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My dear Walt Whitman

(Somehow the Mr does not come well before Walt Whitman). I am glad to hear from you again & to learn that at any rate you are no worse than when you last wrote, & that though your health be shattered your good spirits flourish up like a plant from broken ground, glad also that you find something to approve of in a work so utterly unlike your own as my Queen Mary.

I am this morning starting with my wife & Sons on a tour to the Continent. She has been very unwell for two years, obliged always to lie down & incapable of any work in consequence of overwork—the case of so many in this age, yours among others & we are now going into a land of fuller sunshine in hopes that it may benefit her.

I am in an extreme hurry, packing up & after these few words must bid you goodbye, not without expressing my hope however that you will ultimately recover all your pristine vigor. I shall be charmed to receive your book.

Ever yours A. Tennyson