_Boston_, April 2d, 1839
_Mine own Dove_,
I have been sitting by my fireside ever since teatime, till now it is
past eight o'clock; and have been musing and dreaming about a thousand
things, with every one of which, I do believe, some nearer or remoter
thought of you was intermingled. I should have begun this letter
earlier in the evening, but was afraid that some intrusive idler would
thrust himself between us, and so the sacredness of my letter would be
partly lost;--for I feel as if my letters were sacred, because they
are written from my spirit to your spirit. I wish it were possible to
convey them to you by other than earthly messengers--to convey them
directly into your heart, with the warmth of mine still lingering in
them. When we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies, I think they
will be so constituted, that we may send thoughts and feelings any
distance, in no time at all, and transfuse them warm and fresh into
the consciousness of those whom we love. Oh what a bliss it would be,
at this moment; if I could be conscious of some purer feeling, some
more delicate sentiment, some lovelier fantasy, than could possibly
have had its birth in my own nature, and therefore be aware that my
Dove was thinking through my mind and feeling through my heart!
Try--some evening when you are alone and happy, and when you are most
conscious of loving me and being loved by me--and see if you do not
possess this power already. But, after all, perhaps it is not wise to
intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of our affection. Let us
content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion of
spirit in such modes as are ordained to us--by letters (dipping our
pens as deep as may be into our hearts) by heartfelt words, when they
can be audible; by glances--through which medium spirits do really
seem to talk in their own language--and by holy kisses, which I do
think have something supernatural in them.
And now good night, my beautiful Dove. I do not write any more at
present, because there are three more whole days before this letter
will visit you: and I desire to talk with you, each of those three
days. Your letter did not come today. Even if it should not come
tomorrow, I shall not imagine that you forget me or neglect me, but
shall heave two or three sighs, and measure salt and coal so much the
more diligently. Good night; and if I have any power, at this
distance, over your spirit, it shall be exerted to make you sleep like
a little baby, till the "Harper of the Golden Dawn" arouse you. Then
you must finish that ode. But do, if you love me, sleep.
April 3d. No letter, my dearest; and if one comes tomorrow I shall not
receive it till Friday, nor perhaps then; because I have a cargo of
coal to measure in East Cambridge, and cannot go to the Custom House
till the job is finished. If you had known this, I think you would
have done your [best] possible to send me a letter today. Doubtless
you have some good reason for omitting it. I was invited to dine at
Mr. Hooper's; with your sister Mary; and the notion came into my head,
that perhaps you would be there,--and though I knew that it could not
be so, yet I felt as if it might. But just as I was going home from
the Custom House to dress, came an abominable person to say that a
measurer was wanted forthwith at East Cambridge; so over I hurried,
and found that, after all, nothing would be done till tomorrow morning
at sunrise. In the meantime, I had lost my dinner, and all other
pleasures that had awaited me at Mr. Hooper's; so that I came back in
very ill humor, and do not mean to be very good-natured again, till my
Dove shall nestle upon my heart again, either in her own sweet person,
or by her image in a letter. But your image will be with me, long
before the letter comes. It will flit around me while I am measuring
coal, and will peep over my shoulder to see whether I keep a correct
account, and will smile to hear my bickerings with the black-faced
demons in the vessel's hold, (they look like the forge-men in Retsch's
Fridolin) and will soothe and mollify me amid all the pester and
plague that is in store for me tomorrow. Not that I would avoid this
pester and plague, even if it were in my power to do so. I need such
training, and ought to have undergone it long ago. It will give my
character a healthy hardness as regards the world; while it will leave
my heart as soft--as fit for a Dove to rest upon--as it is now, or
ever was. Good night again, gentle Dove. I must leave a little space
for tomorrow's record; and moreover, it is almost time that I were
asleep, having to get up in the dusky dawn. Did you yield to my
conjurations, and sleep well last night? Well then, I throw the same
spell over you tonight.
April 4th. ½ past 9 P.M. I came home late in the afternoon, very
tired, sunburnt and sea-flushed, having walked or sat on the deck of a
schooner ever since sunrise. Nevertheless, I purified myself from the
sable stains of my profession--stains which I share in common with
chimney sweepers--and then hastened to the Custom House to get your
letter--for I _knew_ there was one there awaiting me, and now I thank
you with my whole heart, and will straight way go to sleep. Do you the
same.
April 5th. Your yesterday's letter is received, my beloved Sophie. I
have no time to answer it: but, like all your communications, personal
or written, it is the sunshine of my life. I have been busy all day,
and am now going to see your sister Mary--and I hope, Elizabeth. Mr.
Pickens is going with me.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.