_Salem_, June 20th, 1842--A.M. 11 o'clock
_True and Honorable Wife_,
Thou hast not been out of mind a moment since I saw thee last,--and
never wilt thou be, so long as we exist. Canst thou say as much?
Dearest, dost thou know that there are but ten days more in this
blessed month of June? And dost thou remember what is to happen within
those ten days? Poor little Dove! Now dost thou tremble, and shrink
back, and beginnest to fear that thou hast acted too rashly in this
matter. Now dost thou say to thyself--"Oh, that I could prevail upon
this wretched person to allow me a month or two longer to make up my
mind; for, after all, he is but an acquaintance of yesterday; and
unwise am I, to give up father, mother, and sisters, for the sake of
such a questionable stranger!" Ah, foolish virgin! It is too late;
nothing can part us now; for God Himself hath ordained that we shall
be one. So nothing remains, but to reconcile thyself to thy destiny.
Year by year, thou must come closer and closer to me; and a thousand
ages hence, we shall be only in the honeymoon of our marriage. Poor
little Dove!
Sweetest wife, I cannot write to thee. The time for that species of
communion is past. Hereafter, I cannot write my feelings, but only
external things, business, facts, details, matters which do not relate
to the heart and soul, but merely to our earthly condition. I have
long had such a feeling, whenever I took up my pen--and now more than
ever.
Would that I knew when the priest is to thrust himself between us!
Dearest, the last day of the month, if I mistake not, is Thursday, of
next week. Unless thou desirest my presence sooner, I shall return to
Boston probably on Sunday evening. Then will the days lag heavily,
till we can flee away and be at rest. And, I pray thee, let our flight
be in the morning; for it would be strange and wearisome to live half
a day of ordinary life at such an epoch. I should be like a body
walking about the city without a soul--being therein the reverse of
good old Dr. Harris, whose soul walks about without the body. And this
reminds me, that he has not made himself visible of late. Foolish me,
not to have accosted him; for perhaps he wished to give us some good
advice on our entrance into connubial life--or possibly, he intended
to disclose the hiding-place of some ancient hoard of gold, which
would have freed us forever from all pecuniary cares. I think we shall
not need his counsel on the former point; but on the latter, it would
have been peculiarly acceptable.
Ownest, would there be anything amiss in exchanging that copy of
Southey's Poems for some other book? We should still have Campbell's
English Poets as an immediate keepsake from Miss Burley; and whatever
book we might procure would be none the less a gift from her. My copy
of Southey went to the Manse with my furniture; else I should have
brought it hither and given it to Elizabeth--who, however, does not
especially admire Southey.
Now good bye, dearest love. I fear thou wilt make thyself sick with
much care and toil. God bless thee! Our mother and sisters would send
their love, if they knew that I am writing to thee. They love thee,
and link us together in their thoughts. God bless them, and us, and
everybody. Dost thou perceive how love widens my heart?