_Boston_, October 23d, 1839--½ past 7 P.M.
_Dear little Dove_,
Here sits your husband, comfortably established for the evening in his
own domicile, with a cheerful coal fire making the room a little too
warm. I think I like to be a very little too warm. And now if my Dove
were here, she and that naughty Sophie Hawthorne, how happy we all
three--two--one--(how many are there of us?)--how happy might we be!
Dearest, it will be a yet untasted bliss, when, for the first time, I
have you in a domicile of my own, whether it be in a hut or a palace,
a splendid suit of rooms or an attic chamber. Then I shall feel as if
I had brought my wife home at last. Shall Sophie Hawthorne be there
too? Yes, mine own Dove, whether you like it or no. You would wonder,
were I to tell you how absolutely necessary she has contrived to
render herself to your husband. His heart stirs at her very name--even
at the thought of her unspoken name. She is his sunshine--she is a
happy smile on the visage of his Destiny, causing that stern personage
to look as benign as Heaven itself. And were Sophie Hawthorne a tear
instead of a smile, still your foolish husband would hold out his
heart to receive that tear within it, and doubtless would think it
more precious than all the smiles and sunshine in the world. But
Sophie Hawthorne has bewitched him--for there is great reason to
suspect that she deals in magic. Sometimes, while your husband
conceives himself to be holding his Dove in his arms, lo and behold!
there is the arch face of Sophie Hawthorne peeping up at him. And
again, in the very midst of Sophie Hawthorne's airs, while he is
meditating what sort of chastisement would suit her misdemeanors, all
of a sudden he becomes conscious of his Dove, with her wings folded
upon his heart to keep it warm. Methinks a woman, or angel (yet let it
be a woman, because I deem a true woman holier than an angel)--
methinks a woman, then, who should combine the characteristics of
Sophie Hawthorne and my Dove would be the very perfection of her race.
The heart would find all it yearns for, in such a woman, and so would
the mind and the fancy;--when her husband was lightsome of spirit,
her merry fantasies would dance hand in hand with his; and when he
was overburthened with cares he would rest them all upon her bosom.
Dearest, your husband was called on by Mr. Hillard yesterday, who said
that he intended soon to take a house in Boston, and, in that case,
would like to take your respectable spouse to lodge and breakfast.
What thinks my Dove of this? Your husband is quite delighted, because
he thinks matters may be managed so that once in a while he may meet
his own wife within his own premises. Might it not be so? Or would his
wife--most preposterous idea!--deem it a sin against decorum to pay a
visit to her husband? Oh, no, belovedest. Your unreserve, your
out-gushing frankness, is one of the loveliest results of your purity,
and innocence, and holiness. And now good night, wife worshipful and
beloved. Amid many musings, nine o'clock has surprised me at this
stage of my epistle.
October 24th.--½ past 6 P.M. Dearest Dove, your letter came to-day;
and I do think it the sweetest of all letters--but you must not
therefore suppose that you have excelled yourself; for I think the
same of each successive one. My dearest, what a delightful scene was
that between Sophie Hawthorne and my Dove, when the former rebelled
so stoutly against Destiny, and the latter, with such meek
mournfulness, submitted. Which do I love the best, I wonder--my Dove,
or my little Wild-Flower? I love each best, and both equally; and my
heart would inevitably wither and dry up, and perish utterly, if
either of them were torn away from it. Yet, truly I have reason to
apprehend more trouble with Sophie Hawthorne than with my Dove.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.