_Boston_, Feby. 11th, 1840--7 P.M.
_Belovedest_,
Your letter, with its assurance of your present convalescence, and its
promise (to which I shall hold you fast) that you will never be sick
any more, caused me much joy.... Dearest, George Hillard came in just
as I had written the first sentence; so we will begin on a new score.
Your husband has been measuring coal all day, aboard of a black little
British schooner, in a dismal dock at the north end of the city. Most
of the time, he paced the deck to keep himself warm; for the wind
(north-east, I believe it was) blew up through the dock, as if it had
been the pipe of a pair of bellows. The vessel lying deep between two
wharves, there was no more delightful prospect, on the right hand and
on the left, than the posts and timbers, half immersed in the water,
and covered with ice, which the rising and falling of successive tides
had left upon them; so that they looked like immense icicles. Across
the water, however, not more than half a mile off, appeared the Bunker
Hill monument; and what interested me considerably more, a
church-steeple, with the dial of a clock upon it, whereby I was
enabled to measure the march of the weary hours. Sometimes your
husband descended into the dirty little cabin of the schooner, and
warmed himself by a red-hot stove, among biscuit-barrels, pots and
kettles, sea-chests, and innumerable lumber of all sorts--his
olfactories, meanwhile, being greatly refreshed by the odour of a
pipe, which the captain or some of his crew were smoking. But at last
came the sunset, with delicate clouds, and a purple light upon the
islands; and your husband blessed it, because it was the signal of his
release; and so he came home to talk with his dearest wife. And now he
bids her farewell, because he is tired and sleepy. God bless you,
belovedest. Dream happy dreams of me tonight.
February 12th--Evening.--All day long again, best wife, has your poor
husband been engaged in a very black business--as black as a coal; and
though his face and hands have undergone a thorough purification, he
feels as if he were not altogether fit to hold communion with his
white Dove. Methinks my profession is somewhat akin to that of a
chimney-sweeper; but the latter has the advantage over me, because,
after climbing up through the darksome flue of the chimney, he emerges
into the midst of the golden air, and sings out his melodies far over
the heads of the whole tribe of weary earth-plodders. My dearest, my
toil today has been cold and dull enough; nevertheless your husband
was neither cold nor dull; for he kept his heart warm and his spirit
bright with thoughts of his belovedest wife. I had strong and happy
yearnings for you to-day, ownest Dove--happy, even though it was such
an eager longing, which I knew could not then be fulfilled, to clasp
you to my bosom. And now here I am in our parlour, aweary--too tired,
almost, to write.
Well, dearest, my labors are over for the present. I cannot, however,
come home just at present, three of the Measurers being now absent;
but you shall see me very soon. Naughtiest, why do you say that you
have scarcely seen your husband, this winter? Have there not, to say
nothing of shorter visits, been two eternities of more than a week
each, which were full of blessings for us? My Dove has quite forgotten
these. Oh, well! If visits of a week long be not worth remembering, I
shall alter my purpose of coming to Salem for another like
space;--otherwise I might possibly have been there, by Saturday night,
at furthest. Dear me, how sleepy I am! I can hardly write, as you will
discover by the blottings and scratchings. So good-bye now,
darlingest;--and I will finish in the freshness of the morning.
February 13th--Past 8 A.M. Belovedest, how very soon this letter will
be in your hands. It brings us much closer together, when the written
words of one of us can come to the heart of the other, in the very
same day that they flowed from the heart of the writer. I mean to come
home to our parlour early to-day; so, when you receive this letter,
you can imagine me there, sitting in front of the Isola. I have this
moment interrupted myself to go and look at that precious production.
How I wish that naughty Sophie Hawthorne could be induced to turn her
face towards me! Nevertheless, the figure is her veritable self, and
so would the face be, only that she deems it too beauteous to be
thrown away on her husband's gaze. I have not dared to kiss her yet.
Will she abide it?
My dearest, do not expect me very fervently till I come. I am glad you
were so careful of your inestimable eyes as not to write to me
yesterday. Mrs. Hillard says that Elizabeth made her a call.
Good-bye. I am very well to day, and unspeakably happy in the thought
that I have a dearest little wife, who loves me pretty well. God bless
her.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.