“And now, sweetest Consuelo, our brief dream is over; and such a dream! Have we not known real bliss? Have we not realized what poets love to set up as an ideal state, giving full license to their imagination, scarcely believing in its reality? Have we not experienced the truth that ecstasy is not a fiction? I have; and, as I will not permit myself to doubt you, am certain you have. And oh! what an additional delight to think,—no, to know, that I have made some hours happy to you! Yes, and that remembrance of me may lighten the heavy time of many an hour to come. Yes, our little dream of great account is over; reality stares us in the face. Let us peruse its features. Look with me and read as I do, and you will find our dream is ‘not all a dream.’ Can reality take from us, when she separates and exiles us from each other,—can she divide our souls, our spirits? Can slander’s tongue or rumor’s trumpet summon us to a parley with ourselves, where, to doubt each other, we should hold a council? _No! no!_ a doubt of thee can no more find harbor in my brain than the opened rose shall cease to be the hum-bird’s harbor. And as my heart and soul are in your possession, examine them, and you will find no text from which to discourse a doubt of _me_. But you have told me (and oh! what music did your words create upon my grateful ear) that you would _not doubt me_. With these considerations, dearest, our separation, though painful, will not be unendurable; and if a sombre hour should intrude itself upon you, banish it by knowing there is one who is whispering to himself, Consuelo. “There is another potent reason why you should be happy,—that is, having been the means of another’s happiness; for I _am_ happy, and, with you to remember and the blissful anticipation of seeing you again, shall remain so. I wish I could tell you my happiness. I cannot. No words have been yet invented that could convey an idea of the depth of that passion, composed of pride, admiration, awe, gratitude, veneration, and love, without being earthy, that I feel for you. “Be happy, dearest; write to me and tell me you are happy. Think of the time when we shall meet again; believe that I shall do my utmost to be worthy of your love; and now God bless you a thousand times, my own, my heart’s altar. “I would say more, but must stow away my shreds and tinsel patches. Ugh! how hideous they look after thinking of you! “Adieu! adieu! and when thou’rt gone, My joy shall be made up alone Of calling back, with fancy’s charm, Those halcyon hours when in my arm Clasped Consuelo. “Adieu! adieu! be thine each joy That earth can yield without alloy, Shall be the earnest constant prayer Of him who in his heart shall wear But Consuelo.