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Title: Love Letters of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Volume 2 of 2
Author: Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Love Letters of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Volume 2 of 2" ***

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Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  On page 130, "we sate long" should possibly be "we sat long".




     Copyright, 1907, by



     _Oak Hill_, April 13th, 1841

     _Ownest love_,

Here is thy poor husband in a polar Paradise! I know not how to
interpret this aspect of Nature--whether it be of good or evil omen to
our enterprise. But I reflect that the Plymouth pilgrims arrived in
the midst of storm and stept ashore upon mountain snow-drifts; and
nevertheless they prospered, and became a great people--and doubtless
it will be the same with us. I laud my stars, however, that thou wilt
not have thy first impressions of our future home from such a day as
this. Thou wouldst shiver all thy life afterwards, and never realise
that there could be bright skies, and green hills and meadows, and
trees heavy with foliage, when now the whole scene is a great
snow-bank, and the sky full of snow likewise. Through faith, I persist
in believing that spring and summer will come in their due season; but
the unregenerated man shivers within me, and suggests a doubt
whether I may not have wandered within the precincts of the Arctic
circle, and chosen my heritage among everlasting snows. Dearest,
provide thyself with a good stock of furs; and if thou canst obtain
the skin of a polar bear, thou wilt find it a very suitable summer
dress for this region. Thou must not hope ever to walk abroad, except
upon snow-shoes, nor to find any warmth, save in thy husband's heart.

Belovedest, I have not yet taken my first lesson in agriculture, as
thou mayst well suppose--except that I went to see our cows foddered,
yesterday afternoon. We have eight of our own; and the number is now
increased by a transcendental heifer, belonging to Miss Margaret
Fuller. She is very fractious, I believe, and apt to kick over the
milk pail. Thou knowest best, whether in these traits of character,
she resembles her mistress. Thy husband intends to convert himself
into a milk-maid, this evening; but I pray heaven that Mr. Ripley may
be moved to assign him the kindliest cow in the herd--otherwise he
will perform his duty with fear and trembling.

Ownest wife, I like my brethren in affliction very well; and couldst
thou see us sitting round our table, at meal-times, before the great
kitchen-fire, thou wouldst call it a cheerful sight. Mrs. Parker is
a most comfortable woman to behold; she looks as if her ample person
were stuffed full of tenderness--indeed, as if she were all one great,
kind heart. Wert thou here, I should ask for nothing more--not even
for sunshine and summer weather; for thou wouldst be both, to thy
husband. And how is that cough of thine, my belovedest? Hast thou
thought of me, in my perils and wanderings? I trust that thou dost
muse upon me with hope and joy; not with repining. Think that I am
gone before, to prepare a home for my Dove, and will return for her,
all in good time.

Thy husband has the best chamber in the house, I believe; and though
not quite so good as the apartment I have left, it will do very well.
I have hung up thy two pictures; and they give me a glimpse of summer
and of thee. The vase I intended to have brought in my arms, but could
not very conveniently do it yesterday; so that it still remains at
Mrs. Hillards's, together with my carpet. I shall bring them [at] the
next opportunity.

Now farewell, for the present, most beloved. I have been writing this
in my chamber; but the fire is getting low, and the house is old and
cold; so that the warmth of my whole person has retreated to my
heart, which burns with love for thee. I must run down to the kitchen
or parlor hearth, when thy image shall sit beside me--yea, be pressed
to my breast. At bed-time, thou shalt have a few lines more. Now I
think of it, dearest, wilt thou give Mrs. Ripley a copy of
Grandfather's Chair and Liberty Tree; she wants them for some boys
here. I have several copies of Famous Old People.

April 14th. 10 A.M. Sweetest, I did not milk the cows last night,
because Mr. Ripley was afraid to trust them to my hands, or me to
their horns--I know not which. But this morning, I have done wonders.
Before breakfast, I went out to the barn, and began to chop hay for
the cattle; and with such "righteous vehemence" (as Mr. Ripley says)
did I labor, that in the space of ten minutes, I broke the machine.
Then I brought wood and replenished the fires; and finally sat down to
breakfast and ate up a huge mound of buckwheat cakes. After breakfast,
Mr. Ripley put a four-pronged instrument into my hands, which he gave
me to understand was called a pitch-fork; and he and Mr. Farley being
armed with similar weapons, we all then commenced a gallant attack
upon a heap of manure. This office being concluded, and thy husband
having purified himself, he sits down to finish this letter to his
most beloved wife. Dearest, I will never consent that thou come within
half a mile of me, after such an encounter as that of this morning.
Pray Heaven that his letter retain none of the fragrance with which
the writer was imbued. As for thy husband himself, he is peculiarly
partial to the odor; but that whimsical little nose of thine might
chance to quarrel with it.

Belovedest, Miss Fuller's cow hooks the other cows, and has made
herself ruler of the herd, and behaves in a very tyrannical manner.
Sweetest, I know not when I shall see thee; but I trust it will not be
longer than the end of next week. I love thee! I love thee! I wouldst
thou wert with me; for then would my labor be joyful--and even now it
is not sorrowful. Dearest, I shall make an excellent husbandman. I
feel the original Adam reviving within me.

