_Salem_, April 14th (Sunday), 1844
_Ownest Phoebe_,
Thy letter reached me yesterday forenoon, and made me truly
happy--happier than I can tell. I do not think that I am the more
conscious of the baby, by standing aloof from her. She has not yet
sufficiently realised herself in my soul; it seems like a dream,
therefore, which needs such assurances as thy letter, to convince me
that it is more than a dream. Well; I cannot write about her--nor
about thee, belovedest, for whom I have at this moment an unutterable
yearning. Methinks my hand was never so out of keeping with my heart.
I called at the book room in Boston, and saw there thy mother, thy
brother Nat, and Elizabeth!!--besides two or three ladies. It was the
most awkward place in the world to talk about Una and other kindred
subjects; so I made my escape as soon as possible, promising to return
to dine if convenient, and resolving that it should be as
inconvenient as possible. I wish thy mother could be so inhospitable
as never to ask me--but at all events, I need never go, except when
thou art there. I went to George Hillard's office, and he spoke with
unmitigable resolution of the necessity of my going to dine with
Longfellow before returning to Concord; but I have an almost
miraculous power of escaping from necessities of this kind. Destiny
itself has often been worsted in the attempt to get me out to dinner.
Possibly, however, I may go. Afterwards I called on Colonel Hall, who
held me long in talk about politics and other sweetmeats. Here,
likewise, I refused one or two invitations to dinner. Then I stept
into a book-auction, not to buy, but merely to observe; and after a
few moments, who should come in, with a smile as sweet as sugar
(though savoring rather of molasses) but, to my horror and
petrifaction, Mr. Watterson! I anticipated a great deal of bore and
botheration; but, through Heaven's mercy, he merely spoke a few words,
and then left me. This is so unlike his deportment in times past, that
I suspect the Celestial Railroad must have given him a pique; and if
so, I shall feel as if Providence had sufficiently rewarded me for
that pious labor.
In the course of the forenoon, I encountered Mr. Howes in the street.
He looked most exceedingly depressed, and pressing my hand with
peculiar emphasis, said that he was in great affliction, having just
had news of his son George's death in Cuba. He seemed encompassed and
overwhelmed by the misfortune, and walked the street as in a heavy
cloud of his own grief, forth from which he extended his hand to meet
my grasp. I expressed my sympathy, which I told him I was now the more
capable of feeling in a father's suffering, as being myself the father
of a little girl--and, indeed, the being a parent does give one the
freedom of a wider range of sorrow as well as happiness. He again
pressed my hand, and left me.
Well, dove, when I got to Salem, there was great joy, as you may
suppose. Our mother and sisters take as much interest in little Una as
can possibly be desired. They think the lock of hair very beautiful,
and deny that it has the faintest tinge of red. Mother hinted an
apprehension that poor baby would be spoilt--whereupon I irreverently
observed, that having spoilt her own three children, it was natural
for her to suppose that all other parents would do the same; when she
knocked me into a cocked hat, by averring that it was impossible to
spoil such children as Elizabeth and me, because she had never been
able to do anything with us. This I believe to be very true. There was
too much gentleness in her nature for such a task. She remonstrates,
by the by, against Una's being carried about in anybody's arms, and
says that it will soon be impossible to keep her quiet in any other
way. This was the case with Elizabeth; and mother never allowed her
other children to become habituated to it.
I could scarcely convince them that Una has begun to smile so soon. It
surprised even mother; though her own children appear to have been
bright specimens of babyhood. Elizabeth could walk and talk at nine
months old. I do not understand that thy husband was quite such a
miracle of precocity, but should think it not improbable, inasmuch as
precocious boys are said to make stupid men.
Ownest wife, I long so much to get back to thee, that it is a mockery
to try to say how much. Yet I think I shall be benefitted by the
absence, though it be truly an unpalatable medicine. I hope thy father
will be able to stay till Friday. It is just possible, if I go out to
see Longfellow, that I may not come till Saturday night; but this
will depend partly on what day the steamer comes. I shall consult thy
mother about the necessity of thy father's presence in Boston earlier
than that.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
Concord, Massachusetts.