Boston, Jany. 24th, 1840 4 P.M.
Ownest Dove,
Your letter came this forenoon, announcing the advent of the pictures; so I came home as soon as I possibly could and there was the package! I naturally trembled as I undid it, so eager was I to behold them. Dearissima, there never was anything so lovely and precious in this world. They are perfect. So soon as the dust and smoke of my fire had evaporated, I put them on the mantel piece, and sat a long time before them with clasped hands, gazing, and gazing, and gazing, and painting a fac-simile of them in my heart, in whose most sacred chamber they shall keep a place forever and ever. Belovedest, I was not long in finding out the Dove in the Menaggio. In fact, she was the very first object that my eyes rested on, when I uncovered the picture. She flew straight way into my heart and yet she remains just where you placed her. Dearest, if it had not been for your strict injunctions that nobody nor anything should touch the pictures, I do believe that my lips would have touched that naughty Sophie Hawthorne, as she stands on the bridge. Do you think the perverse little damsel would have vanished beneath my kiss? What a misfortune would that have been to her poor lover! to find that he kissed away his mistress. But, at worst, she would have remained on my lips. However, 1 shall retrain from all endearments, till you tell me that a kiss may be hazarded without fear of her taking it in ill part and absenting herself without leave.
Mine ownest, it is a very noble-looking cavalier with whom Sophie is standing on the bridge. Are you quite sure that her own husband is the companion of her walk? Yet I need not ask for there is the Dove to bear witness to his identity. That true and tender bird would never have alighted on another hand never have rested so near another bosom. Yes; it must be my very self; and from henceforth it shall be held for an absolute and indisputable truth. It is not my picture, but the very I; and as my inner self belongs to you, there is no doubt that you have caused my soul to pervade the figure. There we are, unchangeable. Years cannot alter us, nor our relation to each other.
Ownest, we will talk about these pictures all our lives and longer; so there is no need that I should say all that I think and feel about them now; especially as I have yet only begun to understand and feel them. I have put them into my bed-room for the present, being afraid to trust them on the mantel-piece; but I cannot help going to feast my eyes upon them, every little while. I have determined not to hang them up till after I have been to Salem, for fear of the dust and of the fingers of the chamber-maid and other visitants. Whenever I am away, they will be safely locked up, either in the bureau or in my closet. I shall want your express directions as to the height at which they ought to be hung, and the width of the space between them, and other minutest particulars. We will discuss these matters, when I come home to my wife.
Belovedest, there are several obstacles to my coming home immediately. At present, two of the Measurers are employed, and another is detained at his home in Chelsea by the sickness of his family, and Colonel Hall continues too unwellto be at the Custom-House; so that I am the only one in attendance there; and moreover I have a coal vessel to discharge to-morrow. But this state of affairs will not continue long. I think I can not fail to be at liberty by Tuesday or Wednesday at furthest; and at all events, next week shall not pass without our meeting; even if I should have barely time to press you in my arms, and say good bye. But the probability is, that I shall come to spend a week.
Dearissima, be patient Sophie Hawthorne as well as the Dove.
My carefullest little wife, I am of opinion that Elizabeth has been misinformed as to the increased prevalence of the small-pox. It could not he so generally caused among the merchants and business-people without my being aware of it; nor do I hear of its committing such fearful ravages anywhere. The folks at the Custom-House know of no such matter; nor does George Hillard. In truth, I had supposed (till I heard otherwise from you) that all cause for alarm was past. Trust me, dearest, there is no need of heart-quake on my account. You have been in greater danger than your husband.
God be with you, blessedest and blessingest. I did. . .
(Remainder of letter missing)
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
Showing posts with label January 1840. Show all posts
Showing posts with label January 1840. Show all posts
24 January
23 January
A phantom of the old royal governors, or some such shadowy pageant, on the night of the evacuation of Boston by the British.
(These passages were written in Hawthorne's American Note-Books in 1840, but no specific date is given.)
