Oh, how I love them--those poems, in whose noble and enchanting language your love and our sufferings are reechoed! How my whole soul flew forth to meet them when I received them, and how pressed I my lips thousands and thousands of times on the paper which seemed to me redolent with your breath and your sighs! How I love that good, faithful Jane, the silent messenger of our love! When I behold her entering my chamber, with the unsullied paper in hand, she is to me the dove with the olive-leaf, that brings me peace and happiness, and I rush to her, and press her to my bosom; and give her all the kisses I would give you, and feel how poor and powerless I am, because I cannot repay her all the happiness that she brings me.

Ah, Henry, how many thanks do we owe to poor Jane!" "Why do you call her poor, when she can be near you, always behold yon, always hear you ?" "I call her poor, because she is unhappy.

For she loves, Henry--she loves to desperation, to madness, and she is not loved.

She is pining away with grief and pain, and wrings her hands in boundless woe.

Have you not noticed how pale she is, and how her eyes become daily more dim ?" "No, I have not seen it, for I see naught but you, and Lady Jane is to me a lifeless image, as are all other women.