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West street,


     _Oak Hill_, April 16th, ½ past 6 A.M. [1841]

Most beloved, I have a few moments to spare before breakfast; and
perhaps thou wilt let me spend them in talking to thee. Thy two
letters blessed me yesterday, having been brought by some private
messenger of Mrs. Ripley's. Very joyful was I to hear from my Dove,
and my heart gave a mighty heave and swell. That cough of thine--I do
wish it would take its departure, for I cannot bear to think of thy
tender little frame being shaken with it all night long.

Dearest, since I last wrote thee, there has been an addition to our
community of four gentlemen in sables, who promise to be among our
most useful and respectable members. They arrived yesterday, about
noon. Mr. Ripley had proposed to them to join us, no longer ago than
that very morning. I had some conversation with them in the afternoon,
and was glad to hear them express much satisfaction with their new
abode, and all the arrangements. They do not appear to be very
communicative, however--or perhaps it may be merely an external
reserve, like that of thy husband, to shield their delicacy. Several
of their prominent characteristics, as well as their black attire,
lead me to believe that they are members of the clerical profession;
but I have not yet ascertained from their own lips, what has been the
nature of their past lives. I trust to have much pleasure in their
society, and, sooner or later, that we shall all of us derive great
strength from our intercourse with them. I cannot too highly applaud
the readiness with which these four gentlemen in black have thrown
aside all the fopperies and flummeries, which have their origin in a
false state of society. When I last saw them, they looked as
heroically regardless of the stains and soils incident to our
profession, as thy husband did when he emerged from the gold mine.

Ownest wife, thy husband has milked a cow!!!

Belovedest, the herd have rebelled against the usurpation of Miss
Fuller's cow; and whenever they are turned out of the barn, she is
compelled to take refuge under our protection. So much did she impede
thy husband's labors, by keeping close to him, that he found it
necessary to give her two or three gentle pats with a shovel; but
still she preferred to trust herself to my tender mercies, rather
than venture among the horns of the herd. She is not an amiable cow;
but she has a very intelligent face, and seems to be of a reflective
cast of character. I doubt not that she will soon perceive the
expediency of being on good terms with the rest of the sisterhood. I
have not been twenty yards from our house and barn; but I begin to
perceive that this is a beautiful place. The scenery is of a mild and
placid character, with nothing bold in its character; but I think its
beauties will grow upon us, and make us love it the more, the longer
we live here. There is a brook, so near the house that we shall [be]
able to hear it ripple, in the summer evenings; but, for agricultural
purposes, it has been made to flow in a straight and rectangular
fashion, which does it infinite damage, as a picturesque object.

Naughtiest, it was a moment or two before I could think whom thou
didst mean by Mr. Dismal View. Why, he is one of the best of the
brotherhood, so far as cheerfulness goes; for, if he do not laugh
himself, he makes the rest of us laugh continually. He is the
quaintest and queerest personage thou didst ever see--full of dry
jokes, the humor of which is so incorporated with the strange
twistifications of his physiognomy, that his sayings ought to be
written down, accompanied with illustrations by Cruikshank. Then he
keeps quoting innumerable scraps of Latin, and makes classical
allusions, while we are turning over the gold mine; and the contrast
between the nature of his employment and the character of his thoughts
is irresistibly ludicrous.

Sweetest, I have written this epistle in the parlor, while Farmer
Ripley, and Farmer Farley, and Farmer Dismal View, are talking about
their agricultural concerns, around the fire. So thou wilt not wonder
if it is not a classical piece of composition, either in point of
thought or expression. I shall have just time before breakfast is
ready--the boy has just come to call us now--but still I will tell
thee that I love thee infinitely; and that I long for thee
unspeakably, but yet with a happy longing. The rest of them have gone
into the breakfast room;...

(Portion of letter missing)

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West street,


     _Brook Farm_, April 28th, 1841--7 A.M.

Mine ownest, what a beautiful bright morning is this! I do trust that
thou hast not suffered so much from the late tremendous weather, as to
be unable now to go abroad in the sunshine. I tremble, almost, to
think how thy tender frame has been shaken by that continual cough,
which cannot but have grown more inveterate throughout these
interminable ages of east wind. At times, dearest, it has seemed an
absolute necessity for me to see thee and find out for a certain truth
whether thou wert well or ill. Even hadst thou been here, thou wouldst
have been penetrated to the core with the chill blast. Then how must
thou have been afflicted, where it comes directly from the sea.

Belovedest, thy husband was caught by a cold, during his visit to
Boston. It has not affected his whole frame, but took entire
possession of his head, as being the weakest and most vulnerable
part. Never didst thou hear anybody sneeze with such vehemence and
frequency; and his poor brain has been in a thick fog--or rather, it
seemed as if his head were stuffed with coarse wool. I know not when I
have been so pestered before; and sometimes I wanted to wrench off my
head, and give it a great kick, like a foot-ball. This annoyance has
made me endure the bad weather with even less than ordinary patience;
and my faith was so far exhausted, that, when they told me yesterday
that the sun was setting clear, I would not even turn my eyes towards
the west. But, this morning, I am made all over anew; and have no
greater remnant of my cold, than will serve as an excuse for doing no
work to-day. Dearest, do not let Mrs. Ripley frighten thee with
apocryphal accounts of my indisposition. I have told thee the whole
truth. I do believe that she delights to disquiet people with doubts
and fears about their closest friends; for, once or twice, she has
made thy cough a bugbear to thy husband. Nevertheless, I will not
judge too harshly of the good lady, because I like her very well, in
many respects.

