_Salem_, March 15th, 1843
Dearest wife, Thy letters have all been received; and I know not that
I could have kept myself alive without them; for never was my heart so
hungry and tired as it is now. I need thee continually wherever I am,
and nothing else makes any approach towards satisfying me. Thou hast
the easier part--being drawn out of thyself by society; but with me
there is an ever-present yearning, which nothing outward seems to have
any influence upon. Four whole days must still intervene before we
meet--it is too long--too long--we have not so much time to spare out
of eternity.
As for this Mr. Billings, I wish he would not be so troublesome. I put
a note for him into the Boston Post-Office, directed according to his
own request. His scheme is well enough, and might possibly become
popular; but it has no peculiar advantages with reference to myself;
nor do the subjects of his proposed books particularly suit my fancy,
as themes to write upon. Somebody else will answer his purpose just
as well; and I would rather write books of my own imagining than be
hired to develope the ideas of an engraver; especially as the
pecuniary prospect is not better, nor so good, as it might be
elsewhere. I intend to adhere to my former plan, of writing one or two
mythological story books, to be published under O'Sullivan's auspices
in New York--which is the only place where books can be published,
with a chance of profit. As a matter of courtesy, I may perhaps call
on Mr. Billings, if I have time; but I do not intend to be connected
with this affair.
It is queer news that thou tellest me about the Pioneer. I expected it
to fail in due season, but not quite so soon. Shouldst there be an
opportunity within a day or two, I wish thou wouldst send for any
letters that may be in the Post-Office there; but not unless some
person is going thither, with intent to return before Wednesday next.
If thou receive any, keep them till we meet in Boston.
I dreamed the other night that our house was broken open, and all our
silver stolen. No matter though it be:--we have steel forks and German
silver spoons in plenty, and I only wish that we were to eat our
dinner with them to-day. But we shall have gained nothing on the score
of snow, and slosh, and mud, by our absence; for the bad walking
will be at its very _ne plus ultra_, next week. Wouldst thou not like
to stay just one little fortnight longer in Boston, where the
sidewalks afford dry passage to thy little feet? It will be mid-May,
at least, ere thou wilt find even tolerable walking in Concord. So if
thou wishest to walk while thou canst, we will put off our return a
week longer. Naughty husband that I am! I know by my own heart that
thou pinest for our home, and for the bosom where thou belongest. A
week longer! It is a horrible thought.
We cannot very well afford to buy a surplus stock of paper, just now.
By and by, I should like some, and I suppose there will always be
opportunities to get it cheap at auction. I do wonder--and always
shall wonder, until the matter be reformed--why Providence keeps us so
short of cash. Our earnings are miserably scanty at best; yet, if we
could but get even that pittance, I should continue to be thankful,
though certainly for small favors. The world deserves to come to a
speedy end, if it were for nothing else save to break down the
abominable system of credit--of keeping possession of other people's
property--which renders it impossible for a man to be just and honest,
even if so inclined. It is almost a pity that the comet is
retrograding from the earth; it might do away with all our
perversities at one smash. And thou, my little dove, and thy husband
for thy sake, might be pretty certain of a removal to some sphere
where we should have all our present happiness, and none of these
earthly inconveniences.
Ah, but, for the present, I like this earth better than Paradise
itself. I love thee, thou dearest. It is only when away from thee,
that the chill winds of the world make me shiver. Thou always keepest
me warm, and always wilt; and without thee, I should shiver in Heaven.
Dearest, I think I prefer to write thy name "Mrs. Sophia A.
Hawthorne," rather than "Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne";--the latter gives
me an image of myself in petticoats, knitting a stocking. I feel so
sensibly that thou art my chastest, holiest wife--a _woman_ and an
angel. But thou dost not love to blush in the midst of people.
Ownest, expect me next Tuesday in the forenoon; and do not look for
another letter. I pray heaven that I may find thee well, and not tired
quite to death. Even shouldst thou be so, however, I will restore thee
on Wednesday.
Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Mass.