I was to tell you about my acquaintanceship with Tennyson,1 which was a pleasant episode in my life at Haslemere Hearing of the extreme beauty of the scenery thereabouts & specially of its comparative wildness & seclusion, he thought he would like to find or build a house, to escape from the obtrusive curiosity of the multitudes who flock to the Isle of Wight2 at certain loc_cb.00092.jpg seasons of the year—He is even morbidly sensitive on this point & will not stir beyond his own grounds from weeks end to weeks end to avoid his admiring or inquisitive persecutors—So, knowing an old friend of mine, he called on me for particulars as to the resources of the neighbourhood—And I, good walker & familiar with every least frequented spot of hill & dale for some miles round, took him long rambles in quest of a site. Very pleasant rambles they were; Tennsyon, under the influence of the fresh, outdoor quite unconstrained life in new loc_cb.00091.jpg scenery & with a cheerful aim, shaking off the languid ennuyée air, as of a man to whom nothing has longer a relish—bodily or mental that too often hangs about him. And we found something quite to his mind—a coppice of 40 acres hanging on the south side two thirds of the way up a hill some 1000 ft high—so as to be sheltered from the cold & yet have the light, dry, elastic hill air—& with, of course, a glorious outlook loc_cb.00090.jpg over the wooded weald of Sussex so richly green & fertile & looking almost as boundless as the great sweep of sky over it—the South Downs—the Surrey Hills & near at hand the hill curving round in a fir-covered promontory, standing out very black & grand between him & the Sun set. Underfoot too a wilderness of beauty—fox gloves (I wonder if they grow in America) ferns, purple heath &c &c.—I don't suppose I shall see much more of him now I have left Haslemere; loc_cb.00093.jpg though I have had very friendly invitations; for I am a home bird—don't like staying out—wanted at home and happiest there. And I should not enjoy being with them in the grand mansion half so much as I did pic-nicing in the road & watching the builders as we did. It is pleasant to see T. with children—little girls at least—he does not take to boys—but one of my girls was mostly on his knee when they were in the room & he liked them very much. His two Sons are now both 6 ft. high.—I have received your letter of March 203 from Brooklyn: but the one you speak of as having acknowledged the photograph4 never came loc_cb.00096.jpg to hand—a sore disappointment to me, dear Friend. I can ill afford to lose the long & eagerly watched for pleasure of a letter. If it seems to you there must needs be something unreal, illusive in a love that has grown up entirely without the basis of personal intercourse, dear Friend, then you do not yourself realize your own power, nor understand the full meaning of your own words—"whoso touches this, touches loc_cb.00095.jpg a man"5—"I have put my Soul & Body into these Poems." Real effects imply real causes. Do you suppose that an ideal figure conjured up by her own fancy could, in a perfectly sound healthy woman of my age; so happy in her children, so busy & content, practical earnest, produce such real & tremendous, effect—saturating her whole life, colouring every waking moment—filling her with such joys such such pains that the strain of them has been well nigh loc_cb.00094.jpg too much even for a strong frame, coming as it does, after twenty years of hard work?
Therefore please dear Friend, do not "warn" me any more—it hurts so, as seeming to distrust my love—Time only can show how needlessly. My love, flowing ever fresh & fresh out of my heart, will go with you in all your wanderings, dear Friend, enfolding you day and night soul & body with tenderness that tries so vainly to utter itself in these poor helpless words, that clings closer than any man's love can cling. O, I could not live if I did not believe that sooner or later you will not be able to help stretching out your arms towards me & saying "Come, my Darling."—When you get this will you post me an American News loc_cb.00040.jpg paper (any one you have done with) as a token it has reached you—& so on at intervals during your wanderings; it will serve as a token that you are well, & the post marks will tell me where you are—And thus you will feel free only to write when you have leisure & inclination—& I shall be spared that feeling loc_cb.00041.jpg I have when I fancy my letters have not reached you—as if I were so hopelessly helplessly cut off from you which is more than I can stand. We all read American news eagerly too.—The children are so well & working with all their might. The school turns but more what I desired for them than I had ventured to hope.
Good bye dearest Friend. Anne GilchristCorrespondent:
Anne Burrows Gilchrist
(1828–1885) was the author of one of the first significant pieces of
criticism on Leaves of Grass, titled "A Woman's Estimate
of Walt Whitman (From Late Letters by an English Lady to W. M. Rossetti)," The Radical 7 (May 1870), 345–59. Gilchrist's long
correspondence with Whitman indicates that she had fallen in love with the poet
after reading his work; when the pair met in 1876 when she moved to
Philadelphia, Whitman never fully returned her affection, although their
friendship deepened after that meeting. For more information on their
relationship, see Marion Walker Alcaro, "Gilchrist, Anne Burrows (1828–1885)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).