The family has been dismal and dolorous, throughout the storm. The
night before last, William Allen was stung by a wasp, on the eyelid;
whereupon, the whole side of his face swelled to an enormous
magnitude; so that, at the breakfast table, one half of him looked
like a blind giant (the eye being closed) and the other half had such
a sorrowful and ludicrous aspect, that thy husband was constrained to
laugh, out of sheer pity. The same day, a colony of wasps was
discovered in thy husband's chamber, where they had remained
throughout the winter, and were now just bestirring themselves,
doubtless with the intention of stinging me from head to foot. Thou
wilt readily believe, that not one of the accursed crew escaped my
righteous vengeance. A similar discovery was made in Mr. Farley's
room. In short, we seem to have taken up our abode in a wasps' nest.
Thus thou seest, belovedest, that a rural life is not one of unbroken
quiet and serenity.

If the middle of the day prove warm and pleasant, thy husband promises
himself to take a walk, in every step of which thou shalt be his
companion. Oh, how I long for thee to stay with me; in reality, among
the hills, and dales, and woods, of our home. I have taken one walk,
with Mr. Farley; and I could not have believed that there was such
seclusion, at so short a distance from a great city. Many spots seem
hardly to have been visited for ages--not since John Eliot preached to
the Indians here. If we were to travel a thousand miles, we could not
escape the world more completely than we can here.

Sweetest, I long unspeakably to see thee--it is only the thought of
thee that draws my spirit out of this solitude. Otherwise, I care
nothing for the world nor its affairs. I read no newspapers, and
hardly remember who is President; and feel as if I had no more concern
with what other people trouble themselves about, than if I dwelt in
another planet. But, still, thou drawest me to thee continually; and
so I can realise how a departed spirit feels, while looking back from
another world to the beloved ones of this. All other interests appear
like shadows and trifles; but love is a reality, which makes the
spirit still an inhabitant of the world which it has quitted.

Ownest wife, if Mr. Ripley comes into Boston on Sunday, it is my
purpose to accompany him. Otherwise, thou mayst look for me some time
during the ensuing week. Be happy, dearest; and above all, do shake
off that tremendous cough. Take great care of thyself, and never
venture out when there is the least breath of east-wind; but spread
thy wings in the sunshine, and be joyous as itself.

God bless thee.


Will thy father have the goodness to leave the letter for Colonel Hall
at the Post Office?

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West street,


     _Brook Farm_, May 4th, 1841. ½ past 1 P.M.

Belovedest, as Mr. Ripley is going to the city this afternoon, I
cannot but write a letter to thee, though I have but little time; for
the corn field will need me very soon. My cold no longer troubles me;
and all this morning, I have been at work under the clear blue sky, on
a hill side. Sometimes it almost seemed as if I were at work in the
sky itself; though the material in which I wrought was the ore from
our gold mine. Nevertheless, there is nothing so unseemly and
disagreeable in this sort of toil, as thou wouldst think. It defiles
the hands, indeed, but not the soul. This gold ore is a pure and
wholesome substance; else our Mother Nature would not devour it so
readily, and derive so much nourishment from it, and return such a
rich abundance of good grain and roots in requital of it.

The farm is growing very beautiful now--not that we yet see anything
of the pease or potatoes, which we have planted; but the grass blushes
green on the slopes and hollows. I wrote that word blush almost
unconsciously; so we will let it go as an inspired utterance. When I
go forth afield, I think of my Dove, and look beneath the stone walls,
where the verdure is richest, in hopes that a little company of
violets, or some solitary bud, prophetic of the summer, may be there;
to which I should award the blissful fate of being treasured for a
time in thy bosom; for I doubt not, dearest, that thou wouldst admit
any flowers of thy husband's gathering into that sweetest place. But
not a wild flower have I yet found. One of the boys gathered some
yellow cowslips, last Sunday; but I am well content not to have found
them; for they are not precisely what I should like to send my Dove,
though they deserve honor and praise, because they come to us when no
others will. We have our parlor here dressed in evergreen, as at
Christmas. That beautifullest little flower vase of thine stands on
Mr. Ripley's study table, at which I am now writing. It contains some
daffodils and some willow blossoms. I brought it here, rather than
kept it in my chamber, because I never sit there, and it gives me many
pleasant emotions to look round and be surprised (for it is often a
surprise, though I well know that it is there) by something which is
connected with the idea of thee.

Most dear wife, I cannot hope that thou art yet entirely recovered
from that terrible influenza; but if thou art not almost well, I know
not how thy husband will endure it. And that cough too. It is the only
one of thy utterances, so far as I have heard them, which I do not
love. Wilt thou not be very well, and very lightsome, at our next
meeting. I promise myself to be with thee next Thursday, the day after
tomorrow. It is an eternity since we met; and I can nowise account for
my enduring this lengthened absence so well. I do not believe that I
could suffer it, if I were not engaged in a righteous and
heaven-blessed way of life. When I was in the Custom-House, and then
at Salem, I was not half so patient; though my love of thee has grown
infinitely since then.

