_Salem_, May 26th, 1839
_Mine own Self_,
I felt rather dismal yesterday--a sort of vague weight on my spirit--a
sense that something was wanting to me here. What or who could it have
been that I so missed? I thought it not best to go to your house last
evening; so that I have not yet seen Elizabeth--but we shall probably
attend the Hurley-Burley tonight. Would that my Dove might be there!
It seems really monstrous that here, in her own home--or what was her
home, till she found another in my arms--she should no longer be. Oh,
my dearest, I yearn for you, and my heart heaves when I think of
you--(and that is always, but sometimes a thought makes me know and
feel you more vividly than at others, and _that_ I call "thinking of
you")--heaves and swells (my heart does) as sometimes you have felt it
beneath you, when your head was resting on it. At such moments it is
stirred up from its depths. Then our two ocean-hearts mingle their
floods.
I do not believe that this letter will extend to three pages. My
feelings do not, of their own accord, assume words--at least, not a
continued flow of words. I write a few lines, and then I fall a-musing
about many things, which seem to have no connection among themselves,
save that my Dove flits lightly through them all. I feel as if my
being were dissolved and the idea of you were diffused throughout it.
Am I writing nonsense? That is for you to decide. You know what is
Truth--"what is what"--and I should not dare to say to you what I felt
to be other than the Truth--other than the very "what." It is very
singular (but I do not suppose I can express it) that, while I love
you so dearly, and while I am so conscious of the deep embrace of our
spirits, still I have an awe of you that I never felt for anybody
else. Awe is not the word, either; because it might imply something
stern in you--whereas--but you must make it out for yourself. I do
wish that I could put this into words--not so much for your
satisfaction (because I believe you will understand) as for my own. I
suppose I should have pretty much the same feeling if an angel were to
come from Heaven and be my dearest friend--only the angel could not
have the tenderest of human natures too, the sense of which is
mingled with this sentiment. Perhaps it is because in meeting you, I
really meet a spirit, whereas the obstructions of earth have prevented
such a meeting in every other place. But I leave the mystery here.
Some time or other, it may be made plainer to me. But methinks it
converts my love into a religion. And then it is singular, too, that
this awe (or whatever it be) does not prevent me from feeling that it
is I who have the charge of you, and that my Dove is to follow my
guidance and do my bidding. Am I not very bold to say this? And will
not you rebel? Oh no; because I possess the power only so far as I
love you. My love gives me the right, and your love consents to it.
Since writing the above I have been asleep; and I dreamed that I had
been sleeping a whole year in the open air; and that while I slept,
the grass grew around me. It seemed, in my dream, that the very
bed-clothes which actually covered me were spread beneath me, and when
I awoke (in my dream) I snatched them up, and the earth under them
looked black, as if it had been burnt--one square place, exactly the
size of the bedclothes. Yet there was grass and herbage scattered over
this burnt space, looking as fresh, and bright, and dewy, as if the
summer rain and the summer sun had been cherishing them all the
time. Interpret this for me, my Dove--but do not draw any somber omens
from it. What is signified [by] my nap of a whole year? (It made me
grieve to think that I had lost so much of eternity)--and what was the
fire that blasted the spot of earth which I occupied, while the grass
flourished all around?--And what comfort am I to draw from the fresh
herbage amid the burnt space? But it is a silly dream, and you cannot
expound any sense out of it. Generally, I cannot remember what my
dreams have been--only there is a confused sense of having passed
through adventures, pleasurable or otherwise. I suspect that you
mingle with my dreams, but take care to flit away just before I awake,
leaving me but dimly and doubtfully conscious of your visits.
Do you never start so suddenly from a dream that you are afraid to
look round the room, lest your dream-personages (so strong and
distinct seemed their existence, a moment before) should have thrust
themselves out of dream-land into the midst of realities? I do,
sometimes.
I wish I were to see you this evening. How many times have you thought
of me today? All the time?--Or not at all? Did you ever read such a
foolish letter as this? (Here I was interrupted, and have taken a
stroll down on the Neck--a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful sunshine,
and air, and sea. Would that my Dove had been with me. I fear that we
shall perforce lose some of our mutual intimacy with Nature--we walk
together so seldom that she will seem more like a stranger. Would that
I could write such sweet letters to mine own self, as mine own self
writes to me. Good bye, dearest self. Direct yours to
NATH. HAWTHORNE, ESQ.
Custom-House, Boston.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
No. 4 Avon Place,
Boston.