The love of posterity is a consequence of the necessity of death. If a man were sure of living for ever here, he would not care about his offspring.
The device of a sun-dial for a monument over a grave, with some suitable motto.
A man with the right perception of things,-- feeling within him of what is true and what is false. It might be symbolized by the talisman with which, in fairy tales, an adventurer was enabled to distinguish enchantments from realities.
A phantom of the old royal governors, or some such shadowy pageant, on the night of the evacuation of Boston by the British.
---- taking my likeness, I said that such changes would come over my face that she would not know me when we met again in heaven. "See if I do not!" said she, smiling. There was the most peculiar and beautiful humour in the point itself, and in her manner, that can be imagined.
Little F. H - used to look into E's mouth to see where her smiles came from.
"There is no Measure for Measure to my affections. If the earth fails me, I can die, and go to God," said ----.
Selfishness is one of the qualities apt to inspire love. This might be thought out at great length.
The love of posterity is a consequence of the necessity of death. If a man were sure of living for ever here, he would not care about his offspring.
The device of a sun-dial for a monument over a grave, with some suitable motto.
A man with the right perception of things,-- feeling within him of what is true and what is false. It might be symbolized by the talisman with which, in fairy tales, an adventurer was enabled to distinguish enchantments from realities.
A phantom of the old royal governors, or some such shadowy pageant, on the night of the evacuation of Boston by the British.
---- taking my likeness, I said that such changes would come over my face that she would not know me when we met again in heaven. "See if I do not!" said she, smiling. There was the most peculiar and beautiful humour in the point itself, and in her manner, that can be imagined.
Little F. H - used to look into E's mouth to see where her smiles came from.
"There is no Measure for Measure to my affections. If the earth fails me, I can die, and go to God," said ----.
Selfishness is one of the qualities apt to inspire love. This might be thought out at great length.
18 January
A bonfire to be made of the gallows and of all symbols of evil.
(These passages were written in Hawthorne's American Note-Books in 1840, but no specific date is given.)
1840.
A man, unknown, conscious of temptation to secret crimes, puts up a note in church, desiring the prayers of the congregation for one so tempted.
Some most secret thing, valued and honoured between lovers, to be hung up in public places, and made the subject of remark by the city, remarks, sneers, and laughter.
To make a story out of a scarecrow, giving it odd attributes. From different points of view, it should appear to change, now an old man, now an old woman, a gunner, a farmer, or the Old Nick.
A ground-sparrow's nest in the slope of a bank, brought to view by mowing the grass, but still sheltered and comfortably hidden by a blackberryvine trailing over it. At first, four brown-speckled eggs, then two little bare young ones, which, on the slightest noise, lift their heads, and open wide mouths for food, immediately dropping their heads, after a broad gape. The action looks as if they were making a most earnest, agonized petition. In another egg, as in a coffin, I could discern the quiet, death-like form of the little bird. The whole thing had something awful and mysterious in it.
A coroner's inquest on a murdered man, the gathering of the jury to be described, and the characters of the members, some with secret guilt upon their souls.
To represent a man as spending life and the intensest labour in the accomplishment of some mechanical trifle, as in making a miniature coach to be drawn by fleas, or a dinner-service to be put into a cherry-stone.
A bonfire to be made of the gallows and of all symbols of evil.
1840.
A man, unknown, conscious of temptation to secret crimes, puts up a note in church, desiring the prayers of the congregation for one so tempted.
Some most secret thing, valued and honoured between lovers, to be hung up in public places, and made the subject of remark by the city, remarks, sneers, and laughter.
To make a story out of a scarecrow, giving it odd attributes. From different points of view, it should appear to change, now an old man, now an old woman, a gunner, a farmer, or the Old Nick.
