Wednesday, April 17th, 1839--4 o'clock P.M.
_My Dearest_:
If it were not for your sake, I should really be glad of this pitiless
east wind, and should especially bless the pelting rain and
intermingled snowflakes. They have released me from the toils and
cares of office, and given me license to betake myself to my own
chamber; and here I sit by a good coal fire, with at least six or
seven comfortable hours to spend before bed-time. I feel pretty secure
against intruders; for the bad weather will defend me from foreign
invasion; and as to Cousin Haley, he and I had a bitter political
dispute last evening, at the close of which he went to bed in high
dudgeon, and probably will not speak to me these three days. Thus you
perceive that strife and wrangling, as well as east winds and rain,
are the methods of a kind Providence to promote my comfort--which
would not have been so well secured in any other way. Six or seven
hours of cheerful solitude! But I will not be alone. I invite your
spirit to be with me--at any hour and as many hours as you please--but
especially at the twilight hour, before I light my lamp. Are you
conscious of my invitation? I bid you at that particular time, because
I can see visions more vividly in the dusky glow of fire light, than
either by daylight or lamplight. Come--and let me renew my spell
against headache and other direful effects of the east wind. How I
wish I could give you a portion of my insensibility!--And yet I should
be almost afraid of some radical transformation, were I to produce a
change in that respect. God made you so delicately, that it is
especially unsafe to interfere with His workmanship. If my little
Sophie--mine own Dove--cannot grow plump and rosy and tough and
vigorous without being changed into another nature then I do think
that for this short life, she had better remain just what she is. Yes;
but you will always be the same to me, because we have met in
Eternity, and there our intimacy was formed. So get as well as you
possibly can, and be as strong and rosy as you will; for I shall never
doubt that you are the same Sophie who have so often leaned upon my
arm, and needed its superfluous strength.
I _was_ conscious, on those two evenings, of a peacefulness and
contented repose such as I never enjoyed before. You could not have
felt such quiet unless I had felt it too--nor could I, unless you had.
If either of our spirits had been troubled, they were then in such
close communion that both must have felt the same grief and turmoil. I
never, till now, had a friend who could give me repose;--all have
disturbed me; and whether for pleasure or pain, it was still
disturbance, but peace overflows from your heart into mine. Then I
feel that there is a Now--and that Now must be always calm and
happy--and that sorrow and evil are but phantoms that seem to flit
across it.
You must never expect to see my sister E. in the daytime, unless by
previous appointment, or when she goes to walk. So unaccustomed am I
to daylight interviews, that I never imagine her in sunshine; and I
really doubt whether her faculties of life and intellect begin to be
exercised till dusk--unless on extraordinary occasions. Their noon is
at midnight. I wish you could walk with her; but you must not, because
she is indefatigable, and always wants to walk half round the world,
when once she is out of doors.
April 18th. My Dove--my hopes of a long evening of seclusion were not
quite fulfilled; for, a little before nine o'clock John Forrester
and Cousin Haley came in, both of whom I so fascinated with my
delectable conversation, that they did not take leave till after
eleven. Nevertheless, I had already secured no inconsiderable treasure
of enjoyment, with all of which you were intermingled. There has been
nothing to do at the Custom House today; so I came home at two
o'clock, and--went to sleep! Pray Heaven you may have felt a
sympathetic drowsiness, and have yielded to it. My nap has been a
pretty long one, for--as nearly as I can judge by the position of the
sun, it must be as much as five o'clock. I think there will be a
beautiful sunset; and perhaps, if we could walk out together, the wind
would change and the air grow balmy at once. The Spring is not
acquainted with my Dove and me, as the Winter was;--how then can we
expect her to be kindly to us? We really must continue to walk out and
meet her, and make friends with her; then she will salute your cheek
with her balmiest kiss, whenever she gets a chance. As to the east
wind, if ever the imaginative portion of my brain recover from its
torpor, I mean to personify it as a wicked, spiteful, blustering,
treacherous--in short, altogether devilish sort of body, whose
principle of life it is to make as much mischief as he can. The west
wind--or whatever is the gentlest wind of heaven--shall assume your
aspect, and be humanised and angelicised with your traits of
character, and the sweet West shall finally triumph over the fiendlike
East, and rescue the world from his miserable tyranny; and if I tell
the story well, I am sure my loving and beloved West Wind will kiss me
for it.
When this week's first letter came, I held it a long time in my hand,
marvelling at the superscription. How did you contrive to write it?
Several times since, I have pored over it, to discover how much of
yourself was mingled with my share of it; and certainly there is a
grace flung over the fac simile, which was never seen in my harsh,
uncouth autograph--and yet none of the strength is lost. You are
wonderful. Imitate this.