I tell you, Speed, our forebodings (for which you and I are peculiar) are all the worst sort of nonsense.  I fancied, from the time I received your letter of Saturday, that the one of Wednesday was never to come, and yet it did come, and what is more, it is perfectly clear, both from its tone and handwriting, that you were much happier, or, if you think the term preferable, less miserable, when you wrote it than when you wrote the last one before.  You had so obviously improved at the very time I so much fancied you would have grown worse.  You say that something indescribably horrible and alarming still haunts you.  You will not say that three months from now, I will venture.  When your nerves once get steady now, the whole trouble will be over forever.  Nor should you become impatient at their being even very slow in becoming steady.  Again you say, you much fear that that Elysium of which you have dreamed so much is never to be realized.  Well, if it shall not, I dare swear it will not be the fault of her who is now your wife.  I now have no doubt that it is the peculiar misfortune of both you and me to dream dreams of Elysium far exceeding all that anything earthly can realize.  Far short of your dreams as you may be, no woman could do more to realize them than that same black-eyed Fanny.  If you could but contemplate her through my imagination, it would appear ridiculous to you that any one should for a moment think of being unhappy with her.  My old father used to have a saying that “If you make a bad bargain, hug it all the tighter”; and it occurs to me that if the bargain you have just closed can possibly be called a bad one, it is certainly the most pleasant one for applying that maxim to which my fancy can by any effort picture.

I write another letter, enclosing this, which you can show her, if she desires it.  I do this because she would think strangely, perhaps, should you tell her that you received no letters from me, or, telling her you do, refuse to let her see them.  I close this, entertaining the confident hope that every successive letter I shall have from you (which I here pray may not be few, nor far between) may show you possessing a more steady hand and cheerful heart than the last preceding it.  As ever, your friend, Lincoln.

TO JOSHUA F. SPEED.

Springfield, March 27, 1842

Dear speed:—­Yours of the 10th instant was received three or four days since.  You know I am sincere when I tell you the pleasure its contents gave me was, and is, inexpressible.  As to your farm matter, I have no sympathy with you.  I have no farm, nor ever expect to have, and consequently have not studied the subject enough to be much interested with it.  I can only say that I am glad you are satisfied and pleased with it.  But on that other subject, to me of the most intense interest whether in joy or sorrow, I never had the power to withhold