_Brook Farm_, June 1st, 1841--nearly 6 A.M.
_Very dearest_,
I have been too busy to write thee a long letter by this opportunity;
for I think this present life of mine gives me an antipathy to pen and
ink, even more than my Custom-House experience did. I could not live
without the idea of thee, nor without spiritual communion with thee;
but, in the midst of toil, or after a hard day's work in the gold
mine, my soul obstinately refuses to be poured out on paper. That
abominable gold mine! Thank God, we anticipate getting rid of its
treasures, in the course of two or three days. Of all hateful places,
that is the worst; and I shall never comfort myself for having spent
so many days of blessed sunshine there. It is my opinion, dearest,
that a man's soul may be buried and perish under a dung-heap or in a
furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money. Well; that
giant, Mr. George Bradford, will probably be here to-day; so there
will be no danger of thy husband being under the necessity of laboring
more than he likes, hereafter. Meantime, my health is perfect, and my
spirits buoyant, even in the gold mine.
And how art thou, belovedest? Two or three centuries have passed since
I saw thee; and then thou wast pale and languid. Thou didst comfort me
in that little note of thine; but still I cannot help longing to be
informed of thy present welfare. Thou art not a prudent little Dove,
and wast naughty to come on such a day as thou didst; and it seems to
me that Mrs. Ripley does not know how to take care of thee at all. Art
thou quite well now?
Dearest wife, I intend to come and see thee either on Thursday or
Friday--perhaps my visit may be deferred till Saturday, if the gold
mine should hold out so long. I yearn for thee unspeakably. Good bye
now; for the breakfast horn has sounded, some time since. God bless
thee, ownest.