_Salem_, July 13th, 1847
_Ownest Phoebe_,
Greatly needed by me were thy two letters; for thou hadst never before
been away from me so long without writing. And thou art still busy,
every moment! I was in hopes thou wouldst have a little quiet now,
with Dora to take care of the children;--but that seems fated never
more to be thine. As for me, I sink down into bottomless depths of
quiet:--never was such a quiet life as mine is, in this voiceless
house. Thank God, there are echoes of voices in my heart, else I
should die of this marble silence. Yet I am happy, and, dearest
Phoebe, I wish that thou, likewise, couldst now and then stand apart
from thy lot, in the same manner, and behold how fair it is. I think
we are very happy--a truth that is not always so evident to me, until
I step aside from our daily life. How I love thee!--how I love our
children! Can it be that we are really parents!--that two beautiful
lives have gushed out of our life! I am now most sensible of the
wonder, and the mystery, and the happiness.
Sweetest wife, I have nothing to tell thee. My life goes on as
regularly as our kitchen clock. It has no events, and therefore can
have no history.
Well; when our children--these two, and three or four more are grown
up, and married off, thou wilt have a little leisure, and mayst paint
that Grecian picture that used to haunt thy fancy. But then our
grandchildren--Una's children, and Bundlebreech's,--will be coming
upon the stage. In short, after a woman has become a mother, she may
find rest in Heaven, but nowhere else.
This pen is so horrible that it impedes my thought. I cannot write any
more with it. Dearest, stay as long as it is good for the children and
thyself. I have great joy in thinking how good it has been for Una to
have this change. When thou comest back to me, it will be as the
coming of an angel, and with a cherub in each hand. Indeed, it does
not require absence and distance to make an angel of thee; but the
divine qualities of the children do become somewhat more apparent, by
occasionally getting beyond the reach of their clamor.
I think I had better not come on Saturday; but if thou wilt tell me
the day of thy return, I will come in the afternoon, and escort thee
back. Poor little Una! How will she bear to be caged up here again.
Give her a kiss for me, and tell her I want to see her _very much_. I
have been much affected by a little shoe of hers, which I found on the
floor. Does Bundlebreech walk yet?