Dora has a great deal of work to do; but she neglects nothing appertaining to my comfort. Aunty 'Ouisa has favored me with one cup of coffee, since thou wentest away, and with an occasional doughnut; but I think thy lectures on diet and regimen have produced a considerable effect.
Dearest, is thy absence so nearly over that we can now see light glimmering at the end of it? Is it half over? If not, I really do not see how I am to bear it. A month of non-existence is the utmost limit——
I am continually interrupted as I write, this being pay-day, and a very busy time. I don't know exactly what will be the amount of our fees; but I should think it would be about as good a month as the last. Thirty-five dollars, however, have already been drawn for our quarter's rent. If thou wantest any more money, as probably thou dost, write me how much, and I will send it. How much must I reserve to pay Rebecca's wages? Any surplus, I intend to apply in lessening Millet's bill.
Here comes somebody else.
Ownest wife,
I am the best, and truest, and lovingest husband that ever was, because thy goodness makes me so.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
West Newton, Mass.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Surveyor's Office, July 5th, 1848
Unspeakably belovedest, thy letter has just been handed me, and I snatch a moment from much press of business to say a word to thee. It has made my heart heave like the sea, it is so tender and sweet. Ah, thou hast my whole soul. There is no thinking how much I love thee; and how blessed thy love makes me. I wonder how thou canst love me.
Thy letter was also most comfortable to me, because it gives such a picture of thy life there with the children. It seemed as if I could see the whole family of my heart before my eyes, and could hear you all talking together. I began to be quite uneasy about little Bundlebreech's indisposition, until thy latest intelligence reassured me. Yet I shall be anxious to hear again.
Dora could not come to Boston yesterday, to meet Rebecca, because she has an infinity of work, and moreover, yesterday morning, she had to go to bed with the tooth-ache.
I went to Boston to see the fireworks, and got home between 11 & 12 o'clock, last evening. I went into the little room to put on my linen coat; and, on my return into the sitting room, behold! a stranger there—whom dost thou think it might be?—it was Elizabeth! I did not wish to risk frightening her away by anything like an exhibition of wonder; and so we greeted one another kindly and cordially, but with no more empressement than if we were constantly in the habit of meeting. It being so late, and I so tired, we did not have much talk then; but she said she meant to go to walk this afternoon, and asked me to go with her—which I promised to do. Perhaps she will now make it her habit to come down and see us occasionally in the evening.
Oh, my love, my heart calls for thee so, that I know not how to wait weeks longer for thee. Yet I would not that thou shouldst deprive the children of the beautiful country on that account. All will be repaid us in the first hour of meeting.
Own wife, the coat does not crock the shirtsleeve in the least—so thy labor in lining it would have been thrown away. I gave the vest to Louisa soon after thou wentest away, and have seen nothing of it since.
I wish Una, and Julian too, would write a letter to Aunty 'Ouisa. I know it would give her as much pleasure as anything can.
With infinite love,
I am Thine Ownest.
Naughtiest, I do not leave thy letter about. I would just as soon leave my own heart on the "walking side," as Una calls it.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
West Newton.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Salem, July 7th, 1848
Ownest, when thy letters come, I always feel as if I could not have done without them a moment longer. Thou must have received one from me since the date of thine, but I hope it will not weary thee to receive this brief scribblement. If my hand would only answer to my heart, what letters I should write thee! It is wonderful—the growth of our love! Six years ago, it seemed infinite; yet what was the love of that epoch to the present! Thou badest me burn two pages of thy last letter; but I cannot do it, and will not; for never was a wife's deep, warm, chaste love so well expressed, and it is as holy to me as the Bible. Oh, I cannot begin to tell how I love thee.
Dearest, I should not forgive myself if I were to deprive the children of the country. Thou must keep them there as long as thou canst. When thou hast paid thy visit to Sarah Clark, I must come and see thee in Boston, and if possible (and if I shall be welcome) will spend a Sunday there with thee.
There is no news. Miss Derby has finished her picture, and it is now being publicly exhibited. I have not yet seen it, but mean to go.
Mr. Pike is going to dine with me to-day, on green peas.
Oh, for one kiss!
Thy Lovingest Husband.
Did Julian have a tooth?—or what was the matter? Why did all the children have fever-fits? Why was Horace jumped in a wet sheet?
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Salem, July 12th, 1848
Dearest Phoebe, I enclose an advertisement of silks. Aunty 'Ouisa would like to have you get some patterns of those which she has marked with a pencil.
A letter from Mrs. F. Shaw came for thee to-day; and I opened and read it. It contains nothing that requires thy immediate perusal; and as it is rather bulky, I do not send it. She is well, and so is Caroline Sturgis.
I hear great accounts of the canary birds, now exhibiting in Boston; and it seems to me thou mightest please Una very much by taking her to see them.
I need thee very much indeed, and shall heartily thank God when thou comest back to thine own home—and thine ownest husband. What a wretched time thou art having on that infernal mattress——Truly do I pity thee, cooped up in that hot and dusty house, such a day as this. Were it not for Dr. Wesselhoeft, I should think it best for thee to get away immediately.
Did Una remember me, when she waked up?—and has little Bundlebreech wanted me?—and dost thou thyself think of me with moderate kindness? Oh, Phoebe, it is too great a sacrifice—this whole blank month in our wedded life. I want thee always.
Thy Lovingest Spouse.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Massachusetts.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Salem, July 18th, 1848
Belovedest, thy letter came yesterday, and caused my heart to heave like an ocean. Thou writest with a pen of celestial fire;—none ever wrote such letters but thou—none is worthy to read them but I—and I only because thou purifiest and exaltest me by thy love. Angels, I doubt not, are well pleased to look over thy shoulder as thou writest. I verily believe that no mortals, save ourselves, have ever known what enjoyment was. How wonderful that to the pure in spirit all earthly bliss is given in a measure which the voluptuary never can have dreamed of.
Soon—soon—thou wilt be at home. What joy! I count the days, and almost the hours, already. There is one good in our separation—that it has enabled us to estimate whereabouts we are, and what vast progress we have made into the ever-extending infinite of love. Wherefore, this will not be a blank space, but a bright one, in our recollection.
Dearest, I told Louisa of thy wish that she should come on Saturday; and it seemed that the proposal found favor in her eyes. If not, she will perhaps commission thee to buy her a gown.
Elizabeth came down to see me last evening, and we confabulated till