August 22d. Five or six o clock P.M. I was interrupted by the supper bell, while writing the foregoing sentence; and much that I might have added has now passed out of my mind or passed into its depths. My beloved wife, let us make no question about our love, whether it be true. Were it otherwise, God would not have left your heart to wreck itself utterly His angels keep watch over you they would have given you early and continued warning of the approach of Evil in any shape.
Two letters has my Dove blessed me with, since that of Monday both beautiful all three, in deed, most beautiful. There is a great deal in all of them that should be especially answered; but how may this be effected in one little sheet? -- moreover, it is my pleasure to write in a more desultory fashion.
Nevertheless, propound as many questions as you see fit, in your letters, hut, dearest, let it he without expectation of a set response.
When I first looked at that shadow of the Passing Hour, I thought her expression too sad; hut the more I looked the sweeter and pleasanter it grew and now I am inclined to think that few mortals are waited on by happier Hours than is my Dove, even in her pensive moods. My beloved, you make a Heaven round about you, and dwell in it continually; and as it is your Heaven, so is it mine. My heart has not been very heavy -- not desperately heavy -- any one time since I loved you; not even your illness and headaches, dearest wife, can make me desperately sad. My stock of sunshine is so infinitely increased by partaking of yours, that even when a cloud flits by, I incomparably prefer its gloom to the sullen, leaden tinge that used to overspread my sky. Were you to bring me, in outward appearance, nothing save a load of grief and pain, yet I do believe that happiness, in no stinted measure, would somehow or other be smuggled into the dismal burthen. But you come to me with no grief -- no pain -- you come with flowers of Paradise; some in bloom, many in the bud, and all of them immortal.
Two letters has my Dove blessed me with, since that of Monday both beautiful all three, in deed, most beautiful. There is a great deal in all of them that should be especially answered; but how may this be effected in one little sheet? -- moreover, it is my pleasure to write in a more desultory fashion.
Nevertheless, propound as many questions as you see fit, in your letters, hut, dearest, let it he without expectation of a set response.
When I first looked at that shadow of the Passing Hour, I thought her expression too sad; hut the more I looked the sweeter and pleasanter it grew and now I am inclined to think that few mortals are waited on by happier Hours than is my Dove, even in her pensive moods. My beloved, you make a Heaven round about you, and dwell in it continually; and as it is your Heaven, so is it mine. My heart has not been very heavy -- not desperately heavy -- any one time since I loved you; not even your illness and headaches, dearest wife, can make me desperately sad. My stock of sunshine is so infinitely increased by partaking of yours, that even when a cloud flits by, I incomparably prefer its gloom to the sullen, leaden tinge that used to overspread my sky. Were you to bring me, in outward appearance, nothing save a load of grief and pain, yet I do believe that happiness, in no stinted measure, would somehow or other be smuggled into the dismal burthen. But you come to me with no grief -- no pain -- you come with flowers of Paradise; some in bloom, many in the bud, and all of them immortal.
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