I re-re-reperused thy last letter

Boston, June 22d, (Monday) 1/2 past 4 [1840]

Ownest, Colonel Hall put thy letter into my hand at our eating-house, so that its reception was timed very like that of mine to thee; hut thy husband cared not for ceremony, nor for the presence of fifty people, but straightway broke the "long-legged little fowl" asunder and began to read. Belovedest, what a letter! Never was so much beauty poured out of any heart before; and to read it over and over is like bathing my brow in a fresh fountain, and drinking draughts that renew the life within me. Nature is kind and motherly to thee. and taketh thee into her inmost heart and cherisheth thee there, because thou lookest on her with holy and loving eyes. My dearest, how canst thou say that I have ever written anything beautiful, being thyself so potent to reproduce whatever is loveliest? If I did not know that thou lovest me. I should even be ashamed before thee. Sweetest wife, it gladdens me likewise that thou meetest with such sympathy there, and that thy friends have faith that thy husband is worth of thee, because they see that thy wise heart could not have gone astray. Worthy of thee I am not; but thou wilt make me so; for there will be time, or eternity enough, for thy blessed influence to work upon me. Would that we could build our cottage this very now, this very summer, amid the scenes which thou describest. My heart thirsts and languishes to be there, away from the hot sun and the coal-dust and the steaming docks, and the thick-pated, stubborn, contentious men, with whom I brawl from morning till night, and all the weary toil which quite engrosses me, and yet occupies only a part of my being which I did not know existed before I became a Measurer. I do think that I should sink down quite , disheartened and inanimate if thou wert not happy, and gathering from earth and sky enjoyment lor both of us; but this makes me feel that my real, innermost soul is apart from all these unlovely circumstances, and that it has not ceased to exist, as I might sometimes suspect, but is nourished and kept alive through thee. Belovedest, if thou findest it good to be there, why wilt thou not stay even a little longer than this week? Thou knowest not what comfort I have in thinking of thee and those beautiful scenes; where the east wind cometh not, and amid those sympathizing hearts, which perhaps them wilt not find elsewhere at least not everywhere. I feel as if thou hadst found a haven of peace and rest, where I can trust thee without disquiet, and feel that thou art safe. If thou art well and happy, if thy cheek is becoming rosier, it thy step is light and joyous there, and if thv heart makes pleasant music, then is it not better for thee to stay a little longer? And if better for thee, it is so for thy husband likewise. Now, ownest wife, I do not press thee to stay, but leave it all to thy wisdom, and if thou feelest that it is now time to come home, most gladly will he welcome thee.

Dearest, I meant to have written to thee yesterday afternoon, so that thou shouldst have received the letter today, but Mrs. Hillard pressed her husband and myself to take a walk into the country, because his health needed such an excursion. So, after taking a nap, we set forth over the western avenue -- a dreary, treeless, fierce-sunshiny, irk some road; but after journeying three or four or five miles, we came to some of the loveliest rural scenery -- yes, the very loveliest -- that ever I saw in my life. The first part of our road was like the life of toil and weariness that I am now leading; the latter part was like the life that we will lead hereafter. Would that I had thy pen, ami I would give thee pictures of beauty to match thine own; but I should only mar my remembrance of them by the attempt. Not a beautiful scene did I behold but I imaged thee in the midst of it thou wast with me in all the walk, and when I sighed it was for thee, and when I smiled it was for thee, and when I trusted in future happiness, it was for thee; and if I did not doubt and fear, it was altogether because of thee. What else than happiness can God intend for thee? -- and if thy happiness, then mine also. On our return, we stopped at Braman s baths, and plunged in, and washed away all stains of earth, and became new creatures. Dearest, I sympathize with thee in thy love of the bath, and conveniences for it must not be forgotten in our domestic arrangements. Yet I am not entirely satisfied with any more contracted bath than the illimitable ocean; and to plunge into it is the next thing to soaring into the sky.

This morning I rose early to finish measuring a load of coal, which being accomplished in the forenoon, and there being little prospect of anything more to do, Colonel Hall, who perceived that thy husband's energies were somewhat exhausted by the heat, and by much brawling with the coal-people, did send me home immediately after dinner. So then I took a nap, with a volume of Spenser in my hand, and awaking at four. I re-re-reperused thy last letter, and sat down to pour myself out to thee, and in so doing, dearest wife, I have had great comfort. And now the afternoon is beautiful in its decline; but my feet are somewhat afflicted with yesterday's excursion; so that I am in doubt whether to go out again, al though I should like a bath.

Belovedest, I must not forget to thank Mr. Emerson for his invitation to Concord; but really it will not be in my power to accept it. Do thou say this in the way it ought to be said, and let him know what a business-machine thy husband is. Now, good-bye. Art thou very happy? I trust so, dearest. Thou hast our whole treasure of happiness in thy keeping. Keep it safe, ownest wife, and add to it continually. God bless thee.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Rev. R. W. Emerson,
Concord, Massachusetts.
(Forwarded, Salem).

one of the idlest days

Boston, June 11th, 1840 -- 5 or 6 P.M.

