“NEW YORK, Oct. 9, 1868.

“Dear Pete,—­It is splendid here this forenoon—­bright and cool.  I was out early taking a short walk by the river only two squares from where I live....  Shall I tell you about [my life] just to fill up?  I generally spend the forenoon in my room writing, etc., then take a bath fix up and go out about twelve and loafe somewhere or call on someone down town or on business, or perhaps if it is very pleasant and I feel like it ride a trip with some driver friend on Broadway from 23rd Street to Bowling Green, three miles each way. (Every day I find I have plenty to do, every hour is occupied with something.) You know it is a never ending amusement and study and recreation for me to ride a couple of hours on a pleasant afternoon on a Broadway stage in this way.  You see everything as you pass, a sort of living, endless panorama—­shops and splendid buildings and great windows:  on the broad sidewalks crowds of women richly dressed continually passing, altogether different, superior in style and looks from any to be seen anywhere else—­in fact a perfect stream of people—­men too dressed in high style, and plenty of foreigners—­and then in the streets the thick crowd of carriages, stages, carts, hotel and private coaches, and in fact all sorts of vehicles and many first class teams, mile after mile, and the splendor of such a great street and so many tall, ornamental, noble buildings many of them of white marble, and the gayety and motion on every side:  you will not wonder how much attraction all this is on a fine day, to a great loafer like me, who enjoys so much seeing the busy world move by him, and exhibiting itself for his amusement, while he takes it easy and just looks on and observes."[K]

    [K] Calamus, Boston, 1897, pp. 41, 42.

Truly a futile way of passing the time, some of you may say, and not altogether creditable to a grown-up man.  And yet, from the deepest point of view, who knows the more of truth, and who knows the less,—­Whitman on his omnibus-top, full of the inner joy with which the spectacle inspires him, or you, full of the disdain which the futility of his occupation excites?

When your ordinary Brooklynite or New Yorker, leading a life replete with too much luxury, or tired and careworn about his personal affairs, crosses the ferry or goes up Broadway, his fancy does not thus ’soar away into the colors of the sunset’ as did Whitman’s, nor does he inwardly realize at all the indisputable fact that this world never did anywhere or at any time contain more of essential divinity, or of eternal meaning, than is embodied in the fields of vision over which his eyes so carelessly pass.  There is life; and there, a step away, is death.  There is the only kind of beauty there ever was.  There is the old human struggle and its fruits together.  There is the text and the sermon, the real and the ideal in one.  But to the jaded and unquickened eye it is all dead and common,