The papers with Prof: Young's1 speech came safely, & I
read it, my hand in yours—happy and full of interest.—Are you getting on
my Darling? When I know that you no longer suffer from distressing sensations in the
head & can move without such effort and difficulty a hymn of thankfulness will go
up from my heart.2 Perhaps this week I shall
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get the paper with the line on it that is to tell me so much—or at least that you
are well on your way towards it.3—And what shall I tell
you about? The quiet tenor
of our daily lives here? but that is very restricted, though I trust as far as it goes,
good & healthful. Or the thoughts and hopes that leap forward across the ocean &
the years? But they hide themselves away when I want to put them into words. Do not think
I live in dreams. I know very well it is strictly in
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proportion as the present & the past have been busy shaping & preparing the
materials of a beautiful future, that it really will be beautiful when it comes to
exist as a present, seeing how it needs must be entirely a growth from all that has
preceded it & that there are no sudden creations of flowers of happiness in men
& women any more than in the fields. But if the buds lie ready
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folded ah what the sunshine will do! What fills me with such deep joy in your poems
is the sense of the large complete acceptiveness—the full & perfect faith
in humanity—in every individual unit of humanity thus
for the first time uttered. That alone satisfies the sense of justice in the soul,
responds to what its own nature compels it to believe of the Infinite Source of all.
That too includes within its scope the lot as well
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as the man. His infinite undying self must achieve and
fulfil itself out of any &
all experiences. Why if it takes such ages & such vicissitudes to compact a bit
of rock—fierce heat, & icy cold storms deluges, crushing pressure &
slow subsidences as if it were likely a handful of years & all sunshine would do
for a man!—
Decr. 18
The longed for paper has come to hand. O it is a
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slow struggle back to health my Darling! I believe in the main it is good news that is
come—and there is the little stroke I wanted so on the address. But for all that
I feel troubled & anxious—for I believe you have been a great deal worse since
you wrote—and that you have still such a steep steep hill to climb. Perhaps if my
hand were in yours dear Walt, you would get
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along faster—Dearer and sweeter that lot than even to have been your bride in the
full flush & strength and glory of your youth. I turn my
face to the westward sky before I lie down to sleep, deep & steadfast within me the
silent aspiration that every year, every month & week may help something to prepare
and make fitter me and mine to be your comfort and joy. We are full of imperfections
shortcomings, but half developed, but
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half "possessing our own souls." But we grow, we learn we strive—that is the
best of us. I think in the sunshine of your presence we shall grow fast I too, my years
notwithstanding—May the New Year lead you out into the sunshine again—shed of
out of its days health & strength so that you tread the earth in gladness again.
This, with love from us all.
Herby4 was at a Conversation last night where were many distinguished men & beautiful women. Among the works of art displayed on the walls was a fine photograph of you.
19th, afternoon.
And now a later post has brought me the other No. of the Graphic5
with your own writing in it, so full of life & spirit so fresh & cheerful &
vivid dear Friend it seems to scatter all anxious sad thoughts to the winds. And are you
then really back at Washington I wonder or have you only visited
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it in spirit, & written the recollection of former evenings.
I shall have none but cheerful thoughts now. I shall reread it carefully, read it to the young folk at tea tonight.
Correspondent:
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).