We had some tableaux last evening, the principal characters being
sustained by Mr. Farley and Miss Ellen Slade. They went off very well.
I would like to see a tableaux arranged by my Dove.

Dearest, I fear it is time for thy clod-compelling husband to take the
field again. Good bye.

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West street,


     _Brook Farm_, June 1st, 1841--nearly 6 A.M.

     _Very dearest_,

I have been too busy to write thee a long letter by this opportunity;
for I think this present life of mine gives me an antipathy to pen and
ink, even more than my Custom-House experience did. I could not live
without the idea of thee, nor without spiritual communion with thee;
but, in the midst of toil, or after a hard day's work in the gold
mine, my soul obstinately refuses to be poured out on paper. That
abominable gold mine! Thank God, we anticipate getting rid of its
treasures, in the course of two or three days. Of all hateful places,
that is the worst; and I shall never comfort myself for having spent
so many days of blessed sunshine there. It is my opinion, dearest,
that a man's soul may be buried and perish under a dung-heap or in a
furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money. Well; that
giant, Mr. George Bradford, will probably be here to-day; so there
will be no danger of thy husband being under the necessity of laboring
more than he likes, hereafter. Meantime, my health is perfect, and my
spirits buoyant, even in the gold mine.

And how art thou, belovedest? Two or three centuries have passed since
I saw thee; and then thou wast pale and languid. Thou didst comfort me
in that little note of thine; but still I cannot help longing to be
informed of thy present welfare. Thou art not a prudent little Dove,
and wast naughty to come on such a day as thou didst; and it seems to
me that Mrs. Ripley does not know how to take care of thee at all. Art
thou quite well now?

Dearest wife, I intend to come and see thee either on Thursday or
Friday--perhaps my visit may be deferred till Saturday, if the gold
mine should hold out so long. I yearn for thee unspeakably. Good bye
now; for the breakfast horn has sounded, some time since. God bless
thee, ownest.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West street,


     _Brook Farm_, Friday, July 9th, ½ past 5 P.M. [1841]

Oh, unutterably ownest wife, no pen can write how I have longed for
thee, or for any the slightest word from thee; for thy Sunday's letter
did not reach me till noon of this very day! Never was such a thirst
of the spirit as I have felt. I began to wonder whether my Dove did
really exist, or was only a vision; and canst thou imagine what a
desolate feeling that was. Oh, I need thee, my wife, every day, and
every hour, and every minute, and every minutest particle of forever
and forever.

Belovedest, the robe reached me in due season, and on Sabbath day, I
put it on; and truly it imparted such a noble and stately aspect to
thy husband, that thou couldst not possibly have known him. He did
really look tolerably personable! and, moreover, he felt as if thou
wert embracing him, all the time that he was wrapt in the folds of
this precious robe. Hast thou made it of such immortal stuff as the
robes of Bunyan's Pilgrim were made of? else it would grieve my very
heart to subject it to the wear and tear of the world.

Belovedest, when dost thou mean to come home? It is a whole eternity
since I saw thee. If thou art at home on a Sunday, I must and will
spend it with my ownest wife. Oh, how my heart leaps at the thought.

God bless thee, thou belovedest woman-angel! I cannot write a single
word more; for I have stolen the time to write this from the labors of
the field. I ought to be raking hay, like my brethren, who will have
to labor the longer and later, on account of these few moments which I
have given to thee. Now that we are in the midst of haying, we return
to our toil, after an early supper. I think I never felt so vigorous
as now; but, oh, I cannot be well without thee. Farewell,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody.


     _Brook Farm_, Aug. 13th, 1841

Dearest unutterably, Mrs. Ripley is going to Boston this morning, to
Miss Slade's wedding; so I sit down to write a word to thee, not
knowing whither to direct it. My heart searches for thee, but wanders
about vaguely, and is strangely dissatisfied. Where art thou? I fear
that thou didst spend yesterday in the unmitigated east wind of the
seacoast. Perhaps thou art shivering, at this moment.

Dearest, I would that I were with thee. It seems as if all evil things
had more power over thee, when I am away. Then thou art exposed to
noxious winds, and to pestilence, and to death-like weariness; and,
moreover, nobody knows how to take care of thee but thy husband.
Everybody else thinks it of importance that thou shouldst paint and
sculpture; but it would be no trouble to me, if thou shouldst never
touch clay or canvas again. It is not what thou dost, but what thou
art, that I concern myself about. And if thy mighty works are to be
wrought only by the anguish of thy head, and weariness of thy frame,
and sinking of thy heart, then do I never desire to see another. And
this should be the feeling of all thy friends. Especially ought it to
be thine, for thy husband's sake.

Belovedest, I am very well, and not at all weary; for yesterday's rain
gave us a holyday; and moreover the labors of the farm are not as
pressing as they have been. And--joyful thought!--in a little more
than a fortnight, thy husband will be free from his bondage--free to
think of his Dove--free to enjoy Nature--free to think and feel! I do
think that a greater weight will then be removed from me, than when
Christian's burthen fell off at the foot of the cross. Even my
Custom-House experience was not such a thraldom and weariness; my mind
and heart were freer. Oh, belovedest, labor is the curse of the world,
and nobody can meddle with it, without becoming proportionably
brutified. Dost thou think it a praiseworthy matter, that I have spent
five golden months in providing food for cows and horses? Dearest, it
is not so. Thank God, my soul is not utterly buried under a dung-heap.
I shall yet retain it, somewhat defiled, to be sure, but not utterly
unsusceptible of purification.

