[continued from the previous day]
April 18th.
My Dove my hopes of a long evening of seclusion were not quite fulfilled; for a little before nine o'clock John Forrester and Cousin Haley came in, both of whom I so fascinated with my delectable conversation, that they did not take leave till after eleven. Nevertheless, I had already secured no inconsiderable treasure of enjoyment, with all of which you were intermingled. There has been nothing to do at the Custom House today; so I came home at two o'clock, and went to sleep! Pray Heaven you may have felt a sympathetic drowsiness, and have yielded to it. My nap has been a pretty long one, for as nearly as I can judge by the position of the sun, it must be as much as five o'clock. I think there will be a beautiful sunset; and perhaps, if we could walk out together, the wind, would change and the air grow balmy at once. The Spring is not acquainted with my Dove and me, as the Winter was; how then can we expect her to be kindly to us? We really must continue to walk out and meet her, and make friends with her; then she will salute your cheek with her balmiest kiss, whenever she gets a chance. As to the east wind, if ever the imaginative portion of my brain recover from its torpor, I mean to personify it as a wicked, spiteful, blustering, treacherous in short, altogether devilish sort of body, whose principle of life it is to make as much mischief as he can. The west wind or whatever is the gentlest wind of heaven shall assume your aspect, and be humanised and angelicised with your traits of character, and the sweet West shall finally triumph over the fiendlike East, and rescue the world from his miserable tyranny; and it I tell the story well, I am sure my loving and beloved West Wind will kiss me for it.
When this week's first letter came, I held it a long time in my hand, marvelling at the super scription. How did you contrive to write it? Several times since, I have pored over it, to discover how much of yourself was mingled with my share of it; and certainly there is a grace flung over the facsimile, which was never seen in my harsh, uncouth autograph and yet none of the strength is lost. You are wonderful. Imitate this.
NATH. HAWTHORN.
April 18th.
My Dove my hopes of a long evening of seclusion were not quite fulfilled; for a little before nine o'clock John Forrester and Cousin Haley came in, both of whom I so fascinated with my delectable conversation, that they did not take leave till after eleven. Nevertheless, I had already secured no inconsiderable treasure of enjoyment, with all of which you were intermingled. There has been nothing to do at the Custom House today; so I came home at two o'clock, and went to sleep! Pray Heaven you may have felt a sympathetic drowsiness, and have yielded to it. My nap has been a pretty long one, for as nearly as I can judge by the position of the sun, it must be as much as five o'clock. I think there will be a beautiful sunset; and perhaps, if we could walk out together, the wind, would change and the air grow balmy at once. The Spring is not acquainted with my Dove and me, as the Winter was; how then can we expect her to be kindly to us? We really must continue to walk out and meet her, and make friends with her; then she will salute your cheek with her balmiest kiss, whenever she gets a chance. As to the east wind, if ever the imaginative portion of my brain recover from its torpor, I mean to personify it as a wicked, spiteful, blustering, treacherous in short, altogether devilish sort of body, whose principle of life it is to make as much mischief as he can. The west wind or whatever is the gentlest wind of heaven shall assume your aspect, and be humanised and angelicised with your traits of character, and the sweet West shall finally triumph over the fiendlike East, and rescue the world from his miserable tyranny; and it I tell the story well, I am sure my loving and beloved West Wind will kiss me for it.
When this week's first letter came, I held it a long time in my hand, marvelling at the super scription. How did you contrive to write it? Several times since, I have pored over it, to discover how much of yourself was mingled with my share of it; and certainly there is a grace flung over the facsimile, which was never seen in my harsh, uncouth autograph and yet none of the strength is lost. You are wonderful. Imitate this.
NATH. HAWTHORN.
No comments:
Post a Comment