Volume I Part 5 (2/2)
_Boston_, Novr. 20th, past 8 P.M., [1839]
Dearest, you know not how your blessed letter strengthens my heart on your account; for I know by it that G.o.d and the angels are supporting you. And, mine own wife, though I thought that I reverenced you infinitely before, yet never was so much of that feeling mingled with my love, as now. You are yourself one of the angels who minister to your departing brother--the more an angel, because you triumph over earthly weakness to perform those offices of affection. I feel, now, with what confidence I can rest upon you in all my sorrows and troubles--as confident of your strength as of your love. Dearest, there is nothing in me worthy of you. My heart is weak in comparison with yours. Its strength, it is true, has never been tried; for I have never been called to minister at the dying bed of a dear friend; but I have often thought, that, in such a scene, I should need support from the dying, instead of being able to give it. I bless G.o.d that He has made Death so beautiful as he appears in the scene which you describe--that He has caused the light from the other side to s.h.i.+ne over and across the chasm of the grave.
My wife, my spirit has never yearned for communion with you so much as it does now. I long to hold you on my bosom--to hold you there silently--for I have no words to write my sympathy, and should have none to speak them. Sometimes, even after all I have now learned of your divine fort.i.tude, I feel as if I shall dread to meet you, lest I should find you quite worn down by this great trial. But, dearest, I will make up my mind to see you pale, and thinner than you were. Only do not be sick--do not give me too much to bear.
Novr. 21st, past 5 P.M. Mine own Dove, your fourth letter came today, and all the rest were duly received, and performed their heaven-appointed mission to my soul. The last has left a very cheering influence on my spirit. Dearest, I love that naughty Sophie Hawthorne with an unspeakable affection, and bless G.o.d for her every minute; for what my Dove could do without her, pa.s.ses my comprehension. And, mine own wife, I have not been born in vain, but to an end worth living for, since you are able to rest your heart on me, and are thereby sustained in this sorrow, and enabled to be a help and comfort to your mother, and a ministering angel to George. Give my love to George. I regret that we have known each other so little in life; but there will be time enough hereafter--in that pleasant region ”on the other side.”
Beloved, I shall come on Sat.u.r.day, but probably not till the five o'clock train, unless it should storm; so you must not expect me till seven or thereabouts. I never did yearn for you so much as now. There is a feeling in me as if a great while had pa.s.sed since we met. Is it so with you?
The days are cold now, the air eager and nipping--yet it suits my health amazingly. I feel as if I could run a hundred miles at a stretch, and jump over all the houses that happen to be in my way.
Belovedest, I must bring this letter to a close now, for several reasons--partly that I may carry it to the Post-Office before it closes; for I hate to make your father pay the postage of my wife's letters. Also, I have another short letter of business to write;--and, moreover, I must go forth into the wide world to seek my supper. This life of mine is the perfection of a bachelor-life--so perfectly untrammelled as it is. Do you not fear, my wife, to trust me to live in such a way any longer?
Belovedest, still keep up your heart for your husband's sake. I pray to G.o.d for quiet sleeps for my Dove, and cheerful awakings--yes, cheerful; for Death moves with a sweet aspect into your household; and your brother pa.s.ses away with him as with a friend. And now farewell, dearest of wives. You are the hope and joy of your husband's heart.
Never, never forget how very precious you are to him. G.o.d bless you, dearest.
YOUR OWNEST HUSBAND.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Care of Dr. N. Peabody, Salem, Ma.s.s.
TO MISS PEABODY
_Boston_, Novr. 25th, 1839--6 P.M.