Farewell now, truest wife. It is time that this letter were sealed.
Love me; for I love thee infinitely, and pray for thee, and rejoice in
thee, and am troubled for thee--for I know not where thou art, nor how
thou dost.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Mr. Daniel Newhall,
     Lynn, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, 18th Aug. 1841. ½ 12 P.M.

Belovedest, Mrs. Ripley met me at the door, as I came home from work,
and told me that Mary was at Mrs. Park's, and that I might have an
opportunity to send a message to thee. Whether thou hast written I do
not know. At all events, Mrs. Ripley has not yet given me the letter;
nor have I had a chance to ask her what she has heard about thee; such
a number of troublesome and intrusive people are there in this
thronged household of ours. Dearest, if thou hast not written, thou
art very sick--one or the other is certain. That wretched and foolish
woman! Why could not she have put the letter on my table, so that I
might have been greeted by it immediately on entering my room? She is
not fit to live.

Dearest, I am very well; only somewhat tired with walking half a dozen
miles immediately after breakfast, and raking hay ever since. We shall
quite finish haying this week; and then there will be no more very
hard or constant labor, during the one other week that I shall remain
a slave. Most beloved, I received thy Lynn letter on Saturday, and thy
Boston letter yesterday. Then thou didst aver that thou wast very
well--but thou didst not call thyself magnificent. Why art thou not
magnificent? In thy former letter, thou sayest that thou hast not been
so well for two months past. Naughtiest wife, hast thou been unwell
for two months?

Ownest, since writing the above, I have been to dinner; and still Mrs.
Ripley has given no sign of having a letter for me; nor was it
possible for me to ask her--nor do I know when I can see her alone, to
inquire about thee. Surely thou canst not have let Mary come without a
letter. And if thou art sick, why did she come at all? Belovedest, the
best way is always to send thy letters by the mail; and then I shall
know where to find them.

Aug. 17th--After breakfast.--Dearest, thou didst not write--that seems
very evident. I have not, even yet, had an opportunity to ask Mrs.
Ripley about thee; for she was gone out last evening; and when she
came back, Miss Ripley and another lady were with her. She mentioned,
however, that thy sister Mary looked very bright and happy; so I
suppose thou couldst not be very intensely and dangerously sick. I
might have asked Mrs. Ripley how thou didst, even in the presence of
those two women; but I have an inexpressible and unconquerable
reluctance to speak of thee to almost anybody. It seems a sin. Well; I
do not feel so apprehensive about thy health as I did yesterday; but,
sweetest, if thou hadst sent some distinct message, even though not a
letter, it would have saved thy husband some disquietude. Now farewell
for the present. I do long to see thee, but know not how to get to
thee. Dost thou love me at all? It is a great while since thou hast
told me so.

Ownest wife, I meant to have finished this letter this afternoon, and
to have sent it by William Allen in the morning; but I have just
learnt that Mr. Ripley is about to start for Boston; so I conclude
suddenly. God bless thee, and make thee magnificent, and keep thee so
forever and ever. I love thee. I love thee.

     Thine Ownest.

Do not write to me, if thou art not well.

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.

[blank page]


     _Brook Farm_, Aug. 22nd, 1841

Most dear wife, it seems a long time since I have written to thee.
Dost thou love me at all? I should have been reprehensible in not
writing, the last time Mr. and Mrs. Ripley went to town; but I had an
indispensable engagement in the bean-field--whither, indeed, I was
glad to betake myself, in order to escape a parting scene with poor
Mr. Farley. He was quite out of his wits, the night before, and thy
husband sat up with him till long past midnight. The farm is
pleasanter now that he is gone; for his unappeasable wretchedness
threw a gloom over everything. Since I last wrote to thee, we have
done haying; and the remainder of my bondage will probably be light.
It will be a long time, however, before I shall know how to make a
good use of leisure, either as regards enjoyment or literary

When am I to see thee again? The first of September comes a week from
Tuesday next; but I think I shall ante-date the month, and compel it
to begin on Sunday. Wilt thou consent? Then, on Saturday afternoon,
(for I will pray Mr. Ripley to give me up so much time, for the sake
of my past diligence) I will come to thee, dearest wife, and remain in
the city till Monday evening. Thence I shall go to Salem, and spend a
week there, longer or shorter according to the intensity of the
occasion for my presence. I do long to see our mother and sisters; and
I should not wonder if they felt some slight desire to see me. I
received a letter from Louisa, a week or two since, scolding me most
pathetically for my long absence. Indeed, I have been rather naughty
in this respect; but I knew that it would be unsatisfactory to them
and myself, if I came only for a single day--and that has been the
longest space that I could command.

