your original intention, that will about bring us together at that time.

I am glad you are going to send to Freiligrath. I will do my part, eagerly, though I think I had better wait a few days now, hoping to feel better, and therefore in a better mood. Perhaps, I had better wait till I see you in Providence, if you decide to come on there, and then we can talk it over, and arrange just what is best to say.
Swinton's discovery of the resemblance in form between Leaves of Grass
and Blake's poetry, is in my humble opinion, a mare's nest of the first water. (Irish!!) The
resemblance is extremely superficial—about as much as
between the Gregorian chant, bellowed by bull-necked priests with donkey lips, and a
first-class, infinitely varied, complex-melodied Italian opera, sung by voices
half-human, half-divine. Such assertions as Swinton's exasperate me. All that resides
in the matter is just this: Bishop South had translated the Hebrew prophets into
verse of unequal length, following the original, whose metres are interior, the accords being of
sense and not sound, and this, as regards mere external form, Blake imitated undoubtedly. The
verse of Leaves of Grass has just so much superficial resemblance to Bishop South's translations,
and the imitations of
Blake, as results from their all being unequal in length, and no more.
For my part, I should as soon think of the form of Leaves of Grass in
connexion with that of
Southey's Thalaba, as with anything of the South-Blake pattern. It differs radically and
palpably to the eye, to the ear, and above all to the mind, from anything before it.
Swinton's item in the Times was good. Nelly sends it to me copied into the Star.
By the way, I put the item into the Star about the price paid for
"Whispers of Heavenly Death": It made a great sensation in Washington, and your stock went
up enormously. The
Chronicle copied it next day, or rather transmographied transmografied
it into an item of its own, making the amount twenty five guineas a page,
or two hundred and fifty dollars, in which pleasing form it is going the rounds, to your great honor,
and glory, nothing appealing to the esthetic
American mind so much as a success in dollars.
I meant to have sent you the item, but forgot. I have saved it for you to see.
That indescribable serpent, George Alfred Townsend, has published an abominably
flippant and insulting article about you,
which I brought with me, in case we met, for you to see. My indignation was intense when I read it,
and I don't understand how a man can write such things at all, much less about a person with whom
he pretends to be on friendly terms. I think you must spear him with a look when you next meet him,
as you did Tilton. He needs reducing to his lowest denomination.
I left in such a hurry of preparation, that I did not see John Burroughs, so must keep your messages for him till I return.
I am glad your dear mamma is in better quarters than before. It is a great thing,
though many might not think so, to be comfortably housed. Especially must it be so to
one advanced in years, as she is. Give her my best love.
It was so long before I heard from you, after I had written, that I thought you must be out of town, and thought of commencing another letter to you with "My dear Romeo"!!! If you wonder "why Romeo?," I can only answer, demurely, because you may have been roaming.
This is most beautiful!
—Ashton was running the office when I left. I had a long
and free talk with him about that Pleasants and Evarts,
in connexion with you, which I must tell you
about when we meet. It made me feel quite
anxious, but I guess all's right, while Ashton is there. Pleasants is a miserable
devil. I wish I had power in that office for a little while. I'd put a spoke in the
wheel of his vendetta, which would carry it and him to a safe distance.
Your letters were sent by young Rowland. I attempted to attend to it,
but found that you had left him full directions, (so he said) which I guess you forgot.
Nevertheless, I supervised him
as long as I was there.
Charley thought his letter to you must have miscarried. He waited for you an hour at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
I feel awfully sleepy, and am going to bed, a prospect which renders me disconsolate, but nature will have her way.
I hope to see you in Providence.
I heard that Higginson did not like my "Good Gray Poet." This is sad. He also had over the story about his reading Leaves of Grass when he was sea-sick, &c. A good thing, which he evidently thinks bears repeating. O ass of hell! I thank thee, Gurowski, for teaching me that word!
Good bye Your affectionate W.D.O'C.If you should write, direct to me at Dr. Channing's, 67 Congdon Street, Providence, R. I.