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 eleven o'clock.
Dora is dying to see thee and the children. The fortune teller has foretold that she is not to marry poor Mr. Hooper, nor anybody else that has been hitherto in question; but a young man, who, Dora says, lives in Boston. She has thorough faith in the prediction.
I forgot to take those two volumes of Cooper's Miles Wallingford; and when I was last in Boston, I looked for them on the shelf in vain. If they may conveniently be had, when thou comest home, wilt thou please to give thyself the trouble of taking them.
Kiss our beloved children for me.
Thou art coming home!—Thou art coming home!
Thine Ownest Husband.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Massachusetts.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Castle Dismal, Novr. 18th, 1848
Ownest Phoebe,
Thy letter did not come till to-day; and I know not that I was ever more disappointed and impatient—for I was sure that it ought to have come yesterday, and went to the Post Office three times after it. Now I have nothing to tell thee, belovedest wife, but write thee just a word, because I must. Thou growest more and more absolutely essential to me, every day we live. I never knew how thou art intertwined with my being, till this absence.
Darlingest, thou hast mentioned Horace's sickness two or three times, and I have speculated somewhat thereupon. Thou hast removed to West-street, likewise, and reservest the reasons till we meet. I wonder whether there be any connection between these two matters. But I do not feel anxious. If I am not of a hopeful nature, at least my imagination is not suggestive of evil. If Una were to have the hooping-cough, I should be glad thou wast within Dr. Wesselhoeft's sphere.
What a shadowy day is this! While this weather lasts, thou canst not come.
Thy Belovedest Husband.
Do not hasten home on my account—stay as long as thou deemest good. I well know how thy heart is tugging thee hitherward.
Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Massachusetts.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
14 Mull street, Monday, [Salem,] 16th April, 1849
Ownest wife,
I suppose thou wilt not expect (nor wish for) a letter from me; but it is so desolate and lonesome here that I needs must write. This is a miserable time. Thy and the children's absence; and this dreary bluster of the wind, which at once exasperates and depresses me to the very last degree; and finally, a breakfast (the repetition of yesterday's) of pease and Indian pudding!! It is a strange miscellany of grievances; but it does my business—it makes me curse my day. This matter of the breakfast is the most intolerable, just at this moment; because the taste of it is still in my mouth, and the nausea and disgust overwhelms me like the consciousness of sin. Hell is nothing else but eating pease and baked Indian pudding! If thou lovest me, never let me see either of them