Dearest wife, it is extremely doubtful whether Mr. Ripley will succeed
in locating his community on this farm. He can bring Mr. Ellis to no
terms; and the more they talk about the matter, the farther they
appear to be from a settlement. Thou and I must form other plans for
ourselves; for I can see few or no signs that Providence purposes to
give us a home here. I am weary, weary, thrice weary of waiting so
many ages. Yet what can be done? Whatever may be thy husband's
gifts, he has not hitherto shown a single one that may avail to gather
gold. I confess that I have strong hopes of good from this arrangement
with Munroe; but when I look at the scanty avails of my past literary
efforts, I do not feel authorized to expect much from the future.
Well; we shall see. Other persons have bought large estates and built
splendid mansions with such little books as I mean to write; so
perhaps it is not unreasonable to hope that mine may enable me to
build a little cottage--or, at least, to buy or hire one. But I am
becoming more and more convinced, that we must not lean upon the
community. Whatever is to be done, must be done by thy husband's own
individual strength. Most beloved, I shall not remain here through the
winter, unless with an absolute certainty that there will be a home
ready for us in the spring. Otherwise I shall return to
Boston,--still, however, considering myself an associate of the
community; so that we may take advantage of any more favorable aspect
of affairs. Dearest, how much depends on these little books! Methinks,
if anything could draw out my whole strength, it should be the motives
that now press upon me. Yet, after all, I must keep these
considerations out of my mind, because an external purpose always
disturbs, instead of assisting me.

Dearest, I have written the above in not so good spirits as sometimes;
but now that I have so ungenerously thrown my despondency on thee, my
heart begins to throb more lightly. I doubt not that God has great
good in store for us; for He would not have given us so much, unless
He were preparing to give a great deal more. I love thee! Thou lovest
me! What present bliss! What sure and certain hope!


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West-street,


     _Salem_, Sept. 3d, 1841--4 o'clock P.M.

Most beloved,--Thou dost not expect a letter from thy husband; and
yet, perhaps, thou wilt not be absolutely displeased should one come
to thee tomorrow. At all events, I feel moved to write; though the
haze and sleepiness, which always settles upon me here, will certainly
be perceptible in every line. But what a letter didst thou write to
me! Thou lovest like a celestial being, (as truly thou art,) and dost
express thy love in heavenly language;--it is like one angel writing
to another angel; but alas! the letter has miscarried, and has been
delivered to a most unworthy mortal. Now wilt thou exclaim against thy
husband's naughtiness! And truly he is very naughty. Well then; the
letter was meant for him, and could not possibly belong to any other
being, mortal or immortal. I will trust that thy idea of me is truer
than my own consciousness of myself.

Dearest, I have been out only once, in the day time, since my arrival.
How immediately and irrecoverably (if thou didst not keep me out of
the abyss) should I relapse into the way of life in which I spent my
youth! If it were not for my Dove, this present world would see no
more of me forever. The sunshine would never fall on me, no more than
on a ghost. Once in a while, people might discern my figure gliding
stealthily through the dim evening--that would be all. I should be
only a shadow of the night; it is thou that givest me reality, and
makest all things real for me. If, in the interval since I quitted
this lonely old chamber, I had found no woman (and thou wast the only
possible one) to impart reality and significance to life, I should
have come back hither ere now, with the feeling that all was a dream
and a mockery. Dost thou rejoice that thou hast saved me from such a
fate? Yes; it is a miracle worthy even of thee, to have converted a
life of shadows into the deepest truth, by thy magic touch.

Belovedest, I have not yet made acquaintance with Miss Polly Metis.
Mr. Foote was not in his office when I called there; so that my
introduction to the erudite Polly was unavoidably deferred. I went to
the Athenaeum this forenoon, and turned over a good many dusty books.
When we dwell together, I intend that my Dove shall do all the
reading that may be necessary, in the concoction of my various
histories; and she shall repeat the substance of her researches to me.
Thus will knowledge fall upon me like heavenly dew.

Sweetest, it seems very long already since I saw thee; but thou hast
been all the time in my thoughts; so that my being has been
continuous. Therefore, in one sense, it does not seem as if we had
parted at all. But really I should judge it to be twenty years since I
left Brook Farm; and I take this to be one proof that my life there
was an unnatural and unsuitable, and therefore an unreal one. It
already looks like a dream behind me. The real Me was never an
associate of the community; there has been a spectral Appearance
there, sounding the horn at day-break, and milking the cows, and
hoeing potatoes, and raking hay, toiling and sweating in the sun, and
doing me the honor to assume my name. But be thou not deceived, Dove,
of my heart. This Spectre was not thy husband. Nevertheless, it is
somewhat remarkable that thy husband's hands have, during the past
summer, grown very brown and rough; insomuch that many people persist
in believing that he, after all, was the aforesaid spectral
horn-sounder, cow-milker, potatoe-hoer, and hay-raker. But such
people do not know a reality from a shadow.

Enough of nonsense. Belovedest, I know not exactly how soon I shall
return to the Farm. Perhaps not sooner than a fortnight from tomorrow;
but, in that case. I shall pay thee an intermediate visit of one day.
Wilt thou expect me on Friday or Saturday next, from ten to twelve
o'clock on each day,--not earlier nor later.

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, Septr. 9th, 1841--A.M.

