_Boston_, December 1st, 1839--6 or 7 P.M.
_My Dearest_,
The day must not pass without my speaking a word or two to my
belovedest wife, of whom I have thought, with tender anxieties mingled
with comfortable hopes, all day long. Dearest, is your heart at peace
now? God grant it--and I have faith that He will communicate the peace
of my heart to yours. Mine own wife, always when there is trouble
within you, let your husband know of it. Strive to fling your burthen
upon me; for there is strength enough in me to bear it all, and love
enough to make me happy in bearing it. I will not give up any of my
conjugal rights--and least of all this most precious right of
ministering to you in all sorrow. My bosom was made, among other
purposes, for mine ownest wife to shed tears upon. This I have known,
ever since we were married--and I had yearnings to be your support and
comforter, even before I knew that God was uniting our spirits in
immortal wedlock. I used to think that it would be happiness enough,
food enough for my heart, it I could be the life-long, familiar friend
of your family, and be allowed to see yourself every evening, and to
watch around you to keep harm away--though you might never know what
an interest I felt in you. And how infinitely more than this has been
granted me! Oh, never dream, blessedest wife, that you can be other
than a comfort to your husband--or that he can be disappointed in you.
Mine own Dove, I hardly know how it is, but nothing that you do or say
ever surprises or disappoints me; it must be that my spirit is so
thoroughly and intimately conscious of you, that there exists latent
within me a prophetic knowledge of all your vicissitudes of joy or
sorrow; so that, though I cannot foretell them before-hand, yet I
recognize them when they come. Nothing disturbs the preconceived idea
of you in my mind. Whether in bliss or agony, still you are mine own
Dove--still my blessing--still my peace. Belovedest, since the
foregoing sentence, I have been interrupted; so I will leave the rest
of the sheet till tomorrow evening. Good night, and in writing these
words my soul has flown through the air to give you a fondest kiss.
Did you not feel it?
Decr. 2d.--Your letter came to me at the Custom-House, very dearest,
at about eleven o'clock; and I opened it with an assured hope of
finding good news about my Dove; for I had trusted very much in Sophie
Hawthorne's assistance. Well, I am afraid I shall never find in my
heart to call that excellent little person "Naughty" again--no; and I
have even serious thoughts of giving up all further designs upon her
nose, since she hates so much to have it kissed. Yet the poor little
nose!--would it not be quite depressed (I do not mean flattened) by my
neglect, after becoming accustomed to such marked attention? And
besides, I have a particular affection for that nose, insomuch that I
intend, one of these days, to offer it an oblation of rich and
delicate odours. But I suppose Sophie Hawthorne would apply her
handkerchief, so that the poor nose should reap no pleasure nor profit
from my incense. Naughty Sophie Hawthorne! There--I have called her
"naughty" already--and on a mere supposition, too.
Half a page of nonsense about Sophie Hawthorne's nose! And now have I
anything to say to my little Dove? Yes--a reproof. My Dove is to
understand, that she entirely exceeds her jurisdiction, in presuming
to sit in judgment upon herself, and pass such severe censure as she
did upon her Friday's letter--or indeed any censure at all. It was
her bounden duty to write that letter; for it was the cry of her
heart, which ought and must have reached her husband's ears, wherever
in the world he might be. And yet you call it wicked. Was it Sophie
Hawthorne or the Dove that called it so? Naughty Sophie
Hawthorne--naughty Dove--for I believe they are both partakers of this
naughtiness.
Dearest, I have never had the good luck to profit much, or indeed any,
by attending lectures; so that I think the ticket had better be
bestowed on somebody who can listen to Mr. Emerson more worthily. My
evenings are very precious to me; and some of them are unavoidably
thrown away in paying or receiving visits, or in writing letters of
business; and therefore I prize the rest as if the sands of the
hour-glass were gold or diamond dust. I have no other time to sit in
my parlor (let me call it ours) and be happy by our own
fireside--happy in reveries about a certain little wife of mine, who
would fain have me spend my evenings in hearing lectures, lest I
should incommode her with too frequent epistles.
Good bye, dearest. I suppose I have left a dozen questions in your
letter unanswered; but you shall ask them again when we meet. Do not
you long to see me? Mercy on us,--what a pen! It looks as if I had
laid a strong emphasis on that sentence. God bless my Dove, and Sophie
Hawthorne too.--So prays their ownest husband.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.