_Boston_, February 7th, 1840--½ past 3 P.M.
_Ownest Dove_,
Can you reckon the ages that have elapsed since our last embrace? It
quite surpasses my powers of computation. I only know that, in some
long by-gone time, I had a wife--and that now I am a widowed man,
living not in the present, but in the past and future. My life would
be empty indeed, if I could neither remember nor anticipate; but I can
do both; and so my heart continues to keep itself full of light and
warmth. Belovedest, let it be so likewise with you. You promised
me--did you not?--to be happy during our separation, and really I must
insist upon holding you to your word even if it should involve a
miracle.
Dearest, I have hung up the pictures--the Isola over the mantel-piece,
and the Menaggio on the opposite wall. This arrangement pleased me
better, on the whole, than the other which we contemplated; and I
cannot perceive but that the light is equally favorable for them both.
You cannot imagine how they glorify our parlor--and what a solace they
are to its widowed inhabitant. I sit before them with something of the
quiet and repose which your own beloved presence is wont to impart to
me. I gaze at them by all sorts of light--daylight, twilight, and
candle-light; and when the lamps are extinguished, and before getting
into bed, I sit looking at these pictures, by the flickering
fire-light. They are truly an infinite enjoyment. I take great care of
them, and have hitherto hung the curtains before them every morning;
and they remain covered till after I have kindled my fire in the
afternoon. But I suppose this precaution need not be taken much
longer. I think that this slight veil produces a not unpleasing
effect, especially upon the Isola--a gentle and tender gloom, like the
first approaches of twilight. Nevertheless, whenever I remove the
curtains I am always struck with new surprise at the beauty which then
gleams forth. Mine ownest, you are a wonderful little Dove.
What beautiful weather this is--beautiful, at least, so far as sun,
sky, and atmosphere are concerned; though a poor wingless biped, like
my Dove's husband, is sometimes constrained to wish that he could
raise himself a little above the earth. How much mud and mire, how
many pools of unclean water, how many slippery footsteps and perchance
heavy tumbles, might be avoided, if we could but tread six inches
above the crust of this world. Physically, we cannot do this; our
bodies cannot; but it seems to me that our hearts and minds may keep
themselves above moral mud-puddles, and other discomforts of the
soul's path-way, and so enjoy the sunshine.
I have added Coleridge's Poems, a very good edition in three volumes,
to our library. Dearest, dearest, what a joy it is to think of you,
whenever I buy a book--to think that we shall read them aloud to one
another, and that they are to be our mutual and familiar friends for
life. I intended to have asked you again for that list which you
shewed me; but it will do the next time I come. I mean to go to a
book-auction this evening. When our book-case is filled, my
bibliomania will probably cease; for its shelves, I think, would hold
about all the books that I should care to read--all, at least, that I
should wish to possess as household friends.
What a reprehensible husband am I, not to have inquired, in the very
first sentence of my letter, whether my belovedest has quite
recovered from the varioloid! But, in truth, it seemed so long since
we parted, that none but chronic diseases can have subsisted from that
time to this. I make no doubt, therefore, but that the afflicted arm
is entirely recovered, and that only a slight scar remains--which
shall be kissed, some time or other. And how are your eyes, my
blessedest? Do not torture them by attempting to write, before they
are quite well. If you inflict pain on them for such a purpose, your
husband's eyes will be sensible of it, when he shall read your
letters. Remember that we have now a common property in each other's
eyes.
Dearest, I have not seen Colonel Hall since my return hither--he being
gone to Maine. When he comes back, or shortly thereafter, I will try
to prevail on your neglectful spouse to pay you a short visit.
Methinks he is a very cold and loveless sort of person. I have been
pestering him, ever since I began this letter, to send you some word
of affectionate remembrance; but he utterly refuses to send anything,
save a kiss apiece to the Dove's eyes and mouth, and to Sophie
Hawthorne's nose and foot. Will you have the kindness to see that
these valuable consignments arrive at their destination? Dearest
wife, the letter-writer belies your ownest husband. He thinks of you,
and yearns for you all day long.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.