     _Ownest love,_

In my last letter, I left it uncertain whether I should come Friday or
Saturday, because I deemed it good to allow myself the freedom of
choosing the day that should be most vacant from all earthly care and
inconvenience, so that thou mightest be sure to meet the whole of me;
and, likewise, I desired to have a brightest and sunniest day, because
our meetings have so often been in clouds and drizzle. Also, I thought
it well that thy expectation of seeing thy husband should be diffused
over two days, so that the disappointment might be lessened, if it
were impossible for me to come on the very day appointed. But these
reasons are of no moment, since thou so earnestly desirest to know the
day and hour. Unless the sky fall, belovedest, I will come tomorrow. I
know of no obstacle; and if there were a million, it would be no
matter. When once we are together, our own world is round about us,
and all things else cease to exist.

Belovedest, thy letter of a week from Thursday reached me not till
Tuesday! It had got into the hands of the penny-post. Farewell,
ownest. I love thee with infinite intensity, and think of thee


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, Septr. 10th, 1841--A.M.

Most dear wife, thou canst not imagine how strange it seems to me that
thou shouldst ever suffer any bodily harm. I cannot conceive of
it--the idea will not take the aspect of reality. Thou art to me a
spirit gliding about our familiar paths; and I always feel as if thou
wert beyond the reach of mortal accident--nor am I convinced to the
contrary even by thy continual gashings of thy dearest fingers and
sprainings of thy ancle. I love thee into the next state of existence,
and therefore do not realise that thou art here as subject to
corporeal harm as is thy husband himself--nay, ten times more so,
because thy earthly manifestation is refined almost into spirit.

But, dearest, thy accident did make thy husband's heart flutter very
riotously. I wanted to hold thee in mine arms; for I had a foolish
notion that thou wouldst be much better--perhaps quite well! I cannot
tell thee all I felt; and still I had not the horrible feelings that
I should expect, because there was a shadowiness interposed between me
and the fact, so that it did not strike my heart, as the beam did thy
head. Let me not speak of it any more, lest it become too real.

Sweetest, thou dost please me much by criticising thy husband's
stories, and finding fault with them. I do not very well recollect
Monsieur de Miroir; but as to Mrs. Bullfrog, I give her up to thy
severest reprehension. The story was written as a mere experiment in
that style; it did not come from am depth within me--neither my heart
nor mind had anything to do with it. I recollect that the Man of
Adamant seemed a fine idea to me, when I looked at it prophetically;
but I failed in giving shape and substance to the vision which I saw.
I don't think it can be very good.

Ownest wife, I cannot believe all these stories about Munroe, because
such an abominable rascal never would be sustained and countenanced by
respectable men. I take him to be neither better nor worse than the
average of his tribe. However, I intend to have all my copy-rights
taken out in my own name; and if he cheats me once, I will have
nothing more to do with him, but will straightway be cheated by some
other publisher--that being, of course, the only alternative.

Dearest, what dost thou think of taking Governor Shirley's young
French wife as the subject of one of the cuts. Thou shouldst represent
her in the great chair, perhaps with a dressing glass before her, and
arrayed in all manner of fantastic finery, and with an outre French
air; while the old Governor is leaning fondly over her, and a Puritan
counsellor or two are manifesting their disgust, in the background. A
negro footman and French waiting maid might be in attendance. Do not
think that I expect thee to adopt my foolish fancies about these
things. Whatever thou mayst do, it will be better than I can think. In
Liberty Tree, thou mightest have a vignette, representing the chair in
a very battered, shattered, and forlorn condition, after it had been
ejected from Hutchinson's house. This would serve to impress the
reader with the woeful vicissitudes of sublunary things. Many other
subjects would thy husband suggest, but he is terribly afraid that
thou wouldst take one of them, instead of working out thine own

Belovedest, I long to see thee. Do be magnificently well by
Saturday--yet not on my account, but thine own. Meantime, take care of
thy dearest head. Thou art not fit to be trusted away from thy
husband's guidance, one moment.

Dear little wife, didst thou ever behold such an awful scribble as thy
husband writes, since he became a farmer? His chirography always was
abominable; but now it is outrageous.

God bless thee, dearest and may His hand be continually outstretched
over thy head. Expect me on Saturday afternoon.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, September 14th, 1841--A.M.

Ownest beloved, I know not whether thou dost expect a letter from thy
husband; but I have a comfortable faith that it will not be altogether
unwelcome; so I boldly sit down to scribble. I love thee
transcendently; and nothing makes me more sensible of the fact, than
that I write thee voluntary letters, without any external necessity.
It is as if intense love should make a dumb man speak. (Alas! I hear a
knocking at the door, and suspect that some untimely person is about
to call me away from my Dove.)

Afternoon.--Dearest, it was even as I suspected. How sad it is, that
we cannot be sure of one moment's uninterrupted communication, even
when we are talking together in that same old chamber, where I have
spent so many quiet years! Well; thou must be content to lose some
very sweet outpourings wherewith my heart would probably have covered
the first, and perhaps the second page of this sheet. The amount of
all would have been, that I am somewhat partial to thee--and thou hast
a suspicion of that fact, already.

