_Boston_, April 21st, 1840.--Custom-House.
I do trust, my dearest, that thou hast been enjoying this bright day
for both of us; for thy husband has spent it in his dungeon--and the
only ray of light that broke upon him, was when he opened thy letter.
Belovedest, I have folded it to my heart, and ever and anon it sends a
thrill through me; for thou hast steeped it with thy love--it seems as
if thy head were leaning against my breast. I long to get home, that I
may read it again and again; for in this uncongenial region, I can but
half comprehend it--at least, I feel that there is a richness and
sweetness in it, too sacred to be enjoyed, save in privacy. Dearest
wife, thy poor husband is sometimes driven to wish that thou and he
could mount upon a cloud (as we used to fancy in those heavenly walks
of ours) and be borne quite out of sight and hearing of all the
world;--then, at last, our souls might melt into each other; but now,
all the people in the world seem to come between us. How happy were
Adam and Eve! There was no third person to come between them, and all
the infinity around them only served to press their hearts closer
together. We love [one] another as well as they: but there is no
silent and lovely garden of Eden for us. Mine own, wilt thou sail away
with me to discover some summer island?--dost thou not think that God
has reserved one for us, ever since the beginning of the world? Ah,
foolish husband that I am, to raise a question of it, when we have
found such an Eden, such an island sacred to us two, whenever, whether
in Mrs. Quincy's boudoir, or anywhere else, we have been clasped in
one another's arms! That holy circle shuts out all the world--then we
are the Adam and Eve of a virgin earth. Now good-bye dearest; for
voices are babbling around me, and I should not wonder if thou wert
to hear the echo of them, while thou readest this letter.
April 22d--6 o'clock P.M. To-day, dearest, I have been measuring salt,
on Long-Wharf; and though considerably weary, I feel better satisfied
than if I had been murdering the blessed day at the Custom-House. Mine
own wife, how very good wast thou, to take me with thee on that sweet
walk, last Monday! And how kind-hearted was that sensible old stump!
Thou enquirest whether I ever heard a stump speak before. No, indeed;
but "stump-speeches" (as thou mayst learn in the newspapers) are very
common in the western country. Belovedest, I have met with an immense
misfortune. Dost thou sympathise from the bottom of thy heart? Wouldst
thou take it upon thyself, if possible? Yea; I know thou wouldst, even
without asking the nature of it; and truth to tell, I could be selfish
enough to wish that thou mightest share it with me. Now art thou all
in a fever of anxiety! I feel the fluttering of thy foolish little
heart. Shall I tell thee? No.--Yes; I will. I have received an
invitation to a party at General McNeil's, next Friday evening. Why
will not people let your poor persecuted husband alone? What possible
good can it do for me to thrust my coal-begrimed visage and
salt-befrosted locks into good society? What claim have I to be
there--a humble Measurer, a subordinate Custom-House officer, as I am!
I cannot go. I will not go. I intend to pass that evening with my
wife--that is to say, in musings and dreams of her, and moreover, it
was an exceeding breach of etiquette, that this belovedest wife was
not included in the invitation.
My duties began at sunrise, after a somewhat scanty night's rest;
for George Hillard and his brother, from London, came to see me, when
I was preparing to go [to] bed; and I was kept up pretty late. But I
came home at about four o'clock, and straightway went to bed! What a
sinful way was that of misusing this summer afternoon! I trust, most
dear wife, that the better half of my being has drawn from the sweet
day all the honey that it contained. I feel as if it were not so much
matter, now, whether my days pass pleasantly or irksomely, since thou
canst be living a golden life for both of us. Sometime or other, we
will contribute each an equal share of enjoyment.
Dearest, thou knowest not how I have yearned for thee. And now there
is but one day more of widowhood! Sophie Hawthorne must not expect me
any more on Fridays, till the busy season is over. If I can always
come on the appointed Saturday, it will be a great mercy of Heaven;
but I trust in Heaven's goodness, and the instrumentality of Colonel
Hall. Now God bless thee, ownest wife. God bless us.
To Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.