_Salem_, Jany. 12th, 1841
Infinitely dearest, I went to the post office yesterday, after dinner,
and inquiring for a letter, thy "visible silence" was put into my
hands. Canst thou remotely imagine how glad I was? Hast thou also been
gladdened by an uncouth scribbling, which thy husband dispatched to
thee on Monday? Oh, belovedest, no words can tell how thirsty my
spirit is for thine! Surely I was very reprehensible to conceive the
idea of spending a whole week and more away from thee. Why didst thou
not scold me? and go with me wherever I went? Without thee, I have but
the semblance of life. All the world hereabouts seems dull and
drowsy--a vision, but without any spirituality--and I, likewise an
unspiritual shadow, struggle vainly to catch hold of something real.
Thou art my reality; and nothing else is real for me, unless thou give
it that golden quality by thy touch.
Dearest, how camest thou by the headache? Thou shouldst have dreamed
of thy husband's breast, instead of that Arabian execution; and then
thou wouldst have awaked with a very delicious thrill in thy heart,
and no pain in thy head. And what wilt thou do to-day, persecuted
little Dove, when thy abiding-place will be a Babel of talkers? Would
that Miss Margaret Fuller might lose her tongue!--or my Dove her ears,
and so be left wholly to her husband's golden silence! Dearest wife, I
truly think that we could dispense with audible speech, and yet never
feel the want of an interpreter between our spirits. We have soared
into a region where we talk together in a language that can have no
earthly echo. Articulate words are a harsh clamor and dissonance. When
man arrives at his highest perfection, he will again be dumb!--for I
suppose he was dumb at the Creation, and must perform an entire circle
in order to return to that blessed state. Cousin Christopher, by thy
account, seems to be of the same opinion, and is gradually learning to
talk without the use of his voice.
Jany. 15th. Friday.--Oh, belovedest, what a weary week is this! Never
did I experience the like. I went to bed last night, positively dismal
and comfortless. Wilt thou know thy husband's face, when we meet
again? Art thou much changed by the flight of years, my poor little
wife? Is thy hair turned gray? Dost thou wear a day-cap, as well as
a night cap? How long since didst thou begin to use spectacles?
Perhaps thou wilt not like to have me see thee, now that Time has done
his worst to mar thy beauty; but fear thou not, sweetest Dove, for
what I have loved and admired in thee is eternal. I shall look through
the envious mist of age, and discern thy immortal grace as perfectly
as in the light of Paradise. As for thy husband, he is grown quite
bald and gray, and has very deep wrinkles across his brow, and
crowsfeet and furrows all over his face. His eyesight fails him, so
that he can only read the largest print in the broadest day-light; but
it is a singular circumstance, that he makes out to decypher the pygmy
characters of thy epistles, even by the faintest twilight. The secret
is, that they are characters of light to him, so that he could
doubtless read them in midnight darkness. Art thou not glad,
belovedest, that thou wast ordained to be a heavenly light to thy
husband, amid the dreary twilight of age?
Grandfather is very anxious to know what has become of his chair, and
the Famous Old People who sat in it. I tell him that it will probably
arrive in the course of to-day; and that he need not be so impatient;
for the public will be very well content to wait, even were it till
Doomsday. He acquiesces, but scolds, nevertheless.
I saw thy cousin Mary Tappan yesterday, and felt the better for it,
because she is connected with thee in my mind. Dearest, I love thee
very much!!!! Art thou not astonished? I wish to ask thee a question,
but will reserve it for the extreme end of this letter.
I trust that thou art quite well, belovedest. That headache took a
very unfair advantage, in attacking thee while thou wast away from thy
husband. It is his province to guard thee both from head-ache and
heart-ache; and thou performest the same blessed office for him, so
far as regards the heart-ache--as to the head-ache, he knows it not,
probably because his head is like a block of wood.
Now good-bye, dearest, sweetest, loveliest, holiest, truest,
suitablest little wife. I worship thee. Thou art my type of womanly
perfection. Thou keepest my heart pure, and elevatest me above the
world. Thou enablest me to interpret the riddle of life, and fillest
me with faith in the unseen and better land, because thou leadest me
thither continually. God bless thee forever.
Dost thou love me?
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Mass.