A ground-sparrow's nest in the slope of a bank, brought to view by mowing the grass, but still sheltered and comfortably hidden by a blackberryvine trailing over it. At first, four brown-speckled eggs, then two little bare young ones, which, on the slightest noise, lift their heads, and open wide mouths for food, immediately dropping their heads, after a broad gape. The action looks as if they were making a most earnest, agonized petition. In another egg, as in a coffin, I could discern the quiet, death-like form of the little bird. The whole thing had something awful and mysterious in it.
A coroner's inquest on a murdered man, the gathering of the jury to be described, and the characters of the members, some with secret guilt upon their souls.
To represent a man as spending life and the intensest labour in the accomplishment of some mechanical trifle, as in making a miniature coach to be drawn by fleas, or a dinner-service to be put into a cherry-stone.
A bonfire to be made of the gallows and of all symbols of evil.
03 January
Come to me in dreams, beloved
Boston, Jany. 3rd, 1840 3 P.M.
What a best of all possible husbands you have sweetest wife, to be writing to you so soon again, although he has heard nothing from you since the latter part of the year 1839! What a weary length of time that naughty finder has been ill! Unless there are signs of speedy amendment, we must begin to think of rotation in office, and the left hand must be nominated to the executive duties of which the right is no longer capable. Yet, dearest, do not imagine that I am impatient. I do indeed long to see your delicatest little penmanship; (what an enormity it would be to call my Dove's most feminine of handwritings penmanship!) but it would take away all the happiness of it, when I reflected that each individual letter had been a pain to you. Nay; I would not have you write, if you find that the impediments of this mode of utterance check the flow of your mind and heart.
But you tell me that the wounded finger will be no hindrance to your painting. Very glad am I, dearest; for you cannot think how much delight those pictures are going to give me. I shall sit and gaze at them whole hours together and these will he my happiest hours, the fullest of you, though all are full of you. I never owned a picture in my life; yet pictures have always been among the earthly possessions (and they are spiritual possessions too) which I most coveted. I know not what value my Dove's pictures might bear at an auction-room ; but to me, certainly, they will be incomparably more precious than all the productions of all the painters since Apelles.
When we live together in our own home, belovedest, we will paint, pictures together that is, our minds and hearts shall unite to form the conception, to which your hand shall give material existence. I have often felt as if I could be a painter, only I am sure that I could never handle a brush; now my Dove will show me the images of my inward eye, beautified and etherealised by the mixture of her own spirit. Belovedest, I think I shall get these two pictures put into mahogany frames, because they will harmonize better with the furniture of our parlor than gilt frames would.
While I was writing the foregoing paragraph, Mary has sent to inquire whether I mean to go to Salem tomorrow, intending, if I did, to send a letter by me. But, alas! I am not going. The inquiry, however, has made me feel a great yearning to be there. But it is not possible, because I have an engagement at Cambridge on Saturday evening; and even it it were otherwise, it would be better to wait till the middle of the week, or a little later, when I hope to spend three or tour days with you. Oh, what happiness, when we shall be able to look forward to an illimitable time in each other's society when a day or two of absence will be far more infrequent than the days which we spend together now. Then a quiet will settle down upon us, a passionate quiet, which is the consummation of happiness.
Dearest, I hope you have not found it impracticable to walk, though the atmosphere be so wintry. Did we walk together in any such cold weather, last winter I!? I believe we did. How strange, that such a flower as our affection should have blossomed amid snow and wintry winds accompaniments which no poet or novelist, that I know of, has ever introduced into a love-tale. Nothing like our story was ever written or ever will be for we shall not feel inclined to make the public our confidant; but if it could be told, methinks it would be such as the angels might take delight to hear. If I mistake not, my Dove has expressed some such idea as this, in one of her recent letters.
Well-a-day! I have strolled thus far through my letter, without once making mention of naughty Sophie Hawthorne. Will she pardon the neglect? Present my profound respects to her beloved nose, and say that I still entreat her to allow my Dove to kiss her cheek. When she complies with this oft-repeated petition. I shall hope that her spirit is beginning to be tamed, and shall then meditate some other and more difficult trials of it. Nonsense! Do not believe me, dear little Sophie Hawthorne. I would not tame you for the whole universe.
