_Boston_, June 11th, 1840--5 or 6 P.M.
_My blessedest_,
Thou hast strayed quite out of the sphere of my imagination, and I
know not how to represent thy whereabout, any more than if thou hadst
gone on pilgrimage beyond the sea, or to the moon. Dost thou still
love me, in all thy wanderings? Are there any east-winds there? Truly,
now that thou hast escaped beyond its jurisdiction, I could wish that
the east wind would blow every day, from ten o'clock till five; for
there is great refreshment in it for us poor mortals that toil beneath
the sun. Dearest, thou must not think too unkindly even of the
east-wind. It is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its
benignest moods; but there are seasons when I delight to feel its
breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisable to throw open my
bosom and take it into my heart, as I would its gentle sisters of the
South and West. To-day, if I had been on the wharves, the slight
chill of an east wind would have been a blessing, like the chill of
death to a world-weary man. But, dearest, thou wilt rejoice to hear
that this has been one of the very idlest days that I ever spent in
Boston. Oh, hadst thou been here! In the morning, soon after
breakfast, I went to the Athenaeum Gallery; and during the hour or two
that I stayed, not a single visitor came in. Some people were putting
up paintings in one division of the room; but we might have had the
other all to ourselves--thy husband had it all to himself--or rather,
he did not have it, nor possess it in fulness and reality, because
thou wast not there. I cannot see pictures without thee; so thou must
not expect me to criticise this exhibition. There are two pictures
there by our friend (thy friend--and is it not the same thing?) Sarah
Clark--scenes in Kentucky. Doubtless I shall find them very admirable,
when we have looked at them together. The gallery of sculpture I shall
not visit, unless I can be there with thee.
From the picture gallery I went to the reading-room of the Athenaeum,
and there read the magazines till nearly twelve--thence to the
Custom-House, and soon afterwards to dinner with Colonel Hall--then
back to the Custom-House, but only for a little while. There was
nothing in the world to do, and so, at two o'clock, I came home and
lay down on the bed, with the Faery Queen in my hand, and my Dove in
my heart. Soon a pleasant slumber came over me; it was not a deep,
sound sleep, but a slumbrous withdrawing of myself from the external
world. Whether thou camest to me in a dream, I cannot tell; but thou
didst peep at me through all the interstices of sleep. After I awoke,
I did not take up the Faery Queen again, but lay thinking of thee, and
at last bestirred myself and got up to write this letter. My
belovedest wife, does it not make thee happy to think that thy husband
has escaped, for one whole summer day, from his burthen of salt and
coal, and has been almost as idle as ever his idle nature could
desire?--and this, too, on one of the longest days of all the year!
Oh, could I have spent it in some shady nook, with mine own wife! Now
good-bye, blessedest. So indolent is thy husband, that he intends now
to relieve himself even from the sweet toil of shaping his thoughts of
thee into written words; moreover, there is no present need of it,
because I am not to be at the Custom-House very early, and can finish
this letter tomorrow morning. Good-bye, dearest, and keep a quiet
heart.
June 12th. ½ past 7 A.M.--Belovedest, art thou not going to be very
happy to-day? I hope so, and believe so; and, dearest, if thou findest
thyself comfortable at Concord--and if the Emersonians love thee and
admire thee as they ought--do not thou too stubbornly refuse to stay a
week longer than the term first assigned.
(Remainder of letter missing)