So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fulness of
delight in this taste of fruition--such, perhaps, as many a human
being passes through life without ever knowing. The poor English
teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the
wintry air, a letter simply good-natured--nothing more; though that
good-nature then seemed to me godlike--was happier than most queens in
palaces.
Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet,
while it lasted it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble--but a sweet
bubble--of real honey-dew. Dr. John had written to me at length; he
had written to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood,
dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his
eyes and mine,--on places we had visited together--on conversations we
had held--on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few
halcyon weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a conviction
the blithe, genial language generously imparted, that it had been
poured out not merely to content _me_--but to gratify _himself_.
A gratification he might never more desire, never more seek--an
hypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but _that_
concerned the future. This present moment had no pain, no blot, no want;
full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me. A passing seraph seemed to have
rested beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed on its throb a
softening, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John, you pained me
afterwards: forgiven be every ill--freely forgiven--for the sake of that
one dear remembered good!
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