My blessedest,

Thou hast strayed quite out of the sphere of my imagination, and I know not how to represent thy whereabout, any more than it thou hadst gone on pilgrimage beyond the sea, or to the moon. Dost thou still love me, in all thy wanderings? Are there any east-winds there? Truly, now that thou hast escaped beyond its jurisdiction, I could wish that the east wind would blow every day, from ten o clock till five; for there is great refresh ment in it for us poor mortals that toil beneath the sun. Dearest, thou must not think too unkindly even of the east-wind. It is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its benignest moods; but there are seasons when I delight to feel its breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisa ble to throw open my bosom and take it into my heart, as I would its gentle sisters of the South and West. To-day, if I had been on the wharves, the slight chill of an east wind would have been a blessing, like the chill of death to a world-wear) man. But, dearest, thon wilt rejoice to hear that this has been one of the very idlest days that I ever spent in Boston. Oh, hadst thon been here! In the morning, soon after breakfast, I went to the Athenaeum Gallery; and during the hour or two that I stayed, not a single visitor came in. Some people were putting up paintings in one division of the room; but we might have had the other all to ourselves thy husband had it all to himself - or rather, he did not have it, nor possess it in fulness and reality, because thou wast not there. I cannot see pictures without thee; so thou must not expect me to criticise this exhibition. There are two pictures there by our friend (thy friend and is it not the same thing?) Sarah Clark scenes in Kentucky. Doubtless I shall find them very admirable, when we have looked at them together. The gallery of sculpture I shall not visit, unless I can be there with thee.

From the picture gallery I went to the readingroom of the Athenaeum, and there read the magazines till nearly twelve thence to the Custom-House, and soon afterwards to dinner with Colonel Hall then back to the Custom-House, but only for a little while. There was nothing in the world to do, and so, at two o clock, T---- came home and lay down on the bed, with the Faery Oueen in my hand, and my Dove in my heart. Soon a pleasant slumber came over me; it was not a deep, sound sleep, but a slumbrous withdrawing of my self from the external world. Whether thou earnest to me in a dream, i cannot tell; but thou didst peep at me through all the interstices of sleep. After I awoke, I did not take up the Faery Queen again, but lay thinking of thee, and at last bestirred myself and got up to write this letter. My belovedest wife, does it not make thee happy to think that thy husband has escaped, for one whole summer day, from his burthen of salt and coal, and has been almost as idle as ever his idle nature could desire? and this, too, on one of the longest days of all the year! Oh, could I have spent it in some shady nook, with mine own wife! Now good-bye, blessedest. So indolent is thine husband, that he intends now to relieve himself even from the sweet toil of shaping his thoughts of thee into written words; moreover, there is no present need of it, because I am not to be at the Custom-House very early, and can finish this letter tomorrow morning. Good-bye, dearest, and keep a quiet heart.

I left it on the shelf

To Miss Peabody
Boston, June 2nd, 1840
Before Breakfast

My dearest,

Thy Friday’s letter came in clue season to the Custom-House; but Colonel Hall could not find time to bring it to the remote region of the earth, where I was then an exile; so that it awaited me till the next morning. At noon, came thy next letter, at an interval of several hours from the receipt of the former – a space quite long enough to be interposed between thy missives. And yesterday arrived thy letter of the Sabbath and all three are very precious to thy husband; and the oftener they come the more he needs them. Now I must go down to breakfast. Dost thou not wonder at finding me scribbling between seven and eight o clock in the morning? I do believe, naughtiest, that thou hast been praying for the non-arrival of salt and coal – not considering that, if thy petitions are heard, the poor Measurers will not earn a sixpence.

Belovedest, I know not what counsel to give thee about calling on my sisters; and therefore must leave the matter to thine own exquisite sense of what is right and delicate. We will talk it over at an early opportunity. I think I can partly understand why they appear cool towards thee; but it is for nothing in thyself personally, nor for any unkindness towards my Dove, whom everybody must feel to be the loveablest being in the world. But there are some untoward circumstances. Nevertheless, I have faith that all will be well, and that they will receive Sophie Hawthorne and the Dove into their heart of hearts; so let us wait patiently on Providence, as we always have, and see what time will bring forth. And, my dearest, whenever thou feelest disquieted about things of this sort if ever that be the case do thou speak freely to thy husband; for these are matters in which words may be of use, because they concern the relations between ourselves and others. Now, good bye, belovedest, till night. I perceive that the sun is shining dimly; but I fear that there is still an east wind to keep my Dove in her dove-cote.

Towards night Ownest wife, the day has been without much pleasure or profit – a part of the time at the Custom-House, waiting there for the chance of work – partly at the Athenaeum, and partly at a bookstore, looking tor something suitable tor our library. Among other recent purchases, I have bought a very good edition of Milton (his poetry) in two octavo volumes; and I saw a huge new London volume of his prose works, but it seemed to me that there was but a small portion of it that thou and I should ever care about reading so I left it on the shelf. Dearest, I have bought some lithographic prints at auction, which I mean to send thee, that thou liiayst show them to thy husband, the next afternoon that thou permittest him to spend with thee. Thou art not to expect anything very splendid; tor I did not enter the auction-room till a large part of the collection was sold; so that my choice was limited. Perhaps there are one or two not altogether unworthy to be put on the walls of our sanctuary; but this I leave to thy finer judgment. I would thou couldst peep into my room and see thine own pictures, from which I have removed the black veils; and there is no telling how much brighter and cheerful ler the parlor looks now, whenever I enter it.

Belovedest, I love thee very especially much today. But then that naughty Sophie Hawthorne – it would be out of the question to treat her with tenderness. Nothing shall she get from me, at my next visit, save a kiss upon her nose; and I should not wonder if she were to return the favor with a buffet upon my ear. Mine own Dove, how unhappy art thou to be linked with such a mate – to be bound up in the same volume with her! – and me unhappy, too, to he forced to keep such a turbulent little rebel in my inmost heart! Dost thou not think she might be persuaded to with draw herself, quietly, and take up her resilience somewhere else? Oh, what an idea! It makes my heart close its valves and embrace her the more closely.

Well, dearest, it is breakfast time, and thy husband hath an appetite. What dost thou eat for breakfast? – but I know well enough that thou never eatest anything but bread and milk and chickens. Dost thou love pigeons in a pie? I am fonder of Dove than anything else it is my heart’s food and sole sustenance. God bless us.

THINE OWN HUSBAND.