To Sophie Peabody, Boston, 11 March 1840 2 P.M.
Blessedest,
It seems as if I were looking back to a former state of existence, when I think of the precious hours which we have lived together. And now we are in two different worlds widowed, both of us both of us deceased, and each lamenting . . .
[Portion of letter missing]
Belovedest, almost my first glance, on entering our parlor after my return hither, was at the pictures my very first glance, indeed, as soon as I had lighted the lamps. They have certainly grown more beautiful during my absence, and are still becoming more perfect, and perfecter, and perfectest. I fancied that Sophie Hawthorne, as she stands on the bridge, had slightly turned her head, so as to reveal somewhat more of her face; but if so, she has since turned it back again. I was much struck with the Menaggio this morning; while I was gazing at it, the sunshine and the shade grew positively real, and I agreed with you, for the time, in thinking this a more superlative picture than the other. But when I came home about an hour ago, I bestowed my chiefest attention upon the Isola; and now I believe it has the first place in my affections, though without prejudice to a very fervent love for the other… Dove, there is little prospect for me, indeed; but forgive me for telling you so, dearest no prospect of my returning so soon as next Monday; but I have good hope to be again at liberty by the close of the week. Do be very good, my Dove be as good as your nature will permit, naughty Sophie Hawthorne. As to myself, I shall take the liberty to torment myself as much as I please.
My dearest, I am very well, but exceedingly stupid and heavy; for the remainder of this letter shall be postponed until tomorrow. Has my Dove flown abroad, this cold, bright day? Would that the wind would snatch her up, and waft her to her husband. How was it, dearest? And how do you do this morning? Is the wind east? The sun shone on the chimney-tops round about here, a few minutes ago; and I hoped that there would be a pleasant day for my Dove to take wing, and for Sophie Hawthorne to ride on horseback, but the sky seems to be growing sullen now. Do you wish to know how your husband will spend the day?
First of the first but there rings the bell for eight o clock ; and I must go down to breakfast. After breakfast; First of the first, your husband will go to the Post-Office, like a dutiful husband as he is, to put in this letter for his belovedest wife. Thence he will proceed to the Custom House, and finding that there is no call for him on the wharves, he will sit down by the Measurers fire, and read the Morning Post. Next, at about half past nine o’clock, he will go to the Athenaeum, and turn over the Magazines and Reviews till eleven or twelve, when it will be time to return to the Custom-House to see whether there be a letter from Dove Hawthorne and also (though this is of far less importance) to see whether there be any demand for his services as Measurer. At one o’clock, or thereabouts, he will go to dinner but first, perhaps, he will promenade the whole length of Washington street, to get himself an appetite. After dinner, he will take one more peep at the Custom-House, and it being by this time about two o’clock, and no prospect of business to-day, he will feel at liberty to come home to our own parlor, there to remain till supper-time. At six o’clock he will sally forth again, to get some oysters and read the evening papers, and returning between seven and eight, he will read and re-read his belovedest’s letter then take up a book and go to bed at ten, with a blessing on his lips for the Dove and Sophie Hawthorne.
Thine Ownest.
Blessedest,
It seems as if I were looking back to a former state of existence, when I think of the precious hours which we have lived together. And now we are in two different worlds widowed, both of us both of us deceased, and each lamenting . . .
[Portion of letter missing]
Belovedest, almost my first glance, on entering our parlor after my return hither, was at the pictures my very first glance, indeed, as soon as I had lighted the lamps. They have certainly grown more beautiful during my absence, and are still becoming more perfect, and perfecter, and perfectest. I fancied that Sophie Hawthorne, as she stands on the bridge, had slightly turned her head, so as to reveal somewhat more of her face; but if so, she has since turned it back again. I was much struck with the Menaggio this morning; while I was gazing at it, the sunshine and the shade grew positively real, and I agreed with you, for the time, in thinking this a more superlative picture than the other. But when I came home about an hour ago, I bestowed my chiefest attention upon the Isola; and now I believe it has the first place in my affections, though without prejudice to a very fervent love for the other… Dove, there is little prospect for me, indeed; but forgive me for telling you so, dearest no prospect of my returning so soon as next Monday; but I have good hope to be again at liberty by the close of the week. Do be very good, my Dove be as good as your nature will permit, naughty Sophie Hawthorne. As to myself, I shall take the liberty to torment myself as much as I please.
My dearest, I am very well, but exceedingly stupid and heavy; for the remainder of this letter shall be postponed until tomorrow. Has my Dove flown abroad, this cold, bright day? Would that the wind would snatch her up, and waft her to her husband. How was it, dearest? And how do you do this morning? Is the wind east? The sun shone on the chimney-tops round about here, a few minutes ago; and I hoped that there would be a pleasant day for my Dove to take wing, and for Sophie Hawthorne to ride on horseback, but the sky seems to be growing sullen now. Do you wish to know how your husband will spend the day?
First of the first but there rings the bell for eight o clock ; and I must go down to breakfast. After breakfast; First of the first, your husband will go to the Post-Office, like a dutiful husband as he is, to put in this letter for his belovedest wife. Thence he will proceed to the Custom House, and finding that there is no call for him on the wharves, he will sit down by the Measurers fire, and read the Morning Post. Next, at about half past nine o’clock, he will go to the Athenaeum, and turn over the Magazines and Reviews till eleven or twelve, when it will be time to return to the Custom-House to see whether there be a letter from Dove Hawthorne and also (though this is of far less importance) to see whether there be any demand for his services as Measurer. At one o’clock, or thereabouts, he will go to dinner but first, perhaps, he will promenade the whole length of Washington street, to get himself an appetite. After dinner, he will take one more peep at the Custom-House, and it being by this time about two o’clock, and no prospect of business to-day, he will feel at liberty to come home to our own parlor, there to remain till supper-time. At six o’clock he will sally forth again, to get some oysters and read the evening papers, and returning between seven and eight, he will read and re-read his belovedest’s letter then take up a book and go to bed at ten, with a blessing on his lips for the Dove and Sophie Hawthorne.
Thine Ownest.
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