_Ownest wife_,
I suppose thou wilt not expect (nor wish for) a letter from me; but it
is so desolate and lonesome here that I needs must write. This is a
miserable time. Thy and the children's absence; and this dreary
bluster of the wind, which at once exasperates and depresses me to the
very last degree; and finally, a breakfast (the repetition of
yesterday's) of pease and Indian pudding!! It is a strange miscellany
of grievances; but it does my business--it makes me curse my day. This
matter of the breakfast is the most intolerable, just at this moment;
because the taste of it is still in my mouth, and the nausea and
disgust overwhelms me like the consciousness of sin. Hell is nothing
else but eating pease and baked Indian pudding! If thou lovest me,
never let me see either of them again. Keep such things for thy and my
worst enemies. Give thy husband bread, or cold potatoes; and he
never will complain--but pease and Indian pudding! God forgive me for
ever having burthened my conscience with such abominations. They are
the Unpardonable Sin and the Intolerable Punishment, in one and the
same accursed spoonfull!
I think I hardly ever had such a dismal time as yesterday. I cannot
bear the loneliness of the house. I need the sunshine of the children;
even their little quarrels and naughtinesses would be a blessing to
me. I need thee, above all, and find myself, at every absence, so much
the less able to endure it. Come home come home!
Where dost thou think I was on Saturday afternoon? Thou wilt never
guess.
In haste; for it is almost Custom House time.