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  Dear Friend

The newspapers have both come to hand & been gladly welcomed. I shall realize you on the 26th sending living impulses into those young men, with results not to cease—their kindled hearts sending back response through glowing eyes that will be warmer to you than the June sunshine. Perhaps too, you will have pleasant talks with the eminent astronomers there. Prof. Young who is so skillful   a worker with that most subtle fetcher of tidings from the Stars, the Spectroscope—always, it seems hitherto bringing word of the "vast similitude that interlocks all" nay of the absolute identity of the stuff they are made of with the stuff we are made of."—The news from Denmark, that too, is a great pleasure.

I have been what seems to me a very long while since last writing, because it has been a troubled time within & what I wrote I tore up again, believing it was best wisest so—You said in   your first letter that if you had leisure you could write one that "would do me good & you too"; write that letter dear Friend after you have been to Dartmouth, for I sorely need it. Perhaps the letters that I have sent you since that first, have given you a feeling of constraint towards me because you cannot respond to them. I will not write any more such letters; or, if I write them because my heart is so full it cannot bear it, they shall not find their way to the Post.   But do not, because I give you more than friendship, think that it would not be a very dear & happy thing to me to have friendship only from you—I do not want you to write what it is any effort to write—do not ask for deep thoughts, deep feelings—know well those must choose their our own time & mode—but for the simplest current details—for any thing that helps my eyes to pierce the distance & see you as you live & move today. I dearly like to hear about your Mother—want to know if all   your sisters are married, & if you have plenty of little nephews & nieces—I like to hear anything about Mr. O'Connor & Mr. Burroughs, towards both of whom I feel as toward friends. (Has Mr. O'Connor succeeded in getting practically adopted his new method of making cast steel? Percy being a worker in the field of Metallurgy make me specially glad to hear about this). Then, I need not tell you how deep an interest I feel in American politics & want to know if you are satisfied with the result of the Cincinnati Convention & what of Mr. Greely? & what you augur as to his success—I am sure dear friend if   you realized the joy it is to me to receive a few words from you—about anything that is passing in your thoughts & around—how beaming bright & happy the day a letter comes & many days after—how light hearted & alert I set about my daily tasks, it would not seem irksome to you to write. And if you say, "Read my books, & be content—you have me in them"—I say, it is because I read them so that I am not content. It is an effort to me to turn to any other reading; as to highest literature what I felt three years ago is more than   ever true now, with all their precious augmentations—I want nothing else—am fully fed & satisfied there. I sit alone many hours busy with my needle; this used to be tedious; but it is not so now—for always close at hand lie the books that are so dear so dear I brooding over the poems sunning myself in them, pondering the Vistas—all the experience of my past life & all its aspirations corroborating them—all my future & so far as in me lies the future of my children to be shaped modified vitalized by & through these—outwardly & inwardly. How then can I be content to live wholly isolated from you? I   am sure it is not possible for any one,—man or woman, it does not matter which, to receive these books, not merely with the intellect critically admiring their power & beauty: but with an understanding responsive heart, without feeling it drawn out of their breasts so that they must leave all & come to be with you sometimes—without a resistless yearning for personal intercourse that will take no denial. When we come to America, I shall not want you to talk to me; shall not be any way importunate. To settle down where there are some that love you & understand your poems, some   where that you would be sure to come pretty often—to have you sit with me while I worked, you silent, or reading to your self, I don't mind how: to let my children grow fond of you—to take food with us; if my music pleased you, to let me play & sing to you of an evening; do your needlework for you—talk freely of all that occupied my thoughts concerning the childrens​ children's​ welfare &c—I could be very happy so. But silence with the living presence &   silence with all the Ocean in between are two different things. Therefore, these years stretch out your hand cordially trustfully that I may feel its warm grasp.

Good bye my dearest friend. Anne Gilchrist