_Boston_, Decr. 5th, 1839--5 P.M.
_Dearest wife_,
I do wish that you would evince the power of your spirit over its
outward manifestations, in some other way than by raising an
inflammation over your eye. Do, belovedest, work another miracle
forthwith, and cause this mountain--for I fancy it as of really
mountainous bulk--cause it to be cast into the sea, or anywhere else;
so that both eyes may greet your husband, when he comes home.
Otherwise, I know not but my eyes will have an inflammation too;--they
certainly smarted in a very unwonted manner, last evening. "The
naughty swelling!" as my Dove (or Sophie Hawthorne) said of the
swollen cheek that afflicted me last summer. Will kisses have any
efficacy? No; I am afraid not, for if they were medicinal, my Dove's
eyelids have been so imbued with them that no ill would have come
there. Nevertheless, though not a preventive, a kiss may chance to
be a remedy. Can Sophie Hawthorne be prevailed upon to let me try it?
I went to see my wife's (and of course my own) sister Mary, on Tuesday
evening. She appeared very well; and we had a great deal of good talk,
wherein my Dove was not utterly forgotten--(now will Sophie Hawthorne,
thinking the Dove slighted, pout her lip at that expression)--well
then, my Dove was directly or indirectly concerned in all my thoughts,
and most of my words. Mrs. Park was not there, being gone, I believe,
to some lecture. Mary and your husband talked with the utmost
hopefulness and faith of my Dove's future health and well-being.
Dearest, you _are_ well (all but the naughty swelling) and you always
will be well. I love Mary because she loves you so much;--our
affections meet in you, and so we become kindred. But everybody loves
my Dove--everybody that knows her--and those that know her not love
her also, though unconsciously, whenever they image to themselves
something sweeter, and tenderer, and nobler, than they can meet with
on earth. It is the likeness of my Dove that has haunted the dreams of
poets, ever since the world began. Happy me, to whom that dream has
become the reality of all realities--whose bosom has been warmed, and
is forever warmed, with the close embrace of her who has flitted
shadowlike away from all other mortals! Dearest, I wish your husband
had the gift of making rhymes; for methinks there is poetry in his
head and heart, since he has been in love with you. You are a Poem, my
Dove. Of what sort, then? Epic?--Mercy on me,--no! A sonnet?--no; for
that is too labored and artificial. My Dove is a sort of sweet,
simple, gay, pathetic ballad, which Nature is singing, sometimes with
tears, sometimes with smiles, and sometimes with intermingled smiles
and tears.
I was invited to dine at Mr. Bancroft's yesterday with Miss Margaret
Fuller; but Providence had given me some business to do; for which I
was very thankful. When my Dove and Sophie Hawthorne can go with me, I
shall not be afraid to accept invitations to meet literary lions and
lionesses, because then I shall put the above-said redoubtable little
personage in the front of the battle. What do you think, Dearest, of
the expediency of my making a caucus speech? A great many people are
very desirous of listening to your husband's eloquence; and that is
considered the best method of making my debut. Now, probably, will
Sophie Hawthorne utterly refuse to be kissed, unless I give up all
notion of speechifying at a caucus. Silly little Sophie!--I would
not do it, even if thou thyself besought it of me.
Belovedest, I wish, before declining your ticket to Mr. Emerson's
lectures, that I had asked whether you wished me to attend them; for
if you do, I should have more pleasure in going, than if the wish were
originally my own.
Dearest wife, nobody can come within the circle of my loneliness, save
you;--you are my only companion in the world;--at least, when I
compare other intercourse with our intimate communion, it seems as
[if] other people were the world's width asunder. And yet I love all
the world better for my Dove's sake.