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My dear friend,

Again a few lines to you. The past summer & fall have laid me up again, & I am now entering the sixth month of confinement in my big chair & sick room—commenced early in June—abt the sixth whack (as I call it) from my old obstinate war-paralysis—from the overstrain'd work & excitement of Secession years, 1863, 4 & 5. I am now staving it off and on, but it is a serious siege & I do not really look for it being raised anything like really—I am in good spirits & comfortable enough. Mr. Fry (of England bro't a note from you) call'd upon me yesterday—and I sent you by him my new little book November Boughs (but it will be a week before he sails home). I have also a big 900 page Vol. nearly ready, combining all my writings, last revisions, &c.—I will send you a copy—Do you see anything of Rolleston? If so I send him my affectionate remembrances—I am sitting by my oak-wood fire writing this (cold but sunny weather here)—Spend most of my time alone—a few visitors—get along better than you might suppose. Love & thanks to you, my friend, & best best regards to my Irish friends all.

Walt Whitman