_Boston_, April 19th, 1840.--Forenoon.
Dearest, there came no letter from thee yesterday; and I have been a
little disquieted with fears that thou art not well and art naughty
enough to conceal it from thy husband. But this is a misdemeanor of
which my Dove ought not to be lightly suspected. Or perhaps, ownest
wife, thou didst imagine that I might mean to surprise thee by a
visit, last evening, and therefore, instead of writing, didst hope to
commune with me in living words. Best belovedest, if I could have
come, I would have given thee notice beforehand; for I love not
surprises, even joyful ones--or at least, I would rather that joy
should come quietly, and as a matter of course, and warning us of its
approach by casting a placid gleam before it. Mine own wife, art thou
very well? Thy husband is so, only love-sick--a disease only to be
cured by the pressure of a certain heart to his own heart.
Belovedest, what a beautiful day was yesterday. Wert thou abroad in
the sky and air? Thy husband's spirit did rebel against being confined
in his darksome dungeon, at the Custom-House; it seemed a sin--a
murder of the joyful young day--a quenching of the sunshine.
Nevertheless, there he was kept a prisoner,--till it was too late to
fling himself on a gentle wind and be blown away into the country. I
foresee, dearest, that thou wilt, now that the pleasant days of May
and June are coming, be tormented quite beyond thine infinite
patience, with my groans and lamentations at being compelled to lose
so much of life's scanty summertime. But thou must enjoy for both of
us. Thou must listen to the notes of the birds, because the rumbling
of wheels will be always in my ears--thou must fill thyself with the
fragrance of wild flowers, because I must breathe in the dust of the
city--thy spirit must enjoy a double share of freedom, because thy
husband is doomed to be a captive. It is thine office now, most sweet
wife, to make all the additions that may be made to our common stock
of enjoyment. By and bye, there shall not be so heavy burthen imposed
upon thee. When I shall be again free, I will enjoy all things with
the fresh simplicity of a child of five years old; thou shalt find
thine husband grown young again, made over all anew--he will go
forth and stand in a summer shower, and all the worldly dust that has
collected on him shall be washed away at once. Then, dearest, whenever
thou art aweary, thou shalt lie down upon his heart as upon a bank of
fresh flowers.
Nearly 6--P.M. Thy husband went out to walk, dearest, about an hour
ago, and found it very pleasant, though there was a somewhat cool
wind. I went round and across the common, and stood on the highest
point of it, whence I could see miles and miles into the country.
Blessed be God for this green tract, and the view which it affords;
whereby we poor citizens may be put in mind, sometimes, that all God's
earth is not composed of brick blocks of houses, and of stone or
wooden pavements. Blessed be God for the sky too; though the smoke of
the city may somewhat change its aspect--but still it is better than
if each street were covered over with a roof. There were a good many
people walking on the mall, mechanicks apparently and shopkeepers'
clerks, with their wives and sweethearts; and boys were rolling on the
grass--and thy husband would have liked to lie down and roll too.
Wouldst thou not have been ashamed of him? And, Oh, dearest, thou
shouldst have been there, to help me to enjoy the green grass, and the
far-off hills and fields--to teach me how to enjoy them, for when I
view Nature without thee, I feel that I lack a sense. When we are
together, thy whole mind and fancy, as well as thy whole heart, is
mine; so that all thy impressions from earth, sea, and sky, are added
to all mine. How necessary hast thou made thyself to thy husband, my
little Dove! When he is weary and out of spirits, his heart yearneth
for thee; and when he is among pleasant scenes, he requireth thee so
much the more.
My dearest, why didst thou not write to me, yesterday? It were always
advisable, methinks, to arrange matters so that a letter may be sent
on each Saturday, when I am not coming home; because Sunday leaves me
free to muse upon thee, and to imagine the state and circumstances in
which thou art--and the present Sunday I have been troubled with
fancies that thou art ill of body or ill at ease in mind. Do not thou
have any such foolish fancies about me, mine ownest. Oh, how we find,
at every moment of our lives, that we ought always to be together!
Then there would be none of these needless heartquakes; but now how
can they be avoided, when we mutually feel that one-half our being is
wandering away by itself, without the guidance and guard of the other
half! Well; it will not be always so. Doubtless, God has planned how
to make us happy; but thy husband, being of a rebellious and
distrustful nature, cannot help wishing sometimes that our Father
would let him into His plans.