_Boston_, August 21st, 1839
My dearest will be glad to know that her husband has not had to endure
the heavy sunshine this afternoon;--he came home at three o'clock or
thereabout, and locking the door, betook himself to sleep--first
ensuring himself sweet slumber and blissful dreams (if any dreams
should come) by reperusing his sweet wife's letter. His wife was with
him at the moment of falling asleep, and at the moment of awaking; but
she stole away from him during the interval. Naughty wife!
Nevertheless, he has slept and is refreshed--slept how long he does
not know; but the sun has made a far progress downward, since he
closed his eyes.
Oh, my wife, if it were possible that you should vanish from me, I
feel and know that my soul would be solitary forever and ever. I
almost think that there would be no "forever" for me. I could not
encounter such a desolate Eternity, were you to leave me. You are my
first hope and my last. If you fail me (but there is no such if) I
might toil onward through this life without much outward change, but I
should sink down and die utterly upon the threshold of the dreary
Future. Were _you_ to find yourself deceived, you would betake
yourself at once to God and Heaven, in the certainty of there finding
a thousand-fold recompense for all earthly disappointment; but with
me, it seems as if hope and happiness would be torn up by the roots,
and could never bloom again, neither in this soil nor the soil of
Paradise.
August 22d. Five or six o'clock P.M. I was interrupted by the supper
bell, while writing the foregoing sentence; and much that I might have
added has now passed out of my mind--or passed into its depths. My
beloved wife, let us make no question about our love, whether it be
true. Were it otherwise, God would not have left your heart to wreck
itself utterly--His angels keep watch over you--they would have given
you early and continued warning of the approach of Evil in any shape.
Two letters has my Dove blessed me with, since that of Monday--both
beautiful--all three, indeed, most beautiful. There is a great deal in
all of them that should be especially answered; but how may this be
effected in one little sheet?--moreover, it is my pleasure to write
in a more desultory fashion.
Nevertheless, propound as many questions as you see fit, in your
letters, but, dearest, let it be without expectation of a set
response.
When I first looked at that shadow of the Passing Hour, I thought her
expression too sad; but the more I looked the sweeter and pleasanter
it grew--and now I am inclined to think that few mortals are waited on
by happier Hours than is my Dove, even in her pensive moods. My
beloved, you make a Heaven round about you, and dwell in it
continually; and as it is your Heaven, so is it mine. My heart has not
been very heavy--not desperately heavy--any one time since I loved
you; not even your illness and headaches, dearest wife, can make me
desperately sad. My stock of sunshine is so infinitely increased by
partaking of yours, that even when a cloud flits by, I incomparably
prefer its gloom to the sullen, leaden tinge that used to overspread
my sky. Were you to bring me, in outward appearance, nothing save a
load of grief and pain, yet I do believe that happiness, in no stinted
measure, would somehow or other be smuggled into the dismal burthen.
But you come to me with no grief--no pain--you come with flowers of
Paradise; some in bloom, many in the bud, and all of them immortal.
August 23d--between 7 and 8 P.M. Dearest wife, when I think how soon
this letter will greet you, it makes my heart yearn towards you so
much the more. How much of life we waste! Oh, beloved, if we had but a
cottage somewhere beyond the sway of the east wind, yet within the
limits of New England, where we could be always together, and have a
place to _be_ in--what could we desire more? Nothing--save daily
bread, (or rather bread and milk, for I think I should adopt your
diet) and clean white apparel every day for mine unspotted Dove. Then
how happy I would be--and how good! I could not be other than good and
happy, when your kiss would sanctify me at all my outgoings and
incomings. And you should draw, and paint, and sculpture, and make
music, and poetry too, and your husband would admire and criticise;
and I, being pervaded with your spirit, would write beautifully and
make myself famous for your sake, because perhaps you would like to
have the world acknowledge me--but if the whole world glorified me
with one voice, it would be a meed of little value in comparison with
my wife's smile and kiss. For I shall always read my manuscripts to
you, in the summer afternoons or winter evenings; and if they please
you I shall expect a smile and a kiss as my reward--and if they do not
please, I must have a smile and kiss to comfort me.
Good bye--sweet, sweet, dear, dear, sweetest, dearest wife. I received
the kiss you sent me and have treasured it up in my heart. Take one
from your own husband.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. A. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.