_Boston_, April 3d, 1840.--Evening.
Blessedest wife, thy husband has been busy all day, from early
breakfast-time to late in the afternoon; and old Father Time has gone
onward somewhat less heavily, than is his wont when I am imprisoned
within the walls of the Custom-House. It has been a brisk, breezy day,
as thou knowest--an effervescent atmosphere; and I have enjoyed it in
all its freshness, breathing air which had not been breathed in
advance by the hundred thousand pairs of lungs which have common and
indivisible property in the atmosphere of this great city.--My breath
had never belonged to anybody but me. It came fresh from the
wilderness of ocean. My Dove ought to have shared it with me, and so
have made it infinitely sweeter--save her, I would wish to have an
atmosphere all to myself. And, dearest, it was exhilarating to see the
vessels, how they bounded over the waves, while a sheet of foam broke
out around them. I found a good deal of enjoyment, too, in the busy
scene around me; for several vessels were disgorging themselves (what
an unseemly figure is this--"disgorge," quotha, as if the vessels were
sick at their stomachs) on the wharf; and everybody seemed to be
working with might and main. It pleased thy husband to think that he
also had a part to act in the material and tangible business of this
life, and that a part of all this industry could not have gone on
without his presence. Nevertheless, my belovedest, pride not thyself
too much on thy husband's activity and utilitarianism; he is naturally
an idler, and doubtless will soon be pestering thee with bewailments
at being compelled to earn his bread by taking some little share in
the toils of mortal man.
Most beloved, when I went to the Custom-House, at one o'clock, Colonel
Hall held up a letter, turning the seal towards me; and he seemed to
be quite as well aware as myself, that the long-legged little fowl
impressed thereon was a messenger from my Dove. And so, naughtiest,
thou art not patient. Well; it will do no good to scold thee. I know
Sophie Hawthorne of old--yea, of very old time do I know her; or
rather, of very old eternity. There was an image of such a being, deep
within my soul, before we met in this dim world; and therefore
nothing that she does, or says, or thinks, or feels, ever surprises
me. Her naughtiness is as familiar to me as if it were my own. But
dearest, do be patient; because thou seest that the busy days are
coming again; and how is thy husband to bear his toil lightsomely, if
he knows that thou art impatient and disquieted. By and bye, as soon
as God will open a way to us, we will help one another bear the
burthen of the day, whatever it may be.
My little Dove, the excellent Colonel Hall, conceiving, I suppose,
that our correspondence must necessarily involve a great expenditure
of paper, has imparted to thy husband a quire or two of superfine
gilt-edged, which he brought from Congress. The sheet on which I am
now writing is a specimen; and he charged me to give thee a portion of
it, which I promised to do--but whether I shall convey it to thee in
the mass, or sheet by sheet, after spoiling it with my uncouth
scribble, is yet undetermined. Which wouldst thou prefer? Likewise
three sticks of sealing-[wax] did the good Colonel bestow; but
unfortunately it is all red. Yet I think it proper enough that a
gentleman should seal all his letters with red sealing-wax; though it
is sweet and graceful in my Dove to use fancy-colored. Dearest, the
paper thou shalt have, every sheet of it, sooner or later; and only
that it is so burthensome to thy foolish husband to carry anything in
his hand, I would bring it to thee. Meantime, till I hit upon some
other method, I will send it sheet by sheet.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.