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Had a much better night, & got up late & better—Horace came & I told him I w'd try to go thro' the Lincoln Death Piece Tuesday night (I can't bear to be bluff'd off & toward the last, even in minor ways)—But I by no means know how it will go off—or but I sh'l break down—no strength no energy—a little stimulus (the personal exhiliration of calling friends & talk) keeps me up ten minutes but then down flops everything.

It is a beautiful sunny warm April day & I want to get out a little yet—fortunately keep up pretty good spunk but the body & physical brain are miserable yet—the enclosed note is f'm Dr Brinton to whom I had sent the big book in response to his many kindnesses & liberalities &c. As I sit here every thing is beautiful & quiet—Warren has gone over to T Donaldson's—I expect him (W) back presently—have a headache (not severe)—of course we shall post you of all happenings &c. Of course all will be well. "What are yours and Destiny's O Universe," said Marcus Aurelius, "are mine too." Have sent word to Kennedy and John Burroughs.

God bless you & all— Walt Whitman