_Boston_, July 24th, 1839--8 o'clock P.M.
_Mine own_,
I am tired this evening, as usual, with my long day's toil; and my
head wants its pillow--and my soul yearns for the friend whom God has
given it--whose soul He has married to my soul. Oh, my dearest, how
that thought thrills me! We _are_ married! I felt it long ago; and
sometimes, when I was seeking for some fondest word, it has been on my
lips to call you--"Wife"! I hardly know what restrained me from
speaking it--unless a dread (for _that_ would have been an infinite
pang to me) of feeling you shrink back, and thereby discovering that
there was yet a deep place in your soul which did not know me. Mine
own Dove, need I fear it now? Are we not married? God knows we are.
Often, I have silently given myself to you, and received you for my
portion of human love and happiness, and have prayed Him to consecrate
and bless the union. Yes--we are married; and as God Himself has
joined us, we may trust never to be separated, neither in Heaven nor
on Earth. We will wait patiently and quietly, and He will lead us
onward hand in hand (as He has done all along) like little children,
and will guide us to our perfect happiness--and will teach us when our
union is to be revealed to the world. My beloved, why should we be
silent to one another--why should our lips be silent--any longer on
this subject? The world might, as yet, misjudge us; and therefore we
will not speak to the world; but why should we not commune together
about all our hopes of earthly and external as well [as] our faith of
inward and eternal union? Farewell for tonight, my dearest--my soul's
bride!
July 25th. 8 o'clock, P.M. How does my Dove contrive to live and
thrive, and keep her heart in cheerful trim, through a whole
fortnight, with only one letter from me? It cannot be indifference; so
it must be heroism--and how heroic! It does seem to me that my spirit
would droop and wither like a plant that lacked rain and dew, if it
were not for the frequent shower of your gentle and holy thoughts. But
then there is such a difference in our situations. My Dove is at
home--not, indeed, in her home of homes--but still in the midst of
true affections; and she can live a spiritual life, spiritual and
intellectual. Now, my intellect, and my heart and soul, have no share
in my present mode of life--they find neither labor nor food in it;
everything that I do here might be better done by a machine. I _am_ a
machine, and am surrounded by hundreds of similar machines;--or
rather, all of the business people are so many wheels of one great
machine--and we have no more love or sympathy for one another than if
we were made of wood, brass, or iron, like the wheels of other pieces
of complicated machinery. Perchance--but do not be frightened,
dearest--the soul would wither and die within me, leaving nothing but
the busy machine, no germ for immortality, nothing that could taste of
heaven, if it were not for the consciousness of your deep, deep love,
which is renewed to me with every letter. Oh, my Dove, I have really
thought sometimes, that God gave you to me to be the salvation of my
soul.
(Rest of letter missing)