Boston, August 25th, 1839
Dearest Wife,
I did not write you yesterday, tor several reasons partly because I was interrupted by company; and also I had a difficult letter to project and execute in behalf of an office-seeker; and in the afternoon I fell asleep amid thoughts of my own Dove; and when I awoke, I took up Miss Martineaifs Deerbrook, and became interested in it because, being myself a lover, nothing that treats earnestly of love can be indifferent to me. Some truth in the book I recognised -- but there seems to be too much of dismal fantasy.
Thus, one way or another, the Sabbath passed away without my pouring out my heart to my sweet wife on paper; but I thought of you, dearest, all day long. Your letter came this forenoon, and I opened it on board of a salt-ship, and snatched portions of it in the intervals of keeping tally. Every letter of yours is as fresh and new as if you had never written a preceding one each is like a strain ot music unheard before, but all are in sweet accordance -- all of them introduce me deeper and deeper into your being, yet there is no sense of surprise at what I see, and feel, and know, therein. I am familiar with your inner heart, as with my home; but yet there is a sense of revelation or perhaps of recovered intimacy with a dearest friend long hidden from me. Were you not my wite in some past eternity?
Dearest, perhaps these speculations are not wise. We will not cast dreamy glances too far behind us or before us, but live our present lite in simplicity; tor methinks that is the way to realise it most intense!}. Good night, most beloved. Your husband is presently going to bed; for the bell has just rung (those bells are always interrupting us, whether for dinner, or supper, or bed time) and he rose early this morning, and must be abroad at sunrise tomorrow. Good night, my wife. Receive your husband's kiss upon your eyelids. [continued on the 27th]
Dearest Wife,
I did not write you yesterday, tor several reasons partly because I was interrupted by company; and also I had a difficult letter to project and execute in behalf of an office-seeker; and in the afternoon I fell asleep amid thoughts of my own Dove; and when I awoke, I took up Miss Martineaifs Deerbrook, and became interested in it because, being myself a lover, nothing that treats earnestly of love can be indifferent to me. Some truth in the book I recognised -- but there seems to be too much of dismal fantasy.
Thus, one way or another, the Sabbath passed away without my pouring out my heart to my sweet wife on paper; but I thought of you, dearest, all day long. Your letter came this forenoon, and I opened it on board of a salt-ship, and snatched portions of it in the intervals of keeping tally. Every letter of yours is as fresh and new as if you had never written a preceding one each is like a strain ot music unheard before, but all are in sweet accordance -- all of them introduce me deeper and deeper into your being, yet there is no sense of surprise at what I see, and feel, and know, therein. I am familiar with your inner heart, as with my home; but yet there is a sense of revelation or perhaps of recovered intimacy with a dearest friend long hidden from me. Were you not my wite in some past eternity?
Dearest, perhaps these speculations are not wise. We will not cast dreamy glances too far behind us or before us, but live our present lite in simplicity; tor methinks that is the way to realise it most intense!}. Good night, most beloved. Your husband is presently going to bed; for the bell has just rung (those bells are always interrupting us, whether for dinner, or supper, or bed time) and he rose early this morning, and must be abroad at sunrise tomorrow. Good night, my wife. Receive your husband's kiss upon your eyelids. [continued on the 27th]
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