_Boston_, December 24th, 1839. 6 or 7 P.M.
_My very dearest_,
While I sit down disconsolately to write this letter, at this very
moment is my Dove expecting to hear her husband's footstep upon the
threshold. She fully believes, that, within the limits of the hour
which is now passing, she will be clasped to my bosom. Belovedest, I
cannot bear to have you yearn for me so intensely. By and bye, when
you find that I do not come, our head will begin to ache;--but still,
being the "hopingest little person" in the world, you will not give me
up, perhaps till eight o'clock. But soon it will be bed-time--it will
be deep night--and not a spoken word, not a written line, will have
come to your heart from your naughtiest of all husbands. Sophie
Hawthorne, at least, will deem him the naughtiest of husbands; but my
Dove will keep her faith in him just as firmly and fervently, as if
she were acquainted with the particular impossibilities which keep
him from her. Dearest wife, I did hope, till this afternoon, that I
should be able to disburthen myself of the cargo of salt which has
been resting on my weary shoulders for a week past; but it does seem
as if Heaven's mercy were not meant for us miserable Custom-House
officers. The holiest of holydays--the day that brought ransom to all
other sinners--leaves us in slavery still.
Nevertheless, dearest, if I did not feel two disappointments in
one--your own and mine--I should feel much more comfortable and
resigned than I do. If I could have come to you to-night, I must
inevitably have returned hither tomorrow evening. But now, in requital
of my present heaviness of spirit, I am resolved that my next visit
shall be at least one day longer than I could otherwise have ventured
to make it. We cannot spend this Christmas eve together, mine own
wife; but I have faith that you will see me on the eve of the New
Year. Will not you be glad when I come home to spend three whole days,
that I was kept away from you for a few brief hours on Christmas eve?
For if I went now, I could not be with you then.
My blessedest, write and let me know that you have not been very much
disturbed by my non-appearance. I pray you to have the feelings of a
wife towards me, dearest--that is, you must feel that my whole life is
yours, a life-time of long days, and therefore it is no irreparable
nor very grievous loss, though sometimes a few of those days are
wasted away from you. A wife should be calm and quiet, in the settled
certainty of possessing her husband. Above all, dearest, bear these
crosses with philosophy for my sake; for it makes me anxious and
depressed, to imagine your anxiety and depression. Oh, that you could
be very joyful when I come, and yet not sad when I fail to come! Is
that impossible, my sweetest Dove?--is it impossible, my naughtiest
Sophie Hawthorne?