_Boston_, May 15th, 1840.
_Darlingest_,
I did not reach home last night till candle-light, and then I was
beyond expression weary and spiritless; and I could as soon have
climbed into Heaven without a ladder, as to come to see thee at Mrs.
Park's. So, instead of dressing to pay a visit, I undressed and went
to bed; but yet I doubt whether I ought not to have gone, for I was
restless and wakeful a great part of the night; and it seemed as if I
had scarcely fallen asleep, when I awoke with a start, and saw the
gray dawn creeping over the roofs of the houses. So then it was
necessary for thy poor husband to leave his pillow, without enjoying
that half-dreaming interval which I so delight to devote to thee.
However the fresh morning air made a new creature of me; and all day I
have felt tolerably lively and cheerful--as much so as is anywise
consistent with this intolerable position of near distance, or
distant nearness, in which we now find ourselves. Truly Providence
does not seem to have smiled on this visit of thine, my dearest. The
dispensation is somewhat hard to bear. There is a weight and a gnawing
at my heart; but, belovedest, do let thy heart be cheerful, for thy
husband's sake.
Very reviving to me was thy letter, mine ownest. Colonel Hall brought
it at noon to the eating-house where we had agreed to dine together;
and I forthwith opened it and read it while my beefsteak was broiling.
It refreshed me much more than my dinner--which is a great deal for a
hungry man to say. Dearest, I am in admirable health; it is not the
nature of my present mode of life to make me sick; and my nightly
weariness does not betoken anything of that kind. Each day, it is
true, exhausts all the life and animation that there is in me; but
each night restores as much as will be required for the expenditure of
the next day. I think this week has been about as tough as any that I
ever experienced. I feel the burthen of such constant occupation the
more sensibly, from having had so many idle intervals of late.
Oh, dearest, do not thou tire thyself to death. Whenever thou feelest
weary, then oughtest thou to glide away from all the world; and go to
sleep with the thought of thy husband in thy heart. Why do not
people know better what is requisite for a Dove, than thus to keep her
wings fluttering all day long, never allowing her a moment to fold
them in peace and quietness? I am anxious for thee, mine ownest wife.
When I have the sole charge of thee, these things shall not be.
Belovedest, didst thou not bless this shower? It caused thy husband's
labors to cease for the day, though it confined him in the cabin of
the salt-ship till it was over; but when the drops came few and far
between, I journeyed hither to our parlor, and began this scribble.
Really I did not think my ideas would be alert enough to write half so
much; but I have scrawled one line after another; and now I feel much
revived, and soothed and cheered in mind. I shall sleep the more
quietly, sweetest wife, for having had this talk with thee--thou wilt
bless my sleep. I wish that thou couldst receive this letter to-night,
because I am sure thou needest it.
Let me know, mine ownest, what time thou intendest to go to Salem; and
if it be possible, I will come to the Depot to see thee. But do not
expect me too fervently, because there are many chances that it will
not be in my power. What a time this has been for my Dove and me!
Never, since we were married, have the fates been so perverse. And
now farewell, my dearest, dearest wife, on whom I repose, in whom I am
blest--whom I love with all the heart that is in me, and will love
more and more forever, as I grow more worthy to love thee. Be happy,
dearest; for my happiness must come through thee.
God bless thee, and let me feel his blessing through thy heart.