(Rest of letter missing)

TO MISS PEABODY

_Boston_, October 3d, 1839. past 7 P.M.

_Ownest Dove_;

Did you get home safe and sound, and with a quiet and happy heart?

Providence acted lovingly toward us on Tuesday evening, allowing us to meet in the wide desert of this world, and mingle our spirits. It would have seemed all a vision then, now we have the symbol of its reality. You looked like a vision, beautifullest wife, with the width of the room between us--so spiritual that my human heart wanted to be a.s.sured that you had an earthly vesture on. What beautiful white doves those were, on the border of the vase; are they of mine own Dove's kindred? Do you remember a story of a cat who was changed into a lovely lady?--and on her bridal night, a mouse happened to run across the floor; and forthwith the cat-wife leaped out of bed to catch it.

What if mine own Dove, in some woeful hour for her poor husband, should remember her dove-instincts, and spread her wings upon the western breeze, and return to him no more! Then would he stretch out his arms, poor wingless biped, not having the wherewithal to fly, and say aloud--"Come back, naughty Dove!--whither are you going?--come back, and fold your wings upon my heart again, or it will freeze!" And the Dove would flutter her wings, and pause a moment in the air, meditating whether or no she should come back: for in truth, as her conscience would tell her, this poor mortal had given her all he had to give--a resting-place on his bosom--a home in his deepest heart.

But then she would say to herself--"my home is in the gladsome air--and if I need a resting-place, I can find one on any of the sunset-clouds. He is unreasonable to call me back; but if he can follow me, he may!" Then would the poor deserted husband do his best to fly in pursuit of the faithless Dove; and for that purpose would ascend to the topmast of a salt-ship, and leap desperately into the air, and fall down head-foremost upon the deck, and break his neck.

And there should be engraven on his tombstone--"Mate not thyself with a Dove, unless thou hast wings to fly."

Now will my Dove scold at me for this foolish flight of fancy;--but the fact is, my goose quill flew away with me. I do think that I have gotten a bunch of quills from the silliest flock of geese on earth. But the rest of the letter shall be very sensible. I saw Mr.

Howes in the reading-room of [the] Athenaeum, between one and two o'clock to-day; for I happened to have had leisure for an early dinner, and so was spending a half-hour turning over the periodicals.

He spoke of the long time since your husband had been at his house; and so I promised, on behalf of that respectable personage, that he would spend an evening there on his next visit to Salem. But if I had such a sweetest wife as your husband has, I doubt whether I could find [it] in my heart to keep the engagement. Now, good night, truest Dove in the world. You will never fly away from me; and it is only the infinite impossibility of it that enables me to sport with the idea.

Dearest, there was an illegible word in your yesterday's note. I have pored over it, but cannot make it out. Your words are too precious to be thus hidden under their own vesture. Good night, wife!

October 4th.--5 or thereabout P.M. Mine own Dove, I dreamed the queerest dreams last night, about being deserted, and all such nonsense--so you see how I was punished for that naughty nonsense of the Faithless Dove. It seems to me that my dreams are generally about fantasies, and very seldom about what I really think and feel. You did not appear visibly in my last night's dreams: but they were made up of desolation; and it was good to awake, and know that my spirit was forever and irrevocably linked with the soul of my truest and tenderest Dove. You have warmed my heart, mine own wife: and never again can I know what it is to be cold and desolate, save in dreams.

You love me dearly--don't you?

And so my Dove has been in great peril since we parted. No--I do not believe she was; it was only a shadow of peril, not a reality. My spirit cannot antic.i.p.ate any harm to you, and I trust you to G.o.d with securest faith. I know not whether I could endure actually to see you in danger: but when I hear of any risk--as, for instance, when your steed seemed to be on the point of dashing you to pieces (but I do quake a little at that thought) against a tree--my mind does not seize upon it as if it had any substance. Believe me, dearest, the tree would have stood aside to let you pa.s.s, had there been no other means of salvation. Nevertheless, do not drive your steed against trees wilfully. Mercy on us, what a peril that was of the fat woman, when she "smashed herself down" beside my Dove! Poor Dove! Did you not feel as if an avalanche had all but buried you. I can see my Dove at this moment, my slender, little delicatest white Dove, squeezed almost out of Christendom by that great ma.s.s of female flesh--that ton of woman--that beef-eater and beer-guzzler, whose immense cloak, though broad as a ship's mainsail, could not be made to meet in front--that picture of an ale-wife--that triple, quadruple, dozen-fold old lady.

Will not my Dove confess that there is a little _nonsense_ in this epistle? But be not wroth with me, darling wife;--my heart sports with you because it loves you.

If you happen to see Sophie Hawthorne, kiss her cheek for my sake. I love her full as well as I do mine own wife. Will that satisfy her, do you think? If not, she is a very unreasonable little person.

It is my chiefest pleasure to write to you, dearest.