But now good bye, dearest wife. Keep yourself in good heart while I am absent, and grow round and plump and rosy; eat a whole chicken every day; go to bed at nine o'clock or earlier, and sleep sound till sunrise. Come to me in dreams, beloved. What should I do in this wean world, without the idea of you, dearest! Give my love to your father and mother, and to Elizabeth.
God bless you, darling.
Your OWNEST HUSBAND.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
What a best of all possible husbands you have sweetest wife, to be writing to you so soon again, although he has heard nothing from you since the latter part of the year 1839! What a weary length of time that naughty finder has been ill! Unless there are signs of speedy amendment, we must begin to think of rotation in office, and the left hand must be nominated to the executive duties of which the right is no longer capable. Yet, dearest, do not imagine that I am impatient. I do indeed long to see your delicatest little penmanship; (what an enormity it would be to call my Dove's most feminine of handwritings penmanship!) but it would take away all the happiness of it, when I reflected that each individual letter had been a pain to you. Nay; I would not have you write, if you find that the impediments of this mode of utterance check the flow of your mind and heart.
But you tell me that the wounded finger will be no hindrance to your painting. Very glad am I, dearest; for you cannot think how much delight those pictures are going to give me. I shall sit and gaze at them whole hours together and these will he my happiest hours, the fullest of you, though all are full of you. I never owned a picture in my life; yet pictures have always been among the earthly possessions (and they are spiritual possessions too) which I most coveted. I know not what value my Dove's pictures might bear at an auction-room ; but to me, certainly, they will be incomparably more precious than all the productions of all the painters since Apelles.
When we live together in our own home, belovedest, we will paint, pictures together that is, our minds and hearts shall unite to form the conception, to which your hand shall give material existence. I have often felt as if I could be a painter, only I am sure that I could never handle a brush; now my Dove will show me the images of my inward eye, beautified and etherealised by the mixture of her own spirit. Belovedest, I think I shall get these two pictures put into mahogany frames, because they will harmonize better with the furniture of our parlor than gilt frames would.
While I was writing the foregoing paragraph, Mary has sent to inquire whether I mean to go to Salem tomorrow, intending, if I did, to send a letter by me. But, alas! I am not going. The inquiry, however, has made me feel a great yearning to be there. But it is not possible, because I have an engagement at Cambridge on Saturday evening; and even it it were otherwise, it would be better to wait till the middle of the week, or a little later, when I hope to spend three or tour days with you. Oh, what happiness, when we shall be able to look forward to an illimitable time in each other's society when a day or two of absence will be far more infrequent than the days which we spend together now. Then a quiet will settle down upon us, a passionate quiet, which is the consummation of happiness.
Dearest, I hope you have not found it impracticable to walk, though the atmosphere be so wintry. Did we walk together in any such cold weather, last winter I!? I believe we did. How strange, that such a flower as our affection should have blossomed amid snow and wintry winds accompaniments which no poet or novelist, that I know of, has ever introduced into a love-tale. Nothing like our story was ever written or ever will be for we shall not feel inclined to make the public our confidant; but if it could be told, methinks it would be such as the angels might take delight to hear. If I mistake not, my Dove has expressed some such idea as this, in one of her recent letters.
Well-a-day! I have strolled thus far through my letter, without once making mention of naughty Sophie Hawthorne. Will she pardon the neglect? Present my profound respects to her beloved nose, and say that I still entreat her to allow my Dove to kiss her cheek. When she complies with this oft-repeated petition. I shall hope that her spirit is beginning to be tamed, and shall then meditate some other and more difficult trials of it. Nonsense! Do not believe me, dear little Sophie Hawthorne. I would not tame you for the whole universe.
