You did not appear visibly in my last night's dreams

October 4th. -- 5 or thereabout P.M.

Mine own Dove, I dreamed the queerest dreams last night, about being deserted, and all such nonsense so you see how I was punished for that naughty nonsense of the Faithless Dove. It seems to me that, my dreams arc generally about fantasies, and very seldom about what I really think and feel. You did not appear visibly in my last night's dreams: but they were made up of desolation; and it was good to awake, and know that in spirit was forever and irrevocably linked with the soul of my truest and tenderest Dove. You have warmed my heart, mine own wife: and never again can I know what it is to be cold and desolate, save in dreams. You love me dearly --- don't you?

And so my Dove has been in great peril since we parted. No ---- I do not believe she was; it was only a shadow of peril, not a reality. My spirit cannot anticipate am harm to you, and I trust you to God with securest faith. I know not whether I could endure actually to see you in danger; but when I hear of any risk as, for instance, when your steed seemed to be on the point of dashing you to pieces (but I do quake a little at that thought) against a tree. my mind does not seize upon it as if it had any substance. Believe me, dearest, the tree would have stood aside to let you pass, had there been no other means of salvation. Nevertheless, do not drive your steed against trees wilfully. Mercy on us, what a peril that was of this fat woman, when she "smashed herself" beside my Dove! Poor Dove! Did you not feel as if an avalanche had all hut huried you. I can see my Dove at this moment, my slender, little delicatest white Dove, squeezed almost out of Christendom by that great mass of female flesh -- that ton of woman -- that beef-eater and beer-guzzler, whose immense cloak, though broad as a ship's mainsail, could not be made to meet in front -- that picture of an ale-wife -- that triple, quadruple, dozen-fold old lady.

Will not my Dove confess that there is a little nonsense in this epistle? But be not wroth with me, darling wife --my heart sports with you because it loves you.

If you happen to see Sophie Hawthorne, kiss her cheek for my sake. I love her full as well as I do mine own wife. Will that satisfy her, do you think? If not, she is a very unreasonable little person.

It is my chiefest pleasure to write to you, dearest.

Your OWNEST HUSBAND.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.

Love Letters.