_Boston_, April 15th, 1840.--Afternoon.
Belovedest--since writing this word, I have made a considerable pause;
for, dearest, my mind has no activity to-day. I would fain sit still,
and let thoughts, feelings, and images of thee, pass before me and
through me, without my putting them into words, or taking any other
trouble about the matter. It must be that thou dost not especially and
exceedingly need a letter from me; else I should feel an impulse and
necessity to write. I do wish, most beloved wife, that there were some
other method of communing with thee at a distance; for really this is
not a natural one to thy husband. In truth, I never use words, either
with the tongue or pen, when I can possibly express myself in any
other way;--and how much, dearest, may be expressed without the
utterance of a word! Is there not a volume in many of our
glances?--even in a pressure of the hand? And when I write to thee,
I do but painfully endeavor to shadow into words what has already been
expressed in those realities. In heaven, I am very sure, there will be
no occasion for words;--our minds will enter into each other, and
silently possess themselves of their natural riches. Even in this
world, I think, such a process is not altogether impossible--we
ourselves have experienced it--but words come like an earthy wall
betwixt us. Then our minds are compelled to stand apart, and make
signals of our meaning, instead of rushing into one another, and
holding converse in an infinite and eternal language. Oh, dearest,
have [not] the moments of our oneness been those in which we were most
silent? It is our instinct to be silent then, because words could not
adequately express the perfect concord of our hearts, and therefore
would infringe upon it. Well, ownest, good bye till tomorrow, when
perhaps thy husband will feel a necessity to use even such a wretched
medium as words, to tell thee how he loves thee. No words can tell it
now.
April 15th. Afternoon.--Most dear wife, never was thy husband gladder
to receive a letter from thee than to-day. And so thou didst perceive
that I was rather out of spirits on Monday. Foolish and faithless
husband that I was, I supposed that thou wouldst not take any notice
of it; but the simple fact was, that I did not feel quite so well as
usual; and said nothing about it to thee, because I knew thou wouldst
desire me to put off my departure, which (for such a trifle) I felt it
not right to do--and likewise, because my Dove would have been
naughty, and so perhaps have made herself ten times as ill as her
husband. Dearest, I am quite well now--only very hungry; for I have
thought fit to eat very little for two days past; and I think
starvation is a remedy for almost all physical evils. You will love
Colonel Hall, when I tell you that he has not let me do a ... (few
words missing) ... and even to-day he has sent me home to my room,
although I assured him that I was perfectly able to work. Now,
dearest, it thou givest thyself any trouble and torment about this
past indisposition of mine, I shall never dare to tell thee about my
future incommodities; but if I were sure thou wouldst estimate them at
no more than they are worth, thou shouldst know them all, even to the
slightest prick of my finger. It is my impulse to complain to thee in
all griefs, great and small; and I will not check that impulse, if
thou wilt sympathise reasonably, as well as most lovingly. And now,
ownest wife, believe that thy husband is well;--better, I fear, than
thou, who art tired to death, and hast even had the headache.
Naughtiest, dost thou think that all the busts in the world, and all
the medallions and other forms of sculpture, would be worth creating
at the expence of such weariness and headaches to thee. I would rather
that thy art should be annihilated, than that thou shouldst always pay
this price for its exercise. But perhaps, when thou hast my bosom to
repose upon, thou wilt no longer feel such overwhelming weariness. I
am given thee to repose upon, that so my most tender and sensitivest
little Dove may be able to do great works.
And dearest, I do by no means undervalue thy works, though I cannot
estimate all thou hast ever done at the price of a single throb of
anguish to thy belovedest head. But thou has achieved mighty things.
Thou hast called up a face which was hidden in the grave--hast
re-created it, after it was resolved to dust--and so hast snatched
from Death his victory. I wonder at thee, my beloved. Thou art a
miracle thyself, and workest miracles. I would not have believed it
possible to do what thou hast done--to restore the lineaments of the
dead so perfectly that even she who loved him so well can require
nothing more;--and this too, when thou hadst hardly known his living
face. Thou couldst not have done it, unless God had helped thee. This
surely was inspiration, and of the holiest kind, and for one of the
holiest purposes.
Dearest, I shall long to see thee exceedingly next Saturday; but
having been absent from duty for two or three days past it will not be
right for me to ask any more time so soon. Dost thou think it would?
How naughty was thy husband to waste the first page of this letter in
declaiming against the blessed art of writing! I do not see how I
could live without it;--thy letters are my heart's food; and
oftentimes my heart absolutely insists upon pouring itself out on
paper, for thy perusal. In truth, if the heart would do all the work,
I should probably write to thee the whole time of my absence; but thou
knowest that the co-operation of the hand and head are indispensable;
and they, not being able to comprehend the infinite necessity of the
heart's finding utterance, are sometimes sluggish.
April 17th.--Before breakfast.--Ownest, I am perfectly well this
morning. Dost thou love me? Dearest, expect not another letter till
Tuesday. Is thy weariness quite gone?