But now good bye, dearest wife. Keep yourself in good heart while I am absent, and grow round and plump and rosy; eat a whole chicken every day; go to bed at nine o'clock or earlier, and sleep sound till sunrise. Come to me in dreams, beloved. What should I do in this wean world, without the idea of you, dearest! Give my love to your father and mother, and to Elizabeth.
God bless you, darling.
Your OWNEST HUSBAND.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
01 January
I have been walking in a dream
Boston, Jany. 1st 1840. 6 o'clock P.M.
Belovedest wife,
Your husband's heart was exceedingly touched by that little backhanded note, and likewise by the bundle of allumettes -- half a dozen of which I have just been kissing with great affection. Would that I might kiss that poor dear ringer of mine! Kiss it for my sake, sweetest Dove and tell naughty Sophie Hawthorne to kiss it too. Nurse it well, dearest; for no small part of my comfort and cheeriness of heart depends upon that beloved linger. If it be not well enough to bear its part in writing me a letter within a few days, do not be surprised if I send down the best surgeon in Boston to effect a speedy cure. Nevertheless, darlingest wife, restrain the good little finger, if it show any inclination to recommence its labors too soon. If your finger be pained in writing, your husband's heart ought to (and I hope would) feel every twinge.
Belovedest, I have not yet wished you a Happy New Year! And yet I have -- many, many of them; as many, mine own wife, as we can enjoy together -- and when we can no more enjoy them together, we shall no longer think of Happy New Years on earth, but look longingly for the New Year's Day of eternity. What a year the last has been! Dearest, you make the same exclamation; but my heart originates it too. It has been the year of years the year in which the flower of our life has bloomed out the flower of our life and of our love, which we are to wear in our bosoms forever. Oh, how I love you, belovedest wife! -- and how I thank God that He has made me capable to know and love you! Sometimes I feel, deep, deep down in my heart, how dearest above all things you are to me; and those are blissful moments. It is such a hapiness to be conscious, at last, of something real. All my life hitherto, I have been walking in a dream, among shadows which could not be pressed to my bosom; but now, even in this dream of time, there is something that takes me out of it, and causes me to be a dreamer no more. Do you not feel, dearest, that we live above time and apart from time, even while we seem to be in the midst of time? Our affection diffuses eternity round about us.
My carefullest little wife will rejoice to know that I have been tree to sit by a good fire all this bitter cold day not but what I have a salt-ship on my hands, but she must have some ballast, before she can discharge any more salt; and ballast cannot be procured till the day after tomorrow. Are not these details very interesting? I have a mind, some day, to send my dearest a journal of all my doings and sufferings, my whole external life, from the time I awake at dawn, till I close my eyes at night. What a dry, dull history would it be! But then, apart from this, I would write an other journal of my inward life throughout the self-same day my fits of pleasant thought, and those likewise which are shadowed by passing clouds the yearnings of my heart towards my Dove my pictures of what we are to enjoy together. Nobody would think that the same man could live two such different lives simultaneously. But then, as I have said above, the grosser life is a dream, and the spiritual life a reality.
Very dearest, I wish you would make out a list of books that you would like to be in our library; for I intend, whenever the cash and the opportunity occur together, to buy enough to fill up our new book-case; and I want to feel that I am buying them for both of us. When I next come to Salem, you shall read the list, and we will discuss it, volume by volume. I suppose the hook-case will hold about two hundred volumes; but you need not calculate upon making such a vast collection all at once. It shall be accomplished in small lots; and then we shall prize every volume, and receive a separate pleasure from the acquisition of it.
Does it seem a great while since I left you, dearest? Truly, it does to me. These separations lengthen our earthly lives by at least ninetenths; but then, in our brief seasons of communion, there is the essence of a thousand years. Was it Thursday that I told my Dove would be the day of my next appearance? or Friday? "Oh, Friday, certainly!" says Sophie Hawthorne. Well: it must be as naughty Sophie says.
