_Boston_, July 3d, 1839
_Most beloved Amelia_,
I shall call you so sometimes in playfulness, and so may you; but it
is not the name by which my soul recognizes you. It knows you as
Sophie; but I doubt whether that is the inwardly and intensely dearest
epithet either. I believe that "Dove" is the true word after all; and
it never can be used amiss, whether in sunniest gaiety or shadiest
seriousness. And yet it is a sacred word, and I should not love to
have anybody hear me use it, nor know that GOD has baptised you
so--the baptism being for yourself and me alone. By that name, I
think, I shall greet you when we meet in Heaven. Other dear ones may
call you "daughter," "sister," "Sophia," but when, at your entrance
into Heaven, or after you have been a little while there, you hear a
voice say "Dove!" then you will know that your kindred spirit has been
admitted (perhaps for your sake) to the mansions of rest. That word
will express his yearning for you--then to be forever satisfied; for
we will melt into one another, and be close, close together then. The
name was inspired; it came without our being aware that you were
thenceforth to be my Dove, now and through eternity. I do not
remember, how nor when it alighted on you; the first I knew, it was in
my heart to call you so.
Good night now, my Dove. It is not yet nine o'clock; but I am somewhat
aweary and prefer to muse about you till bedtime, rather than write.
July 5th, ½ past seven P.M. I must, somehow or other, finish this
letter tonight, my dearest--or else it would not be sent tomorrow; and
then I fear our head would ache, naughty head that it is. My heart
yearns to communicate to you; but if it had any other means at hand,
it certainly would not choose to communicate by the scratchings of an
iron pen, which I am now compelled to use. This must and will
inevitably be a dull letter. Oh how different from yours, which I
received today. You are absolutely inspired, my Dove; and it is not my
poor stupid self that inspires you; for how could I give what is not
in me. I wish I could write to you in the morning, before my toils
begin; but that is impossible, unless I were to write before daylight.
At eventide, my mind has quite lost its elasticity--my heart, even,
is weary--and all that I seem capable of doing is to rest my head on
its pillow and there lay down the burthen of life. I do not mean to
imply that I am unhappy or discontented; for this is not the case; my
life is only a burthen, in the same way that it is so to every
toilsome man, and mine is a healthy weariness, such as needs only a
night's sleep to remove it. But from henceforth forever, I shall be
entitled to call the sons of toil my brethren, and shall know how to
sympathise with them, seeing that I, likewise, have risen at the dawn
and borne the fervor of the mid-day sun, nor turned my heavy footsteps
homeward till eventide. Years hence, perhaps, the experience that my
heart is acquiring now will flow out in truth and wisdom.
You ask me a good many questions, my Dove, and I will answer such of
them as now occur to me; and the rest you may ask me again, when we
meet. First as to your letters. My beloved, you must write whenever
you will--in all confidence that I can never be otherwise than joyful
to receive your letters. Do not get into the habit of trying to find
out, by any method save your own intuition, what is pleasing and what
is displeasing to me. Whenever you need my counsel, or even my
reproof, in any serious matter, you will not fail to receive it; but I
wish my Dove to be as free as a Bird of Paradise. Now, as to this
affair of the letters. I have sometimes been a little annoyed at the
smiles of my brother measurers, who, notwithstanding the masculine
fist of the direction, seem to know that such delicately sealed and
folded epistles can come only from a lady's small and tender hand. But
the annoyance is not on my own account; but because it seems as if the
letters were prophaned by being smiled at--but this is, after all, a
mere fantasy, since the smilers know nothing about my Dove, nor that I
really have a Dove; nor can they be certain that the letters come from
a lady, nor, especially, can they have the remotest imagination what
heavenly letters they are. The sum and substance is, that they are
smiling at nothing; and so it is no matter for their smiles. I would
not give up one letter to avoid the "world's dread laugh,"--much less
to shun the good-natured raillery of three or four people who do not
dream of giving pain. Why has my Dove made me waste so much of my
letter in this talk about nothing?
My dearest, did you really think that I meant to express a doubt
whether we should enjoy each other's society so much, if we could be
together all the time. No, no; for I always feel, that our momentary
and hurried interviews scarcely afford us time to taste the draught of
affection that we drink from one another's hearts. There is a precious
portion of our happiness wasted, because we are forced to enjoy it too
greedily. But I thought, as you do, that there might be more
communication of the intellect, as well as communion of heart, if we
could be oftener together.
Your picture gallery of auxiliary verbs is an admirable fantasy. You
are certainly the first mortal to whom it was given to behold a verb;
though, it seems as if they ought to be visible, being creatures whose
office it is (if I remember my grammar aright) "to be, to do, and to
suffer." Therein is comprehended all that we mortals are capable of.
No; for, according to the definition, verbs do not feel, and cannot
enjoy--they only exist, and act, and are miserable. My Dove and I are
no verbs--or if so, we are passive verbs, and therefore happy ones.
(Rest of letter missing)
To Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem,
Massachusetts.