_Boston_, March 11th, 1840--2 P.M.
_Blessedest_,
It seems as if I were looking back to a former state of existence,
when I think of the precious hours which we have lived together. And
now we are in two different worlds--widowed, both of us--both of us
deceased, and each lamenting ...
(Portion of letter missing)
Belovedest, almost my first glance, on entering our parlor after my
return hither, was at the pictures--my very first glance, indeed, as
soon as I had lighted the lamps. They have certainly grown more
beautiful during my absence, and are still becoming more perfect, and
perfecter, and perfectest. I fancied that Sophie Hawthorne, as she
stands on the bridge, had slightly turned her head, so as to reveal
somewhat more of her face; but if so, she has since turned it back
again. I was much struck with the Menaggio this morning;--while I was
gazing at it, the sunshine and the shade grew positively real, and I
agreed with you, for the time, in thinking this a more superlative
picture than the other. But when I came home about an hour ago, I
bestowed my chiefest attention upon the Isola; and now I believe it
has the first place in my affections, though without prejudice to a
very fervent love for the other.
... Dove, there is little prospect for me, indeed; but forgive me for
telling you so, dearest--no prospect of my returning so soon as next
Monday; but I have good hope to be again at liberty by the close of
the week. Do be very good, my Dove--be as good as your nature will
permit, naughty Sophie Hawthorne. As to myself, I shall take the
liberty to torment myself as much as I please.
My dearest, I am very well, but exceedingly stupid and heavy; so the
remainder of this letter shall be postponed until tomorrow. Has my
Dove flown abroad, this cold, bright day? Would that the wind would
snatch her up, and waft her to her husband.
How was it, dearest? And how do you do this morning? Is the wind east?
The sun shone on the chimney-tops round about here, a few minutes ago;
and I hoped that there would be a pleasant day for my Dove to take
wing, and for Sophie Hawthorne to ride on horseback; but the sky
seems to be growing sullen now. Do you wish to know how your husband
will spend the day? First of the first--but there rings the bell for
eight o'clock; and I must go down to breakfast.
After breakfast;--First of the first, your husband will go to the
Post-Office, like a dutiful husband as he is, to put in this letter
for his belovedest wife. Thence he will proceed to the Custom House,
and finding that there is no call for him on the wharves, he will sit
down by the Measurers' fire, and read the Morning Post. Next, at about
half past nine o'clock, he will go to the Athenaeum, and turn over the
Magazines and Reviews till eleven or twelve, when it will be time to
return to the Custom-House to see whether there be a letter from Dove
Hawthorne--and also (though this is of far less importance) to see
whether there be any demand for his services as Measurer. At one
o'clock, or thereabouts, he will go to dinner--but first, perhaps, he
will promenade the whole length of Washington street, to get himself
an appetite. After dinner, he will take one more peep at the
Custom-House, and it being by this time about two o'clock, and no
prospect of business to-day, he will feel at liberty to come home to
our own parlor, there to remain till supper-time. At six o'clock he
will sally forth again, to get some oysters and read the evening
papers, and returning between seven and eight, he will read and
re-read his belovedest's letter--then take up a book--and go to bed at
ten, with a blessing on his lips for the Dove and Sophie Hawthorne.