Pain and joy struggle together in me (but joy getting the mastery, because its portion is eternal). O the precious letter, bearing to me the living touch of your hand, vibrating through & through me as I feel the pressure of the ring that pressed your flesh--& now will press mine so long as I draw breath. My Darling! take comfort & strength & joy from me that you have made so rich & strong. Perhaps it will yet be given us to see each other, to travel the last stage of this journey side by side, hand in hand--so completing the preparation for the fresh start on the greater journey; me loving and blessing her you mourn, now for your dear sake--then growing to know & love her in full unison with you. I hope you will soon get to the sea--as soon as you are strong enough, that is--& if you could have all needful care & comfort & a dear friend with you there. For I believe you would get on faster away from Camden--& that it tends so to keep the wound open & quivering to be where the blow fell on you--where every object speaks of her last hours & is laden with heart-stirring associations; though I realize, dearest Friend, that in the midst of the poignant sorrow come immortal sweet moments--communings, rapt anticipations. But these would come the same in nature's great soothing arms by the seashore, with her reviving, invigorating breath playing freely over you. If only you could get just strong enough prudently to undertake the journey. When my eyes first open in the morning, often such tender thoughts, yearning ineffably, pitying, sorrowful, sweet thoughts flow into my breast that longs & longs to pillow on itself the suffering head (with white hair more beautiful to me than the silvery clouds which always make me think of it.) My hands want to be so helpful, tending, soothing, serving my whole frame to support his stricken side--O to comfort his heart--to diffuse round him such warm sunshine of love, helping time & the inborn vigour of each organ that the disease could not withstand the influences, but healthful life begin to flow again through every part. My children send their love, their earnest sympathy. Do not feel anyways called on to write except when inwardly impelled. Your silence is not dumb to me now--will never again cloud or pain, or be misconstrued by me. I can feast & feast, & still have wherewithal to satisfy myself with the sweet & precious words that have now come & with the feel of my ring, only send any old paper that comes to hand (never mind whether there is anything to read in it or not) just as a sign that the breath of love & hope these poor words try to bear to you, has reached you. And just one word literally that, dearest, when you begin to feel you are really getting on--to make me so joyful with the news. Good-bye, dearest Friend, ANNE GILCHRIST. Back again in Marquis Road. LETTER XVII ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN _50 Marquis Rd. Camden Sq. Nov. 3, '73 London_ MY DEAREST FRIEND: