
Your letter of July 8 has reached me, & is comforting, as always. I must write you at least a line or two. Don't mind my long silences. My illness has not lifted since I last wrote you, & is still upon me—the last two or three months the bad spells have been frequent & depressing. Yet I keep up, go out a little most every day, & preserve good spirits.
I am cheered & pleased by the friendly & living photographs. You did well to send them to me. I shall keep them by me—look at them often—they do me good.

I have just sent you a paper. When you write, tell me more about your children—Percy & all. Love to them, & to you, dear friend.
Walt WhitmanBefore enveloping my letter, I take a good long, long look at the photographs—with all their silence, cheery & eloquent to me, as I sit here alone by my open window—A vague impressiveness, a thought, not without solemnity—which you must understand without my writing it—comes over me, like a little sun–cloud, this vapory day—& with that, & once again my love, I close.