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 in particular.
When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a
sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a _buyer_ of other
men's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he _bought_ two
modernisations of Chaucer--'Ugolino' and another story from Leigh
Hunt--and o