Your good letters come daily—I had quite set on sending you the mare & phæton but when I saw (& saw clearly) the situation I resigned to give the scheme up & have sold the rig to Rev Mr Corning here (the Unitarian minister) for ab't enough for some bills needing payment—O now I feel relieved—
Nothing particularly different in my sickness—or if anything it is a mild suspicion of betterment—Tom Harned was here last evening, & Horace is most faithful & invaluable to me, comes every evening, & sees to the printing first rate—It is all going on favorably—Morse is in Chicago, working (moderately—writing some) & appears to be happy. Herbert Gilchrist has not been over here since—He has some plan or art-design I guess—mystified to me so far—Osler is still away—expect him back every day—Tennyson sent me his Cordial best greetings by H G—he is well—& I hear from Ernest Rhys—I am lately looking at Froude's 2d vol. ab't Carlyle "Life in London"—the refreshing natural old fault finder of everything & every person & writing, including his own utterances ("that cursed book" he calls the Frederic)—
It is very moist & clouded & rather warm to-day—after two days and nights quite cold—but the summer season is over—I sit here the same—got down yesterday for five minutes but hitch'd back soon—Every body is good—"Whatever consists with thee," said Marcus Aurelius, "consists with me, O Nature."—Best luck to your meter scheme—
Love— Walt Whitman