_Salem_, Novr. 27th, 1841
_Dearest Soul,_
I know not whether thou wilt have premonitions of a letter from thy
husband; but I feel absolutely constrained to write thee a few lines
this morning, before I go up in town. I love thee--I love thee--and I
have no real existence but in thee. Never before did my bosom so yearn
for the want of thee--so thrill at the thought of thee. Thou art a
mighty enchantress, my little Dove, and hast quite subdued a strong
man, who deemed himself independent of all the world. I am a captive
under thy little foot, and look to thee for life. Stoop down and kiss
me--or I die!
Dearest, I am intolerably weary of this old town; and I would that my
visits might not be oftener than once in ten years, instead of a
fortnight. Dost thou not think it really the most hateful place in all
the world? My mind becomes heavy and nerveless, the moment I set my
foot within its precincts. Nothing makes me wonder more than that I
found it possible to write all my tales in this same region of
sleepy-head and stupidity. But I suppose the characteristics of the
place are reproduced in the tales; and that accounts for the
overpowering disposition to slumber which so many people experience,
in reading thy husband's productions.
Belovedest, according to thy instructions, I have been very careful in
respect to mince-pies and other Thanksgiving dainties; and so have
passed pretty well through the perils of the carnival season. Thou art
a dearest little wife, and I would live on bread and water, to please
thee, even if such temperate regimen should produce no other good. But
truly thou art very wise in thy dietetic rules; and it is well that I
have such a wife to take care of me; inasmuch as I am accustomed to
eat whatever is given me, with an appetite as indiscriminate, though
not quite so enormous, as that of an ostrich. Setting aside fat pork,
I refuse no other Christian meat.
Dearest, I write of nothing; for I had nothing to write when I began,
save to make thee aware that I loved thee infinitely; and now that
thou knowest it, there is no need of saying a word more. On Monday
evening, please God, I shall see thee. How would I have borne it, if
thy visit to Ida Russel were to commence before my return to thine
arms?
God bless thee, mine ownest.