Dear old Darwin

I have just buried my darling little girl & read your kind note.¹ I tried hard to make no difference between her & the other children, but she was my very own, the flower of my flock in everyone’s eyes, the companion of my walks, the first of my children who has shown any love for Music and flowers, & the sweetest tempered affectionate little thing that ever I knew. it will be long before I cease to hear her voice in my ears—or feel her little hand stealing into mine, by the fire side & in the Garden.— wherever I go she is there—

The Funeral service had no more effect on me than on her— the association with her personally snapped as the ceremonial left my door, & oddly enough I felt nothing at seeing the little white coffin go into the vault, my mind was wandering amongst sweeter memories elsewhere.

And now I can calmly think of what sorrows I am spared— Her’s was no contagious disease threatening the whole family for weeks afterwards.— she suffered comparatively little—& above all do I rejoice, that she was yet so young & happy, that death did not enter her little head during her illness—& I was spared the agony of seeing my darling pass through the “Valley of the shadow of death”—² Then too strangely enough I never knew she was dying till 3 minutes before the breath left her body   For 3 hours I was blind to every one of those symptoms of rapidly approaching dissolution that every nurse knows & every novelist describes—& I have seen myself so often.³ The doctor came in just 3 minutes before she died & told me to my horror she was dying. I knew the extreme danger, but assumed she had many hours to live. The retrospect of that last night is thus in some respects comforting in others hideous, & I can still feel the cold shudder that every misinterpreted symptom still sent through me, during that long night of agony & suspense.

My wife is still very ill, with rheumatism & neuralgia, weakness & sorrow—& but for the presence of her friend Miss Hawthorn⁴ I do not know what I should have done—during the last 5 days.

I do hope to be able to move her by Monday to my Uncle Gunn’s in Norfolk.⁵ poor thing she has now no Uncle or Aunts house or other of the many resorts she once had to fall back upon.⁶ Since we married her family has foundered like an ill equipped fleet in an open roadstead.

And now I must go about my work till Monday—& have heaps to do till then.

I had hoped that you were back at Down & better— Kindly let Henrietta write & tell me how you all are.—⁷ your last bulletin was a very sad one— my address will be

Revd. J. Gunn.

Irstead Neattishead⁸

Norwich

Ever yrs affec | J D Hooker