I never felt sure of going to Heaven, till I knew that you loved me

Boston, September 23d 1839. 1/2 past 6 P. M.

Belovedest little wife sweetest Sophie Hawthorne what a delicious walk that was, last Thursday! It seems to me, now, as it I could really remember every footstep of it. It is almost as distinct as the recollection of those walks, in which my earthly form did really tread beside your own, and my arm upheld you; and, indeed, it has the same character as those heavenly ramblinds; for did we tread on earth ever then? Oh no our souls went far away among the sun set clouds, and wherever there was ethereal beauty, there were we. our true selves; and it was there we grew into each other, and became a married pair. Dearest, I love to date our marriage as far back as possible, and I feel sure that the tie had been formed, and our union had become indissoluble, even before we sat clown together on the steps of the "house of spirits." How beautiful and blessed those hours appear to me! True; we are far more conscious of our relation, and therefore infinitely happier, now, than we were then; but still those remembrances are among the most precious treasures of my soul. It is not past happiness; it makes a portion of our present bliss. And thus, doubtless, even amid the joys of Heaven, we shall love to look back to our earthly bliss, and treasure it forever in the sum of an infinitely accumulating happiness. Perhaps not a single pressure of the hand, not a glance, not a sweet and tender tone, but will be repeated some time or other in our memory.

Oh, dearest, blessedest Dove, I never felt sure of going to Heaven, till I knew that you loved me; but now I am conscious of God's love in your own. And now, good bye for a little while, mine own wife. I thought it was just on the verge of supper-time when I began to write -- and there is the bell now. I was beginning to fear that it had rung unheard while I was communing with my Dove. Should we be the more ethereal, if we did not eat I have a most human and earthly appetite.

Mine own wife, since supper I have been reading over again (tor the third time the two first being aboard my saltship the Marcia Cleaves) your letter of yesterday -- and a dearest letter it is -- and meeting with Sophie Hawthorne twice, I took the liberty to kiss her very fervently. Will she forgive me? Do know yourself by that name, dearest, and think of yourself as Sophie Hawthorne? It thrills my heart to write it, and still more, I think, to read it. in the fairy letters of your own hand. Oh. you are my wife, my dearest, truest, tenderest, most beloved wife. I would not be disjoined from you for u moment, for all the world. And how strong, while I write, is the consciousness that I am truly your husband!

My little Dove, I have observed that butterflies -- very broad-winged and magnificent butterflies -- frequently come on board of the salt ship when I am at work. What have these bright strangers to do on Long Wharf, where there are no flowers or any green thing nothing but brick stores, stone piles, black ships, and the bustle of toilsome men, who neither look up to the blue sky, nor take note of these wandering gems of air. I cannot account for them, unless, dearest, they are the lovely fantasies of your mind, which you send thither in search of me. There is the supper-hell. Good-bye, darling.