_Brook Farm_, May 4th, 1841. ½ past 1 P.M.
Belovedest, as Mr. Ripley is going to the city this afternoon, I
cannot but write a letter to thee, though I have but little time; for
the corn field will need me very soon. My cold no longer troubles me;
and all this morning, I have been at work under the clear blue sky, on
a hill side. Sometimes it almost seemed as if I were at work in the
sky itself; though the material in which I wrought was the ore from
our gold mine. Nevertheless, there is nothing so unseemly and
disagreeable in this sort of toil, as thou wouldst think. It defiles
the hands, indeed, but not the soul. This gold ore is a pure and
wholesome substance; else our Mother Nature would not devour it so
readily, and derive so much nourishment from it, and return such a
rich abundance of good grain and roots in requital of it.
The farm is growing very beautiful now--not that we yet see anything
of the pease or potatoes, which we have planted; but the grass blushes
green on the slopes and hollows. I wrote that word blush almost
unconsciously; so we will let it go as an inspired utterance. When I
go forth afield, I think of my Dove, and look beneath the stone walls,
where the verdure is richest, in hopes that a little company of
violets, or some solitary bud, prophetic of the summer, may be there;
to which I should award the blissful fate of being treasured for a
time in thy bosom; for I doubt not, dearest, that thou wouldst admit
any flowers of thy husband's gathering into that sweetest place. But
not a wild flower have I yet found. One of the boys gathered some
yellow cowslips, last Sunday; but I am well content not to have found
them; for they are not precisely what I should like to send my Dove,
though they deserve honor and praise, because they come to us when no
others will. We have our parlor here dressed in evergreen, as at
Christmas. That beautifullest little flower vase of thine stands on
Mr. Ripley's study table, at which I am now writing. It contains some
daffodils and some willow blossoms. I brought it here, rather than
kept it in my chamber, because I never sit there, and it gives me many
pleasant emotions to look round and be surprised (for it is often a
surprise, though I well know that it is there) by something which is
connected with the idea of thee.
Most dear wife, I cannot hope that thou art yet entirely recovered
from that terrible influenza; but if thou art not almost well, I know
not how thy husband will endure it. And that cough too. It is the only
one of thy utterances, so far as I have heard them, which I do not
love. Wilt thou not be very well, and very lightsome, at our next
meeting. I promise myself to be with thee next Thursday, the day after
tomorrow. It is an eternity since we met; and I can nowise account for
my enduring this lengthened absence so well. I do not believe that I
could suffer it, if I were not engaged in a righteous and
heaven-blessed way of life. When I was in the Custom-House, and then
at Salem, I was not half so patient; though my love of thee has grown
infinitely since then.
We had some tableaux last evening, the principal characters being
sustained by Mr. Farley and Miss Ellen Slade. They went off very well.
I would like to see a tableaux arranged by my Dove.
Dearest, I fear it is time for thy clod-compelling husband to take the
field again. Good bye.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
13 West street,
Boston.