_Boston_, Jany. 3d, 1840--3 P.M.
What a best of all possible husbands you have, sweetest wife, to be
writing to you so soon again, although he has heard nothing from you
since the latter part of the year 1839! What a weary length of time
that naughty finger has been ill! Unless there are signs of speedy
amendment, we must begin to think of "rotation in office," and the
left hand must be nominated to the executive duties of which the right
is no longer capable. Yet, dearest, do not imagine that I am
impatient. I do indeed long to see your delicatest little penmanship;
(what an enormity it would be to call my Dove's most feminine of
handwritings pen_man_ship!) but it would take away all the happiness
of it, when I reflected that each individual letter had been a pain to
you. Nay; I would not have you write, if you find that the impediments
of this mode of utterance check the flow of your mind and heart.
But you tell me that the wounded finger will be no hindrance to your
painting. Very glad am I, dearest; for you cannot think how much
delight those pictures are going to give me. I shall sit and gaze at
them whole hours together--and these will be my happiest hours, the
fullest of you, though all are full of you. I never owned a picture in
my life; yet pictures have always been among the earthly possessions
(and they are spiritual possessions too) which I most coveted. I know
not what value my Dove's pictures might bear at an auction-room; but
to me, certainly, they will be incomparably more precious than all the
productions of all the painters since Apelles. When we live together
in our own home, belovedest, we will paint pictures together--that is,
our minds and hearts shall unite to form the conception, to which your
hand shall give material existence. I have often felt as if I could be
a painter, only I am sure that I could never handle a brush;--now my
Dove will show me the images of my inward eye, beautified and
etherealised by the mixture of her own spirit. Belovedest, I think I
shall get these two pictures put into mahogany frames, because they
will harmonize better with the furniture of our parlor than gilt
frames would.
While I was writing the foregoing paragraph, Mary has sent to inquire
whether I mean to go to Salem tomorrow, intending, if I did, to send a
letter by me. But, alas! I am not going. The inquiry, however, has
made me feel a great yearning to be there. But it is not possible,
because I have an engagement at Cambridge on Saturday evening; and
even if it were otherwise, it would be better to wait till the middle
of the week, or a little later, when I hope to spend three or four
days with you. Oh, what happiness, when we shall be able to look
forward to an illimitable time in each other's society--when a day or
two of absence will be far more infrequent than the days which we
spend together now. Then a quiet will settle down upon us, a
passionate quiet, which is the consummation of happiness.
Dearest, I hope you have not found it impracticable to walk, though
the atmosphere be so wintry. Did we walk together in any such cold
weather, last winter? I believe we did. How strange, that such a
flower as our affection should have blossomed amid snow and wintry
winds--accompaniments which no poet or novelist, that I know of, has
ever introduced into a love-tale. Nothing like our story was ever
written--or ever will be--for we shall not feel inclined to make the
public our confidant; but if it could be told, methinks it would be
such as the angels might take delight to hear. If I mistake not, my
Dove has expressed some such idea as this, in one of her recent
letters.
Well-a-day! I have strolled thus far through my letter, without once
making mention of naughty Sophie Hawthorne. Will she pardon the
neglect? Present my profound respects to her beloved nose, and say
that I still entreat her to allow my Dove to kiss her cheek. When she
complies with this oft-repeated petition, I shall hope that her spirit
is beginning to be tamed, and shall then meditate some other and more
difficult trials of it. Nonsense! Do not believe me, dear little
Sophie Hawthorne. I would not tame you for the whole Universe.
But now good bye, dearest wife. Keep yourself in good heart while I am
absent, and grow round and plump and rosy;--eat a whole chicken every
day;--go to bed at nine o'clock or earlier, and sleep sound till
sunrise. Come to me in dreams, beloved. What should I do in this weary
world, without the idea of you, dearest! Give my love to your father
and mother, and to Elizabeth.
God bless you, darling.