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by another laughter which is rebellion, And this letter of mine carries the laughter of defiance. I had no other object in sitting down to write this morning; I had nothing particular to say to you— and to try to think when the ship is rolling in such an insane manner, is like trying to carry a full vessel of water while one is drunk; the greater part of the content is spilt. And yet I must write this letter, merely to show, that, though at the present moment I cannot stand erect on my legs, I can write. This is to assert, in the face of the ironical clapping of hands of the mighty Atlantic, that my mind, not only can stand up straight in its world of language, but can run, and even dance. This is my triumph.

To-day is Tuesday—on the morning of Thursday we are expected to reach Plymouth. I had been nourishing in my heart the expectation of finding your letters waiting for me in London; for I had hoped that R—had cabled to Thos. Cook’s about our movements. But I find that he has not, and a number of your letters will take nearly a month to find me. I cannot tell you what a disappointment it is for me. Your letters have helped me more than anything else during these extremely trying months of my exile—they have been like food and water to a soldier who is dragging his wounded and weary limbs, counting every step, across a difficult and doubtful road back to his camp-fire. However, I am coming to my journey’s end and intensely