_Boston_, Nov. 17, 1839--6 P.M. or thereabout.
I received no letter from my sweetest wife yesterday; and my heart is
not quite at ease about her. Dearest, I pray to God for you--and I
pray to yourself, too; for methinks there is within you a divine and
miraculous power to counteract all sorts of harm. Oh be strong for the
sake of your husband. Let all your love for me be so much added to the
strength of your heart. Remember that your anguish must likewise be
mine. Not that I would have it otherwise, mine own wife--your sorrows
shall be just as precious a possession to me as your joys.
Dearest, if you could steal in upon your husband now, you would see a
comfortable sight. I wish you would make a sketch of me, here in our
own parlour; and it might be done without trusting entirely to
imagination, as you have seen the room and the furniture--and (though
that would be the least important item of the picture) you have seen
myself. I am writing now at my new bureau, which stands between the
windows; there are two lamps before me, which show the polished
shadings of the mahogany panels to great advantage. A coal fire is
burning in the grate--not a very fervid one, but flickering up
fitfully, once in a while, so as to remind me that I am by my own
fireside. I am sitting in the cane-bottomed rocking-chair (wherein my
Dove once sate, but which did not meet her approbation); and another
hair-cloth arm-chair stands in front of the fire. Would that I could
look round with the assurance of seeing mine own white Dove in it! Not
that I want to see her apparition--nor to have her brought here by
miracle, but I want that full assurance of peace and joy, which I
should have if my belovedest wife were near me in our own parlor.
Sophie Hawthorne, what a beautiful carpet did you choose for me! I
admire it so much that I can hardly bear to tread upon it. It is fit
only to be knelt upon; and I do kneel on it sometimes. As you saw it
only in narrow strips, I doubt whether even you can imagine what an
effect is produced by the tout ensemble, spreading its fantastic
foliage, or whatever it is, all over the floor. Many times today have
I found myself gazing at it; and I am almost tempted to call in people
from the street to help me admire it worthily. But perhaps they
would not quite sympathize with my raptures. I am doubtless somewhat
more alive to the merits of this carpet, because it was your choice,
and is our mutual property. My Dove, there is an excellent place for a
bust over the bookcase which surmounts my bureau; some time or other,
I shall behold a creation of your own upon it. At present, I have no
work of art to adorn our parlour with, except an allumette-holder, on
the mantel-piece ornamented with drawings from Flaxman. It was given
me by Elizabeth; and, considerably to my vexation, one of the glasses
has been broken, during the recent removal of my household gods.
My wife, I like sleeping on a mattress better than on a feather-bed.
It is a pity, however, that a mattress looks so lean and lank;--it
certainly does not suggest such ideas of comfort and downy repose as a
well-filled feather-bed does; but my sleep, I think, is of better
quality, though, indeed, there was nothing to complain of on that
score, even while I reposed on feathers. You need not be afraid of my
smothering in the little bed-room; for I always leave the door open,
so that I have the benefit of the immense volume of air in the
spacious parlor.
Mrs. Hillard takes excellent care of me, and feeds [me] with eggs
and baked apples and other delectable dainties; and altogether I am as
happily situated as a man can be, whose heart is wedded, while
externally he is still a bachelor.
My wife, would you rather that I should come home next Saturday and
stay till Monday, or that I should come to Thanksgiving and stay the
rest of the week? Both I cannot do; but I will try to do the latter,
if you wish it; and I think I shall finish the salt-ship which I am
now engaged upon, about Thanksgiving time--unless foul weather
intervene to retard our progress. How delightfully long the evenings
are now! I do not get intolerably tired any longer; and my thoughts
sometimes wander back to literature and I have momentary impulses to
write stories. But this will not be, at present. The utmost that I can
hope to do, will be to portray some of the characteristics of the life
which I am now living, and of the people with whom I am brought into
contact, for future use. I doubt whether I shall write any more for
the public, till I can have a daily or nightly opportunity of
submitting my productions to the criticism of Sophie Hawthorne. I have
a high opinion of that young lady's critical acumen, but a great dread
of her severity--which, however, the Dove will not fail to temper with
her sweetness.
Dearest, there is nothing at all in this letter; and perhaps it may
come to you at a time when your heart needs the strongest, and
tenderest, and most comfortable words that mine can speak to it. Yet
what could I say, but to assure you that I love you, and partake
whatever of good or evil God sends you--or rather, partake whatever
good God sends you, whether it come in festal garments or mourning
ones; for still it is good, whether arrayed in sable, or
flower-crowned. God bless you, belovedest,