It will be a great relief to my heart when I find you sufficiently calm
upon this sad subject to claim the promise I made you when she lay dead
in this house, never to shrink from speaking of her, as if her memory
must be avoided, but rather to take a melancholy pleasure in recalling
the times when we were all so happy--so happy that increase of fame and
prosperity has only widened the gap in my affections, by causing me to
think how she would have shared and enhanced all our joys, and how proud
I should have been (as God knows I always was) to possess the affections
of the gentlest and purest creature that ever shed a light on earth. I
wish you could know how I weary now for the three rooms in Furnival's
Inn, and how I miss that pleasant smile and those sweet words which,
bestowed upon our evening's work, in our merry banterings round the
fire, were more precious to me than the applause of a whole world would
be. I can recall everything she said and did in those happy days, and
could show you every passage and line we read together.

I see _now_ how you are capable of making great efforts, even against
the afflictions you have to deplore, and I hope that, soon, our words
may be where our thoughts are, and that we may call up those old
memories, not as shadows of the bitter past, but as lights upon a
happier future.

Believe me, my dear Mrs. Hogarth,
Ever truly and affectionately yours.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "The Village Coquettes."

[2] Mrs. Braham.

[3] Printed in "Forty Years' Recollections of Life, Literature, and
Public Affairs," by Charles Mackay.

[4] A chain made of Mary Hogarth's hair, sent to Charles Dickens on the
first anniversary of her birthday, after her death.

[5]DIARY--1838.

_Monday, January 1st, 1838._

A sad New Year's Day in one respect, for at the opening of last year
poor Mary was with us. Very many things to be grateful for since then,
however. Increased reputation and means--good health and prospects. We
never know the full value of blessings till we lose them (we were not
ignorant of this one when we had it, I hope). But if she were with us
now, the same winning, happy, amiable companion, sympathising with all
my thoughts and feelings more than anyone I knew ever did or will, I
think I should have nothing to wish for, but a continuance of such
happiness. But she is gone, and pray G