of vengeance, for what?  Observe, I only speak of cases possible; of sudden impotency of mind; that is possible—­there are other ways of ‘changing,’ ‘ceasing to love’ &c. which it is safest not to think of nor believe in.  A man may never leave his writing desk without seeing safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs the disposal of his papers in the event of his reason suddenly leaving him—­or he may never go out into the street without a card in his pocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up in an apoplectic fit—­but if he once begins to fear he is growing a glass bottle, and, so, liable to be smashed,—­do you see?  And now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba—­see no more—­see what I am, what God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as I, received already so much; much, past expression!  It is but—­if you will so please—­at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my sake; but you will be as sure of me one day as I can be now of myself—­and why not now be sure?  See, love—­a year is gone by—­we were in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter ’Do not say I do not tire you’ (by writing)—­’I am sure I do.’  A year has gone by—­Did you tire me then? Now, you tell me what is told; for my sake, sweet, let the few years go by; we are married, and my arms are round you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, ’Were you not to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy behind all joys, a life added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the possible gifts of God on this earth, for which I seemed to have lived; which accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what they can; what, it is very likely, they esteem more—­for why should my eye be evil because God’s is good; why should I grudge that, giving them, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the inferior good and belief in its worth?  I should have wished that further concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their sakes—­but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only tribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to pay.  Hear this said now before the few years; and believe in it now for then, dearest!

Must you see ‘Pauline’?  At least then let me wait a few days; to correct the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the history of it; what is necessary you should know before you see it.  That article I suppose to be by Heraud—­about two thirds—­and the rest, or a little less, by that Mr. Powell—­whose unimaginable, impudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the ’Story from Boccaccio’—­of which the words quoted were his, I am sure—­as sure as that he knows not whether Boccaccio lived before or after Shakspeare, whether Florence or Rome be the more northern city,—­one word of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio’s