Oh, belovedest, I want you. You have given me a new feeling, blessedest wife -- a sense, that strong as I may have deemed myself, I am insufficient for my own support; and that there is a tender little Dove, without whose help I cannot get through this weary world at all. God bless you, ownest wife.
YOUR OWNEST HUSBAND.
Belovedest wife,
Your husband's heart was exceedingly touched by that little backhanded note, and likewise by the bundle of allumettes -- half a dozen of which I have just been kissing with great affection. Would that I might kiss that poor dear ringer of mine! Kiss it for my sake, sweetest Dove and tell naughty Sophie Hawthorne to kiss it too. Nurse it well, dearest; for no small part of my comfort and cheeriness of heart depends upon that beloved linger. If it be not well enough to bear its part in writing me a letter within a few days, do not be surprised if I send down the best surgeon in Boston to effect a speedy cure. Nevertheless, darlingest wife, restrain the good little finger, if it show any inclination to recommence its labors too soon. If your finger be pained in writing, your husband's heart ought to (and I hope would) feel every twinge.
Belovedest, I have not yet wished you a Happy New Year! And yet I have -- many, many of them; as many, mine own wife, as we can enjoy together -- and when we can no more enjoy them together, we shall no longer think of Happy New Years on earth, but look longingly for the New Year's Day of eternity. What a year the last has been! Dearest, you make the same exclamation; but my heart originates it too. It has been the year of years the year in which the flower of our life has bloomed out the flower of our life and of our love, which we are to wear in our bosoms forever. Oh, how I love you, belovedest wife! -- and how I thank God that He has made me capable to know and love you! Sometimes I feel, deep, deep down in my heart, how dearest above all things you are to me; and those are blissful moments. It is such a hapiness to be conscious, at last, of something real. All my life hitherto, I have been walking in a dream, among shadows which could not be pressed to my bosom; but now, even in this dream of time, there is something that takes me out of it, and causes me to be a dreamer no more. Do you not feel, dearest, that we live above time and apart from time, even while we seem to be in the midst of time? Our affection diffuses eternity round about us.
My carefullest little wife will rejoice to know that I have been tree to sit by a good fire all this bitter cold day not but what I have a salt-ship on my hands, but she must have some ballast, before she can discharge any more salt; and ballast cannot be procured till the day after tomorrow. Are not these details very interesting? I have a mind, some day, to send my dearest a journal of all my doings and sufferings, my whole external life, from the time I awake at dawn, till I close my eyes at night. What a dry, dull history would it be! But then, apart from this, I would write an other journal of my inward life throughout the self-same day my fits of pleasant thought, and those likewise which are shadowed by passing clouds the yearnings of my heart towards my Dove my pictures of what we are to enjoy together. Nobody would think that the same man could live two such different lives simultaneously. But then, as I have said above, the grosser life is a dream, and the spiritual life a reality.
Very dearest, I wish you would make out a list of books that you would like to be in our library; for I intend, whenever the cash and the opportunity occur together, to buy enough to fill up our new book-case; and I want to feel that I am buying them for both of us. When I next come to Salem, you shall read the list, and we will discuss it, volume by volume. I suppose the hook-case will hold about two hundred volumes; but you need not calculate upon making such a vast collection all at once. It shall be accomplished in small lots; and then we shall prize every volume, and receive a separate pleasure from the acquisition of it.
Does it seem a great while since I left you, dearest? Truly, it does to me. These separations lengthen our earthly lives by at least ninetenths; but then, in our brief seasons of communion, there is the essence of a thousand years. Was it Thursday that I told my Dove would be the day of my next appearance? or Friday? "Oh, Friday, certainly!" says Sophie Hawthorne. Well: it must be as naughty Sophie says.
Oh, belovedest, I want you. You have given me a new feeling, blessedest wife -- a sense, that strong as I may have deemed myself, I am insufficient for my own support; and that there is a tender little Dove, without whose help I cannot get through this weary world at all. God bless you, ownest wife.
YOUR OWNEST HUSBAND.
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