_Boston_, Decr. 18th, 1839--nearly 7 P.M.
_Belovedest_,
I wish you could see our parlour to-night--how bright and cheerful it
looks, with the blaze of the coal-fire throwing a ruddy tinge over the
walls, in spite of the yellow gleam of two lamps. Now if my Dove were
sitting in the easiest of our two easy chairs--(for sometimes I should
choose to have her sit in a separate chair, in order to realise our
individuality, as well as our unity)--then would the included space of
these four walls, together with the little contiguous bed-room, seem
indeed like home.--But the soul of home is wanting now. Oh,
naughtiest, why are you not here to welcome your husband when he comes
in at eventide, chilled with his wintry day's toil? Why does he not
find the table placed cosily in front of the fire, and a cup of tea
steaming fragrantly--or else a bowl of warm bread and milk, such as
his Dove feeds upon? A much-to-be-pitied husband am I, naughty
wife--a homeless man--a wanderer in the desert of this great city;
picking up a precarious subsistence wherever I happen to find a
restaurateur or an oyster-shop--and returning at night to a lonely
fireside. Dearest, have I brought the tears into your eyes? What an
unwise little person is my Dove, to let the tears gather in her eyes
for such nonsensical pathos as this! Yet not nonsensical either,
inasmuch as it is a sore trial to your husband to be estranged from
that which makes life a reality to him, and to be compelled to spend
so many God-given days in a dream--in an outward show, which has
nothing to satisfy the soul that has become acquainted with truth.
But, mine own wife, if you had not taught me what happiness is, I
should not have known that there is anything lacking to me now. I am
dissatisfied--not because, at any former period of my life, I was ever
a thousandth part so happy as now--but because Hope feeds and grows
strong on the happiness within me. Good night, belovedest wife. I have
a note to write to Mr. Capen, who torments me every now-and-then about
a book which he wants me to manufacture. Hereafter, I intend that my
Dove shall manage all my correspondence:--indeed, it is my purpose to
throw all sorts of trouble upon my Dove's shoulders. Good night now,
dearest.--
December 20th--7 P.M. Blessedest wife--has not Sophie Hawthorne been
very impatient for this letter, one half of which yet remains
undeveloped in my brain and heart? Would that she could enter those
inward regions, and read the letter there--together with so much that
never can be expressed in written or spoken words. And can she not do
this? The Dove can do it, even if Sophie Hawthorne fail. Dearest,
would it be unreasonable for me to ask you to manage my share of the
correspondence, as well as your own?--to throw yourself into my heart,
and make it gush out with more warmth and freedom than my own pen can
avail to do? How I should delight to see an epistle from myself to
Sophie Hawthorne, written by my Dove!--or to my Dove, Sophie Hawthorne
being the amanuensis! I doubt not, that truths would then be spoken,
which my heart would recognise as existing within its depths, yet
which can never be clothed in words of my own. You know that we are
one another's consciousness--then it is not poss--My dearest, George
Hillard has come in upon me, in the midst of the foregoing sentence,
and I have utterly forgotten what I meant to say. But it is not much
matter. Even if I could convince you of the expediency of your
writing my letters as well as your own, still, when you attempted to
take the pen out of my hand, I believe I should resist very
strenuously. For, belovedest, though not an epistolarian by nature,
yet the instinct of communicating myself to you makes it a necessity
and a joy to write.
Your husband has received an invitation, through Mr. Collector
Bancroft, to go to Dr. Channing's to-night. What is to be done?
Anything, rather than to go. I never will venture into company, unless
I can put myself under the protection of Sophie Hawthorne. She, I am
sure, will take care that no harm comes to me. Or my Dove might take
me "under her wing."
Dearest, you must not expect me too fervently on Christmas eve,
because it is very uncertain whether Providence will bring us together
then. If not, I shall take care to advise you thereof by
letter--which, however, may chance not to come to hand till three
o'clock on Christmas day. And there will be my Dove, making herself
nervous with waiting for me. Dearest, I wish I could be the source of
nothing but happiness to you--and that disquietude, hope deferred, and
disappointment, might not ever have aught to do with your affection.
Does the joy compensate for the pain? Naughty Sophie Hawthorne--silly
Dove--will you let that foolish question bring tears into your eyes?
My Dove's letter was duly received.