_Salem_, Jany. 27th, 1841--½ past 2 P.M.
Very dearest, what a dismal sky is this that hangs over us! Thy
husband doth but half live to-day--his soul lies asleep, or rather
torpid. As for thee, thou hast been prating at a great rate, and has
spoken many wonderful truths in to-day's conversation.
Belovedest, thou wast very sweet and lovely in our walk yesterday
morning; and it gladdens me much that Providence brought us together.
Dost thou not think that there is always some especial blessing
granted us, when we are to be divided for any length of time? Thou
rememberest what a blissful evening came down from Heaven to us,
before our last separation; insomuch that our hearts glowed with its
influence, all through the ensuing week. And yesterday there came a
heavenly morning, and thou camest with it like a rosy vision, which
still lingers with me, and will not quite fade away, till it be time
for it to brighten into reality. Surely, thou art beloved of Heaven,
and all these blessings are vouchsafed for thy sake; for I do not
remember that such things used to happen to me, while I was a solitary
sinner. Thou bringest a rich portion to thy husband, dearest--even the
blessing of thy Heavenly Father.
Whenever I return to Salem, I feel how dark my life would be, without
the light that thou shedst upon it--how cold, without the warmth of
thy love. Sitting in this chamber, where my youth wasted itself in
vain, I can partly estimate the change that has been wrought. It seems
as it the better part of me had been born, since then. I had walked
those many years in darkness, and might so have walked through life,
with only a dreamy notion that there was any light in the universe, if
thou hadst not kissed mine eye-lids, and given me to see. Thou,
belovedest, hast always been positively happy. Not so thy husband--he
has only been not miserable. Then which of us has gained the most? Thy
husband, assuredly.
When a beam of heavenly sunshine incorporates itself with a dark
cloud, is not the cloud benefitted more than the sunshine? What a
happy image is this!--my soul is the cloud, and thine the
sunshine--but a gentler, sweeter sunshine than ever melted into any
other cloud.
Dearest wife, nothing at all has happened to me, since I left thee. It
puzzles me to conceive how thou meetest with so many more events than
thy husband. Thou wilt have a volume to tell me, when we meet, and
wilt pour thy beloved voice into mine ears, in a stream of two hours'
long. At length thou wilt pause, and say--"But what has _thy_ life
been?"--and then will thy stupid husband look back upon what he calls
his life, for three or four days past, and behold a blank! Thou livest
ten times as much [as] he; because thy spirit takes so much more note
of things.
I met our friend Mr. Howes in the street, yesterday, and held a brief
confabulation. He did not inquire how my wife's health is. Was not
this a sin against etiquette? Dearest, thy husband's stupid book seems
to meet more approbation here, than the former volume did--though
_that_ was greeted more favorably than it deserved. There is a
superfluity of newspaper puffs here, and a deficiency in Boston, where
they are much needed. I ought to love Salem better than I do; for the
people have always had a pretty generous faith in me, ever since they
knew me at all. I fear I must be undeserving of their praise, else I
should never get it. What an ungrateful blockhead thy husband is!
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Mass.