_Boston_, March 30th, 1840--5 or 6 P.M.
_Infinitely belovedest_,
Thy Thursday's letter came not till Saturday--so long was thy faith
fullest husband defrauded of his rights! Thou mayst imagine how hungry
was my heart, when at last it came. Thy yesterday's letter, for a
wonder, arrived in its due season, this forenoon; and I could not
refrain from opening it immediately; and then and there, in that
earthy cavern of the Custom-House, and surrounded by all those
brawling slang-whangers, I held sweet communion with my Dove. Dearest,
I do not believe that any one of those miserable men ever received a
letter which uttered a single word of love and faith--which addressed
itself in any manner to the soul. No beautiful and holy woman's spirit
came to visit any of them, save thy husband. How blest is he! Thou
findest thy way to him in all dismallest and unloveliest places, and
talkest with him there, nor can the loudest babble nor rudest clamor
shut out thy gentle voice from his ear. Truly, he ought not to bemoan
himself any more, as in his last letter, but to esteem himself favored
beyond all other mortals;--but truly he is a wayward and incalculable
personage, and will not be prevailed with to know his own happiness.
The lovelier thou art, mine ownest, the more doth thy unreasonable
husband discontent himself to be away from thee, though thou
continually sendest him all of thyself that can be breathed into
written words. Oh, I want thee with me forever and ever!--at least I
would always have the feeling, amid the tumult and unsuitable
associations of the day, that the night would bring me to my home of
peace and rest--to thee, my fore-ordained wife. Well--be patient,
heart! The time will come. Meantime, foolishest heart, be thankful for
the much of happiness thou already hast.
Dearest, thy husband was very reprehensible, yesterday. Wilt thou
again forgive him? He went not to hear Father Taylor preach. In truth,
his own private and quiet room did have such a charm for him, after
being mixed and tossed together with discordant elements all the week,
that he thought his Dove would grant him indulgence for one more
Sabbath. Also, he fancied himself unfit to go out, on account of a
cold; though, as the disease has quite disappeared to-day, I am afraid
he conjured it up to serve his naughty purpose. But, indeed, dearest,
I feel somewhat afraid to hear this divine Father Taylor, lest my
sympathy with thy admiration of him should be colder and feebler than
thou lookest for. Belovedest wife, our souls are in happiest unison;
but we must not disquiet ourselves if every tone be not re-echoed from
one to the other--if every slightest shade be not reflected in the
alternate mirror. Our broad and general sympathy is enough to secure
our bliss, without our following it into minute details. Wilt thou
promise not to be troubled, should thy husband be unable to appreciate
the excellence of Father Taylor? Promise me this; and at some
auspicious hour, which I trust will soon arrive, Father Taylor shall
have an opportunity to make music with my soul. But I forewarn thee,
sweetest Dove, that thy husband is a most unmalleable man;--thou art
not to suppose, because his spirit answers to every touch of thine,
that therefore every breeze, or even every whirlwind, can upturn him
from his depths. Well, dearest, I have said my say, on this matter.
What a rain is this, my poor little Dove! Yet as the wind comes from
some other quarter than the East, I trust that thou hast found it
genial. Good bye, belovedest, till tomorrow evening. Meantime, love
me, and dream of me.
March 31st.--Evening.--Best Wife, it is scarcely dark yet; but thy
husband has just lighted his lamps, and sits down to talk to thee.
Would that he could hear an answer in thine own sweet voice; for his
spirit needs to be cheered by that dearest of all harmonies, after a
long, listless, weary day. Just at this moment, it does seem as if
life could not go on without it. What is to be done?
Dearest, if Elizabeth Howe is to be with you on Saturday, it would be
quite a calamity to thee and thy household, for me to come at the same
time. Now will Sophie Hawthorne complain, and the Dove's eyes be
suffused, at my supposing that their husband's visit could be a
calamity at any time. Well, at least, we should be obliged to give up
many hours of happiness, and it would not even be certain that I could
have the privilege of seeing mine own wife in private, at all.
Wherefore, considering these things, I have resolved, and do hereby
make it a decree of fate, that my present widowhood shall continue one
week longer. And my sweetest Dove--yes, and naughtiest Sophie
Hawthorne too--will both concur in the fitness of this resolution, and
will help me to execute it with what of resignation is attainable by
mortal man, by writing me a letter full of strength and comfort. And
I, infinitely dear wife, will write to thee again; so that, though my
earthly part will not be with thee on Saturday, yet thou shalt have my
heart and soul in a letter. Will not this be right, and for the best?
"Yes, dearest husband," saith my meekest little Dove; and Sophie
Hawthorne cannot gainsay her.
Mine unspeakably ownest, dost thou love me a million of times as much
as thou didst a week ago? As for me, my heart grows deeper and wider
every moment, and still thou fillest it in all its depths and
boundlessness. Wilt thou never be satisfied with making me love thee?
To what use canst thou put so much love as thou continually receivest
from me? Dost thou hoard it up, as misers do their treasure?