Min’s letters! Ah, how I expected them, awaited them, devoured them!—from the first tender response that came in answer to mine, to the last little darling oblong-enveloped, dainty hand-written missive I received—ere I shook off the dust of the “Empire City” from my New-World-wearied feet, and left Sandy Hook behind me!
It would be a vain task, should I attempt to describe to you the agony of suspense in which I watched every week for the arrival of the European mail; for, I’m sure, that Sir Samuel Cunard himself could not have evinced so deep an interest in the safety of his steamers as I did; no, not even if they had been uninsured, and the underwriters declined all offers of “risk” premiums, be they never so high and tempting!
Long before the regular Scotia, the Java, or the Russia could, in their several turns, possibly have achieved the ocean passage, I was on the look out for them; prophesying all manner of disasters in the event of their being delayed; and overjoyed, with a frenzied rapture, should they be signalled in advance of their anticipated time! And then, when they had glided up New York Bay and anchored in the Hudson, how rapidly would my eager impatience bear me to the dingy old Post office “down town,” where I would sometimes have to wait for hours before the letters were sorted and delivered!
Should there be none for me, I was in despair—imagining all the various calamities, probable and improbable, that might have happened—although I might have heard from England only a few days previously; while, should I obtain a dearly-prized note from my darling, I was in ecstasy—only to be on the look out for the next mail a moment afterwards!
I was never satisfied.
I remember an official in the Ann Street Bureau asking me one day, what made me “so almight lonesome” about the “old country;” and “guessing,” when I took no notice of his question, that I had “a young woman over the water.”
Young woman, indeed! If looks could kill, that inquisitive and ill-mannered person was a dead man on the spot!
I never heard anything so impertinent in my life!
Her letters!
I could almost see, as I read them, the dear, earnest, soul-lit grey eyes, gazing once more into mine; the loving little hand that penned each darling sentence. In fancy, I could mark the changing expressions that swept across the sweet Madonna face, whose every line I knew so well, as, down-bent on the rustling paper, some sad or happy recollection filled her mind for awhile, in detailing those little events of her daily life which she related to please me. She wrote to me easily and naturally, just as if she were talking to me—the greatest charm a letter can have. The written words appeared to speak out to me in silvery intonations and musical rhythm:—the very violet ink seemed scented with her breath!