There being quite a strew of printer's proofs
and slips, and the daily papers, the place with its quaint old
fashion'd calmness has also a smack of something alert and of current
work. There are several trunks and depositaries back' d up at the
walls; (one well-bound and big box came by express lately from
Washington city, after storage there for nearly twenty years.) Indeed
the whole room is a sort of result and storage collection of my own
past life. I have here various editions of my own writings, and sell
them upon request; one is a big volume of complete poems and prose,
1000 pages, autograph, essays, speeches, portraits from life, &c.
Another is a little "Leaves of Grass," latest date, six portraits,
morocco bound, in pocket-book form.
Fortunately the apartment is quite roomy. There are three windows in
front. At one side is the stove, with a cheerful fire of oak wood,
near by a good supply of fresh sticks, whose faint aroma is plain.
On another side is the bed with white coverlid and woollen blankets.
Toward the windows is a huge arm-chair, (a Christmas present from
Thomas Donaldson's young daughter and son, Philadelphia) timber'd as
by some stout ship's spars, yellow polish'd, ample, with rattan-woven
seat and back, and over the latter a great wide wolf-skin of hairy
black and silver, spread to guard against cold and draught. A
time-worn look and scent of old oak attach both to the chair and the
person occupying it.
But probably (even at the charge of parrot talk) I can give no more
authentic brief sketch than "from an old remembrance copy," where I
have lately put myself on record as follows: Was born May 31, 1819,
in my father's farm-house, at West Hills, L.
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