It is a cloudy dark wet day—raining hard outside as I sit here by the window—am feeling pretty well—have just had my dinner, raw oysters & a slice of boiled ham—enjoyed the meal—Get lots of invitations, applications &c. every week—(O what lots of letters for autographs)—frequent visitors—sometimes an angel unawares—invites to swell dinners (or societies &c) invariably declined—Am idle & monotonous enough in my weeks & life here—but upon the whole am mighty thankful it is no worse—my buying this shanty & settling down here on ½ or ¼ pay, & getting Mrs. D[avis] to cook for me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way—but I am satisfied it is all as well as it is—& whatever happens.
—Morse is still out in Indiana with a probability of remaining—at least of not coming back here—I have not heard any thing definite of O'C[onnor]—I still jog away the Herald bits—I enclose Mary Costelloe's letter just rec'd—Isn't it cheery?
Walt WhitmanSend to Dr Bucke—both letters—