_Boston_, September 23d 1839. ½ past 6 P.M.
Belovedest little wife--sweetest Sophie Hawthorne--what a delicious
walk that was, last Thursday! It seems to me, now, as it I could
really remember every footstep of it. It is almost as distinct as the
recollection of those walks, in which my earthly form did really tread
beside your own, and my arm upheld you; and, indeed, it has the same
character as those heavenly ramblings;--for did we tread on earth ever
then? Oh no--our souls went far away among the sunset clouds, and
wherever there was ethereal beauty, there were we, our true selves;
and it was there we grew into each other, and became a married pair.
Dearest, I love to date our marriage as far back as possible, and I
feel sure that the tie had been formed, and our union had become
indissoluble, even before we sat down together on the steps of the
"house of spirits." How beautiful and blessed those hours appear to
me! True; we are far more conscious of our relation, and therefore
infinitely happier, now, than we were then; but still those
remembrances are among the most precious treasures of my soul. It is
not past happiness; it makes a portion of our present bliss. And thus,
doubtless, even amid the joys of Heaven, we shall love to look back to
our earthly bliss, and treasure it forever in the sum of an infinitely
accumulating happiness. Perhaps not a single pressure of the hand, not
a glance, not a sweet and tender tone, but will be repeated sometime
or other in our memory.
Oh, dearest, blessedest Dove, I never felt sure of going to Heaven,
till I knew that you loved me; but now I am conscious of God's love in
your own. And now, good bye for a little while, mine own wife. I
thought it was just on the verge of supper-time when I began to
write--and there is the bell now. I was beginning to fear that it had
rung unheard while I was communing with my Dove. Should we be the more
ethereal, if we did not eat? I have a most human and earthly
appetite.
Mine own wife, since supper I have been reading over again (for the
third time--the two first being aboard my saltship--the Marcia
Cleaves) your letter of yesterday--and a dearest letter it is--and
meeting with Sophie Hawthorne twice, I took the liberty to kiss her
very fervently. Will she forgive me? Do know yourself by that name,
dearest, and think of yourself as Sophie Hawthorne? It thrills my
heart to write it, and still more, I think, to read it in the fairy
letters of your own hand. Oh, you are my wife, my dearest, truest,
tenderest, most beloved wife. I would not be disjoined from you for a
moment, for all the world. And how strong, while I write, is the
consciousness that I am truly your husband!
My little Dove. I have observed that butterflies--very broad-winged
and magnificent butterflies--frequently come on board of the salt ship
when I am at work. What have these bright strangers to do on Long
Wharf, where there are no flowers or any green thing--nothing but
brick stores, stone piles, black ships, and the bustle of toilsome
men, who neither look up to the blue sky, nor take note of these
wandering gems of air. I cannot account for them, unless, dearest,
they are the lovely fantasies of your mind, which you send thither
in search of me. There is the supper-bell. Good-bye, darling.
Sept. 25th. Morning.--Dove, I have but a single moment to embrace you.
Tell Sophie Hawthorne I love her. Has she a partiality for her own,
own