_Boston_, April 30th, 6 P.M., 1839
_My beloved_,
Your sweetest of all letters found me at the Custom House, where I had
almost just arrived, having been engaged all the forenoon in measuring
twenty chaldrons of coal--which dull occupation was enlivened by
frequent brawls and amicable discussions with a crew of funny little
Frenchmen from Acadie. I know not whether your letter was a surprise
to me--it seems to me that I had a prophetic faith that the Dove would
visit me--but at any rate, it was a joy, as it always is; for my
spirit turns to you from all trouble and all pleasure. This forenoon I
could not wait as I generally do, to be in solitude before opening
your letter; for I expected to be busy all the afternoon, and was
already tired with working yesterday and today; and my heart longed to
drink your thoughts and feelings, as a parched throat for cold water.
So I pressed the Dove to my lips (turning my head away, so that
nobody saw me) and then broke the seal. I do think it is the dearest
letter you have written, but I think so of each successive one; so you
need not imagine that you have outdone yourself in this instance. How
did I live before I knew you--before I possessed your affection! I
reckon upon your love as something that is to endure when everything
that can perish has perished--though my trust is sometimes mingled
with fear, because I feel myself unworthy of your love. But if I am
worthy of if you will always love me; and if there be anything good
and pure in me, it will be proved by my always loving you.
After dinner. I had to journey over to East Cambridge, expecting to
measure a cargo of coal there; but the vessel had stuck in the mud on
her way thither, so that nothing could be done till tomorrow morning.
It must have been my guardian angel that steered her upon that
mud-bank, for I really needed rest. Did you lead the vessel astray, my
Dove? I did not stop to inquire into particulars, but returned home
forthwith, and locked my door, and threw myself on the bed, with your
letter in my hand. I read it over slowly and peacefully, and then
folding it up, I rested my heart upon it, and fell fast asleep.
Friday, May 3d. 5 P.M. My dearest, ten million occupations and
interruptions, and intrusions, have kept me from going on with my
letter; but my spirit has visited you continually, and yours has come
to me. I have had to be out a good deal in the east winds; but your
spell has proved sovereign against all harm, though sometimes I have
shuddered and shivered for your sake. How have you borne it, my poor
dear little Dove? Have you been able to flit abroad on today's east
wind, and go to Marblehead, as you designed? You will not have seen
Mrs. Hooper, because she came up to Boston in the cars on Monday
morning. I had a brief talk with her, and we made mutual inquiries,
she about you, and I about little C. I will not attempt to tell you
how it rejoices me that we are to spend a whole month together in the
same city. Looking forward to it, it seems to me as if that month
would never come to an end, because there will be so much of eternity
in it. I wish you had read that dream-letter through, and could
remember its contents. I am very sure that it could not have [been]
written by me, however, because I should not think of addressing you
as "My dear Sister"--nor should I like to have you call me
brother--nor even should have liked it, from the very first of our
acquaintance. We are, I trust, kindred spirits, but not brother and
sister. And then what a cold and dry annunciation of that awful
contingency--the "continuance or not of our acquaintance." Mine own
Dove, you are to blame for dreaming such letters, or parts of letters,
as coming from me. It was you that wrote it--not I. Yet I will not
believe that it shows a want of faith in the steadfastness of my
affection, but only in the continuance of circumstances prosperous to
our earthly and external connection. Let us trust in GOD for that.
Pray to GOD for it, my Dove--for you know how to pray better than I
do. Pray, for my sake, that no shadows of earth may ever come between
us, because my only hope of being a happy man depends upon the
permanence of our union. I have great comfort in such thoughts as
those you suggest--that our hearts here draw towards one another so
unusually--that we have not cultivated our friendship, but let it
grow,--that we have thrown ourselves upon one another with such
perfect trust;--and even the deficiency of worldly wisdom, that some
people would ascribe to us in following the guidance of our hearts so
implicitly, is proof to me that there is a deep wisdom within us. Oh,
let us not think but that all will be well! And even if, to worldly
eyes, it should appear that our lot is not a fortunate one, still we
shall have glimpses, at least--and I trust a pervading sunshine--of a
happiness that we could never have found, if we had unquietly
struggled for it, and made our own selection of the means and species
of it, instead of trusting all to something diviner than our reason.
My Dove, there were a good many things that I meant to have written in
this letter; but I have continually lapsed into fits of musing, and
when I have written, the soul of my thoughts has not readily assumed
the earthly garments of language. It is now time to carry the letter
to Mary. I kiss you, dearest--did you feel it? Your own friend,