_Boston_, August 25th, 1839
_Dearest Wife_,
I did not write you yesterday, for several reasons--partly because
I was interrupted by company; and also I had a difficult letter
to project and execute in behalf of an office-seeker; and in
the afternoon I fell asleep amid thoughts of my own Dove; and
when I awoke, I took up Miss Martineau's Deerbrook, and became
interested in it--because, being myself a lover, nothing that treats
earnestly of love can be indifferent to me. Some truth in the book
I recognised--but there seems to be too much of dismal fantasy.
Thus, one way or another, the Sabbath passed away without my pouring
out my heart to my sweet wife on paper; but I thought of you, dearest,
all day long. Your letter came this forenoon, and I opened it on board
of a salt-ship, and snatched portions of it in the intervals of
keeping tally. Every letter of yours is as fresh and new as if you had
never written a preceding one--each is like a strain of music unheard
before, yet all are in sweet accordance--all of them introduce me
deeper and deeper into your being, yet there is no sense of surprise
at what I see, and feel, and know, therein. I am familiar with your
inner heart, as with my home; but yet there is a sense of
revelation--or perhaps of recovered intimacy with a dearest friend
long hidden from me. Were you not my wife in some past eternity?
Dearest, perhaps these speculations are not wise. We will not cast
dreamy glances too far behind us or before us, but live our present
life in simplicity; for methinks that is the way to realise it most
intensely. Good night, most beloved. Your husband is presently going
to bed; for the bell has just rung (those bells are always
interrupting us, whether for dinner, or supper, or bed-time) and he
rose early this morning, and must be abroad at sunrise tomorrow. Good
night, my wife. Receive your husband's kiss upon your eyelids.
August 27th. ½ past 7 o'clock. Very dearest, your husband has been
stationed all day at the end of Long Wharf, and I rather think that he
had the most eligible situation of anybody in Boston. I was aware that
it must be intensely hot in the middle of the city; but there was only
a very short space of uncomfortable heat in my region, half-way
towards the center of the harbour; and almost all the time there was a
pure and delightful breeze, fluttering and palpitating, sometimes
shyly kissing my brow, then dying away, and then rushing upon me in
livelier sport, so that I was fain to settle my straw hat tighter upon
my head. Late in the afternoon, there was a sunny shower, which came
down so like a benediction, that it seemed ungrateful to take shelter
in the cabin, or to put up an umbrella. Then there was a rainbow, or a
large segment of one, so exceedingly brilliant, and of such long
endurance, that I almost fancied it was stained into the sky, and
would continue there permanently. And there were clouds floating all
about, great clouds and small, of all glorious and lovely hues (save
that imperial crimson, which was never revealed save to our united
gaze) so glorious, indeed, and so lovely, that I had a fantasy of
Heaven's being broken into fleecy fragments, and dispersed
throughout space, with its blessed inhabitants yet dwelling blissfully
upon those scattered islands. Oh, how I do wish that my sweet wife and
I could dwell upon a cloud, and follow the sunset round about the
earth! Perhaps she might; but my nature is too earthy to permit me to
dwell there with her--and I know well that she would not leave me
here. Dearest, how I longed for you to be with me, both in the shower
and the sunshine. I did but half see what was to be seen, nor but half
feel the emotions which the scene ought to have produced. Had you been
there, I do think that we should have remembered this among our most
wondrously beautiful sunsets. And the sea was very beautiful too.
Would it not be a pleasant life to--but I will not sketch out any more
fantasies tonight.
Beloved, have not I been gone a great while? Truly it seems to me very
long; and it [is] strange what an increase of apparent length is
always added by two or three days of the second week. Do not you yearn
to see me? I know you do, dearest. How do I know it? How should I,
save by my own heart?
Dearest wife, I am tired now, and have scribbled this letter in such
slovenly fashion that I fear you will hardly be able to read
it--nevertheless, I have been happy in writing it. But now, though it
is so early yet, I shall throw aside my pen, especially as the paper
is so nearly covered.
My sweet Dove,
Good night.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.