_Brook Farm_,
Septr. 25th, 1841--½ past 7 A.M.
Ownest Dove, it was but just now that I thought of sending thee a few
lines by Mr. Ripley; for this penning of epistles is but a wretched
resource. What shall I do? What shall I do? To talk to thee in this
way does not bring thee nearer; it only compels me to separate myself
from thee, and put thee at a distance. Of all humbugs, pretending to
alleviate mortal woes, writing is the greatest.
Yet, thy two letters were a great comfort to me--so great, that they
could not possibly have been dispensed with. Dearest, I did not write
thee what Mr. and Mrs. Ripley said to me, because they have said
nothing which I did not know before. The ground, upon which I must
judge of the expediency of our abiding here, is not what they may say,
but what actually is, or is likely to be; and of this I doubt whether
either of them is capable of forming a correct opinion. Would that
thou couldst he here--or could have been here all summer--in order to
help me think what is to be done. But one thing is certain--I cannot
and will not spend the winter here. The time would be absolutely
thrown away, so far as regards any literary labor to be
performed,--and then to suffer this famished yearning for thee, all
winter long! It is impossible.
Dearest, do not thou wear thyself out with working upon that bust. If
it cause thee so much as a single head-ache, I shall wish that Laura
Bridgman were at Jericho. Even if thou shouldst not feel thyself
wearied at the time, I fear that the whole burthen of toil will fall
upon thee when all is accomplished. It is no matter if Laura should go
home without being sculptured--no matter if she goes to her grave
without it. I dread to have thee feel an outward necessity for such a
task; for this intrusion of an outward necessity into labors of the
imagination and intellect is, to me, very painful.
Oh, what weather! It seems to me as if every place were sunny, save
Brook Farm. Nevertheless, I had rather a pleasant walk to a distant
meadow, a day or two ago; and we found white and purple grapes, in
great abundance, ripe, and gushing with rich juice when the hand
pressed their clusters. Didst thou know what treasures of wild grapes
there are in this land. If we dwell here, we will make our own
wine--of which, I know, my Dove will want a great quantity.
Good bye, sweetest. If thou canst contrive to send me a glimpse of
sunshine, I will be the gratefullest husband on earth. I love thee
inextinguishably. Thou hast no place to put all the love which I feel
for thee.