Hartford, 9th.
Break our engagement, darling? I would infinitely rather die. No, Livy, if note is taken of the deeds of men, our troth is writ in the eternal records of Heaven. We were created for each other, & can no more wilfully separate than can the forces of nature defy the God that created them. For all time w We are bound together ‸each other‸ by viewless chains that are strong as the granite ribs that link the mountains together, & more enduring than the Pyramids that mock at the perishable vanities of men—for these chains are of eternity itself, & cannot know death.
You are right when you say we shall not break our engagement. My life thenceforward would be only a vain & foolish sort of existence, for I know by every instinct that is in me that I am not capable of loving any other woman as I love you. And life is but a dull, eventless captivity without love.
To say that I am sorry for Emma, but ill expresses it—for I can, after a fashion, divine what my torture would be if I were in her place.1 That I can divine one-half the magnitude of the terrible calamity, though, I do not pretend. It suggests graves, madness, winding-sheets & death!—in a word, all nameless horrors that can befall the unfortunate. In presence of the thought, I feel as if I want to put my arms about you & clasp you close to my breast, & know & feel that you are my darling yet, that I have not lost you.
I am more than sorry for Emma—I feel more kindly toward her than I ever did before—& my rebuking conscience iterates & reiterates to me that all the time that I would have stood between you & her & bolted the sheltering doors against her, she was beseeching seeking restful words for a troubled spirit & balm for a sore heart.
All the ill news comes at once. A friend of Twichell’s is in misfortune—a young minister whom I met, with his wife,2 at Twichell’s house several times heretofore. He loved her to idolatry, & now she is taken from him. She had a miscarriage two years ago, & cam what with her bodily sufferings & grief for the loss of the child, she came near dying. Last week she had another miscarriage, & did not survive it. The young widower is well nigh beside himself with despair. Death is for us both, my Livy, but not broken engagements. Our marriage—for marriage it is—is for time & eternity.
“Livy, Livy, Livy” (I love the name,) I am so sorry, but we can’t have proofs to send you. The publisher & the proof-reader a electrotyper are at daggers’ points, & as the latter is not obliged by custom or contract to furnish duplicate proofs, Bliss has little hope of getting them. He will try, but expects a refusal. And I have put so much “poetry in the margin” that it seems hardly worth while for me to make an attempt, especially as Bliss says he is a crusty, ill-natured Englishman3—still, I mean to make the attempt anyhow. I have read ‸over‸ fifty pages of proofs this morning—dull, stupid, aggravating, tiresome drudgery it was. It seems incredible to me that these are the very same kind of proofs I used to love to read with my darling & string out as long as possible. But this time I galloped through them & was perfectly delighted when I got through. It took me about two hours—or even less. I haven’t even made a start toward answering your dear good letters (7th & 8th received to-day,) & yet I must stop writing now, for at 3 or 3.30 oclock I must be at Mrs. Hooker’s, & it is considerably after 2, now & I am not yet shaved.
Hat’s gone, now, I suppose, & I am most sincerely sorry, for if she isn’t a blessing to a household, all my judgments are gone astray. And she was such company & such a help to you, that I feel a grateful [ gr glow ]around about my heart every time I think of [her. Anybody ] that is good to Livy can command my love & [ reg respect ]. I shall write her, to Lisbon, Ill.4
Livy dear, you must deliver my love unto your father & mother (& in no stinted measure or in frozen parliamentary pomp & circumstance, I warn you,) & unto your sister Sue & Theodore as well. I love all those parties.
Confound it, I forgot to give Hattie the mocking-bird.
The peace of God be with you, my own darling, & His angels keep you.
Sam
Miss Olivia L. Langdon | Elmira | New York [return address:] allyn house, hartford, conn.
R. J. allyn.
[postmarked:] hartford connmay II
[docketed by OLL:]
5 64th
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L3, 209–211; LLMT, 358, brief paraphrase.
Provenance:see Samossoud Collection, p. 586.
Emendations and textual notes:
gr • grlow [‘r’ partly formed]
her. Anybody • her.—|Anybody
reg • respect