_Belovedest Wife_,
This very day I have held you in my arms; and yet, now that I find myself again in my solitary room, it seems as if a long while had already pa.s.sed--long enough, as I trust my Dove will think, to excuse my troubling her with an epistle. I came off in the two o'clock cars, through such a pouring rain, that doubtless Sophie Hawthorne set it down for certain that I should pa.s.s the day and night in Salem. And perhaps she and the Dove are now watching, with beating heart, to hear your husband lift the door-latch. Alas, that they must be disappointed! Dearest, I feel that I ought to be with you now; for it grieves me to imagine you all alone in that chamber, where you ”sit and _wait_”--as you said to me this morning. This, I trust, is the last of your sorrow, mine own wife; in which you will not have all the aid that your husband's bosom, and the profoundest sympathy that exists within it, can impart.
I found your letter in the Measurer's Desk; and though I knew perfectly well that it was there, and had thought of it repeatedly, yet it struck me with a sense of unexpectedness when I saw it. I put it in my breast-pocket, and did not open it till I found myself comfortably settled for the evening; for I took my supper of oysters on my way to my room, and have nothing to do with the busy world till sunrise tomorrow. Oh, mine own beloved, it seems to me the only thing worth living for that I have ever done, or been instrumental in, that G.o.d has made me the means of saving you from the heaviest anguish of your brother's loss. Ever, ever, dearest wife, keep my image, or rather my reality, between yourself and pain of every kind. Let me clothe you in my love as in an armour of proof--let me wrap my spirit round about your own, so that no earthly calamity may come in immediate contact with it, but be felt, if at all, through a softening medium. And it is a blessed privilege, and even a happy one, to give such sympathy as my Dove requires--happy to give--and, dearest, is it not also happiness to receive it? Our happiness consists in our sense of the union of our hearts--and has not that union been far more deeply felt within us now, than if all our ties were those of joy and gladness? Thus may every sorrow leave us happier than it found us, by causing our hearts to embrace more closely in the mutual effort to sustain it.
Dearest, I pray G.o.d that your strength may not fail you at the close of this scene. My heart is not quite at rest about you. It seems to me, on looking back, that there was a vague inquietude within me all through this last visit; and this it was, perhaps, that made me seem more sportive than usual.
Did I tell my carefullest little wife that I had bought me a fur cap, wherewith my ears may bid defiance to the wintry blast--a poor image, by the way, to talk of _ears bidding_ defiance. The nose might do it, because it is capable of emitting sounds like a trumpet--indeed, Sophie Hawthorne's nose bids defiance without any sound. But what nonsense this is. Also (I have now been a married man long enough to feel these details perfectly natural, in writing to my wife) your husband, having a particular dislike to flannel, is resolved, every cold morning, to put on two s.h.i.+rts, and has already done so on one occasion, wonderfully to his comfort. Perhaps--but this I leave to Sophie Hawthorne's judgment--it might be well to add a daily s.h.i.+rt to my apparel as the winter advances, and to take them off again, one by one, with the approach of spring. Dear me, what a puffed-out heap of cotton-bagging would your husband be, by the middle of January! His Dove would strive in vain to fold her wings around him.
My beloved, this is Thanksgiving week. Do you remember how we were employed, or what our state of feeling was, at this time last year? I have forgotten how far we had advanced into each other's hearts--or rather, how conscious we had become that we were mutually within one another--but I am sure we were already dearest friends. But now our eyes are opened. Now we know that we have found all in each other--all that life has to give--and a foretaste of eternity. At every former Thanksgiving-day I have been so ungrateful to Heaven as to feel that something was wanting, and that my life so far had been abortive; and therefore, I fear, there has often been repining instead of thankfulness in my heart. Now I can thank G.o.d that he has given me my Dove, and all the world in her. I wish, dearest, that we could eat our Thanksgiving dinner together; and were it nothing but your bowl of bread and milk, we would both of us be therewith content. But I must sit at our mother's table. One of these days, sweetest wife, we will invite her to our own.
Will my Dove expect a letter from me so soon? I have written this evening, because I expect to be engaged tomorrow--moreover, my heart bade me write. G.o.d bless and keep you, dearest.
YOUR OWNEST DEODATUS.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Care of Dr. N. Peabody, Salem, Ma.s.s.
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