YOUR OWNEST HUSBAND.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Care of Dr. N. Peabody, Salem, Ma.s.s.

TO MISS PEABODY

_Boston_, October 23d, 1839-- past 7 P.M.

_Dear little Dove_,

Here sits your husband, comfortably established for the evening in his own domicile, with a cheerful coal fire making the room a little too warm. I think I like to be a very little too warm. And now if my Dove were here, she and that naughty Sophie Hawthorne, how happy we all three--two--one--(how many are there of us?)--how happy might we be!

Dearest, it will be a yet untasted bliss, when, for the first time, I have you in a domicile of my own, whether it be in a hut or a palace, a splendid suit of rooms or an attic chamber. Then I shall feel as if I had brought my wife home at last. Shall Sophie Hawthorne be there too? Yes, mine own Dove, whether you like it or no. You would wonder, were I to tell you how absolutely necessary she has contrived to render herself to your husband. His heart stirs at her very name--even at the thought of her unspoken name. She is his sunshine--she is a happy smile on the visage of his Destiny, causing that stern personage to look as benign as Heaven itself. And were Sophie Hawthorne a tear instead of a smile, still your foolish husband would hold out his heart to receive that tear within it, and doubtless would think it more precious than all the smiles and sunshine in the world. But Sophie Hawthorne has bewitched him--for there is great reason to suspect that she deals in magic. Sometimes, while your husband conceives himself to be holding his Dove in his arms, lo and behold!

there is the arch face of Sophie Hawthorne peeping up at him. And again, in the very midst of Sophie Hawthorne's airs, while he is meditating what sort of chastis.e.m.e.nt would suit her misdemeanors, all of a sudden he becomes conscious of his Dove, with her wings folded upon his heart to keep it warm. Methinks a woman, or angel (yet let it be a woman, because I deem a true woman holier than an angel)-- methinks a woman, then, who should combine the characteristics of Sophie Hawthorne and my Dove would be the very perfection of her race.

The heart would find all it yearns for, in such a woman, and so would the mind and the fancy;--when her husband was lightsome of spirit, her merry fantasies would dance hand in hand with his; and when he was overburthened with cares he would rest them all upon her bosom.

Dearest, your husband was called on by Mr. Hillard yesterday, who said that he intended soon to take a house in Boston, and, in that case, would like to take your respectable spouse to lodge and breakfast.

What thinks my Dove of this? Your husband is quite delighted, because he thinks matters may be managed so that once in a while he may meet his own wife within his own premises. Might it not be so? Or would his wife--most preposterous idea!--deem it a sin against decorum to pay a visit to her husband? Oh, no, belovedest. Your unreserve, your out-gushing frankness, is one of the loveliest results of your purity, and innocence, and holiness. And now good night, wife worshipful and beloved. Amid many musings, nine o'clock has surprised me at this stage of my epistle.

October 24th.-- past 6 P.M. Dearest Dove, your letter came to-day; and I do think it the sweetest of all letters--but you must not therefore suppose that you have excelled yourself; for I think the same of each successive one. My dearest, what a delightful scene was that between Sophie Hawthorne and my Dove, when the former rebelled so stoutly against Destiny, and the latter, with such meek mournfulness, submitted. Which do I love the best, I wonder--my Dove, or my little Wild-Flower? I love each best, and both equally; and my heart would inevitably wither and dry up, and perish utterly, if either of them were torn away from it. Yet, truly I have reason to apprehend more trouble with Sophie Hawthorne than with my Dove.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Care of Dr. N. Peabody, Salem, Ma.s.s.

TO MISS PEABODY

_Custom House_, Novr. 14th [1839]

_My dearest Wife_,

May G.o.d sustain you under this affliction. I have long dreaded it for your sake. Oh, let your heart be full of love for me now, and realise how entirely my happiness depends on your well-being. You are not your own, dearest--you must not give way to grief. Were it possible, I would come to see you now.

I will write you again on Sat.u.r.day.

YOUR OWN HUSBAND.

My dearest, this note seems cold and lifeless to me, as if there were no tenderness nor comfort in it. Think for yourself all that I cannot speak.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Care of Dr. N. Peabody, Salem, Ma.s.s.

TO MISS PEABODY

_Boston_, Novr. 15th--very late [1839]

Dearest and best wife, I meant to have written you a long letter this evening; but an indispensable and unexpected engagement with Gen.

M'Neil has prevented me. Belovedest, your yesterday's letter was received; and gave me infinite comfort. Yet, Oh, be prepared for the worst--if this may be called worst, which is in truth best for all--and more than all for George. I cannot help trembling for you, dearest. G.o.d bless you and keep you.

I will write a full letter in a day or two. Meantime, as your husband is to rise with peep of day tomorrow, he must betake him to his mattress. Good night, dearest.

YOUR OWNEST.

Miss Sophia A. Peabody, Salem.