Croton, New York,
February 3d, 1885

My Very Dear Friend:
Away up here, amid bleak, snow-crowned hills, forty miles from New York City, your first letter of 1885 found the 'curious figure ' that has not yet made its appearance among the curiosities of the Exposition. I have sent two exhibits, though; one, my photograph, to appear among those of the so-called celebrities, and I am only a so-called, too; the other, a transcript of one of my - rhymes; and, next week I send an original poem.

For wrecks and ruins I have a strange fascination. That is why I am here in a miserable hovel on the side of a lofty ridge, and even as I write I am shivering with the cold. When shall the ' curious figure' betake itself from this to the Exposition? I cannot say. In two weeks I shall be in Cincinnati to preach, lecture, and do all the other public so-forths. I am somewhat stronger. It is very cold here. I must wear a hideous night-cap when I retire to rest, even in the daytime. Blankets under me and blankets over me, and woollen underclothing enough to start a small dry goods store; and this morning sixteen degrees below zero! Milk frozen, butter frozen, meat frozen, everything frozen-such my present surroundings. Pleasant, are they not? What else am I doing? I am writing ' A Crown for Our King,' and getting on rapidly. I curtail my sleep. I have given up smoking. When I come back (I wish it were to-morrow), you must have greater veneration for me, because my hair is getting the Confederate color--gray!

I have not preached since a little before Christmas, for I found my voice was getting gray too. I will be in Ohio from about the 15th of February till the 10th of March. Then I go to Michigan to give there a few lectures; then back to Ohio or Kentucky till May 1st, and then probably home for a few weeks: and then possibly to the City of Mexico.

My work is hard, disagreeable, and trying; but having begun it, I intend to finish it. And then what? My plans have not as yet reached that then! To look too far ahead takes one's sight too much away from present duty. Though my outward life is terribly public, I feel like a solitary. I seldom find any one congenial. I have an abhorrence of mere chatter- always had.

I visit no lay-persons. When my outer work is done, I want to go to my room, say my prayers, read, write, think, have my own reveries, wishing to be disturbed only by the footsteps of some one in sorrow, or by the prattle of some little child. Up here, wherever I go, if there be a child there, that child soon seeks my company.

Now I have written you a long letter. I could make it as long again and not come to a close; but it is long past midnight. and I must seek rest under a mountain of blankets. --I send my God bless you. Kind regards to all.

Yours faithfully,
A. J. RYAN.