Belovedest, Master Cheever is a very good subject for a
sketch--especially if thou dost portray him in the very act of
executing judgment on an evil-doer. The little urchin may be laid
across his knee, and his arms and legs (and whole person, indeed)
should be flying all abroad, in an agony of nervous excitement and
corporeal smart. The Master, on the other hand, must be calm, rigid,
without anger or pity, the very personification of that unmitigable
law, whereby suffering follows sin. Meantime, the lion's head should
have a sort of sly twist of one side of its mouth, and wink of one
eye, in order to give the impression, that, after all, the crime and
the punishment are neither of them the most serious things in the
world. I would draw this sketch myself, if I had but the use of thy
magic fingers. Why dost thou--being one and the same person with thy
husband--unjustly keep those delicate little instruments (thy fingers,
to wit) all to thyself?

Then, dearest, the Acadians will do very well for the second sketch.
Wilt thou represent them as just landing on the wharf?--or as
presenting themselves before Governor Shirley, seated in the great
chair? Another subject (if this do not altogether suit thee) might be
old Cotton Mather, venerable in a three cornered hat and other antique
attire, walking the streets of Boston, and lifting up his hands to
bless the people, while they all revile him. An old dame should be
seen flinging or emptying some vials of medicine on his head, from the
latticed window of an old-fashioned house; and all around must be
tokens of pestilence and mourning--as a coffin borne along, a woman or
children weeping on a door-step. Canst thou paint the tolling of the
old South bell?

If thou likest not this subject, thou canst take the military council,
holden at Boston by the Earl of Loudoun, and other captains and
governors--his lordship in the great chair, an old-fashioned military
figure, with a star on his breast. Some of Louis XV's commanders will
give thee the costume. On the table and scattered about the room must
be symbols of warfare, swords, pistols, plumed hats, a drum, trumpet,
and rolled up banner, in one heap. It were not amiss that thou
introduce the armed figure of an Indian chief, as taking part in the
council--or standing apart from the English, erect and stern.

Now for Liberty tree--there is an engraving of that famous vegetable
in Snow's History of Boston; but thou wilt draw a better one out of
thine own head. If thou dost represent it, I see not what scene can be
beneath it, save poor Mr. Oliver taking the oath. Thou must represent
him with a bag wig, ruffled sleeves, embroidered coat, and all such
ornaments, because he is the representative of aristocracy and
artificial system. The people may be as rough and wild as thy sweetest
fancy can make them;--nevertheless, there must be one or two grave,
puritanical figures in the midst. Such an one might sit in the great
chair, and be an emblem of that stern spirit, which brought about the
revolution. But thou wilt find this is a hard subject.

But what a dolt is thy husband, thus to obtrude his counsel in the
place of thine own inspiration! Belovedest, I want soon to tell thee
how I love thee. Thou must not expect me till Saturday afternoon. I
yearn infinitely to see thee. Heaven bless thee forever and forever.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, Sept. 22d, 1841--P.M.

Dearest love, here is thy husband again, slowly adapting himself to
the life of this queer community, whence he seems to have been absent
half a life time--so utterly has he grown apart from the spirit and
manners of the place. Thou knowest not how much I wanted thee, to give
me a home-feeling in the spot--to keep a feeling of coldness and
strangeness from creeping into my heart and making me shiver.
Nevertheless, I was most kindly received; and the fields and woods
looked very pleasant, in the bright sunshine of the day before
yesterday. I had a friendlier disposition towards the farm, now that I
am no longer obliged to toil in its stubborn furrows. Yesterday and
to-day, however, the weather has been intolerable--cold, chill,
sullen, so that it is impossible to be on kindly terms with Mother
Nature. Would I were with thee, mine own warmest and truest-hearted

Belovedest, I doubt whether I shall succeed in writing another
volume of Grandfather's Library, while I remain at the farm. I have
not the sense of perfect seclusion, which has always been essential to
my power of producing anything. It is true, nobody intrudes into my
room; but still I cannot be quiet. Nothing here is settled--everything
is but beginning to arrange itself--and though thy husband would seem
to have little to do with aught beside his own thoughts, still he
cannot but partake of the ferment around him. My mind will not be
abstracted. I must observe, and think, and feel, and content myself
with catching glimpses of things which may be wrought out hereafter.
Perhaps it will be quite as well that I find myself unable to set
seriously about literary occupation for the present. It will be good
to have a longer interval between my labor of the body and that of the
mind. I shall work to the better purpose, after the beginning of
November. Meantime, I shall see these people and their enterprise
under a new point of view, and perhaps be able to determine whether
thou and I have any call to cast in our lot among them.

Sweetest, our letters have not yet been brought from the Post Office;
so that I have known nothing of thee since our parting. Surely we were
very happy--and never had I so much peace and joy as in brooding
over thine image, as thou wast revealed to me in our last interview. I
love thee with all the heart I have--and more. Now farewell, most
dear. Mrs. Ripley is to be the bearer of this letter; and I reserve
the last page for tomorrow morning. Perhaps I shall have a blessed
word from thee, ere then.

Septr. 23d--Before breakfast.--Sweetest wife, thou hast not written
to me. Nevertheless, I do not conclude thee to be sick, but will
believe that thou hast been busy in creating Laura Bridgman. What a
faithful and attentive husband thou hast! For once he has anticipated
thee in writing.

Belovedest, I do wish the weather would put off this sulky mood. Had
it not been for the warmth and brightness of Monday, when I arrived
here, I should have supposed that all sunshine had left Brook Farm
forever. I have no disposition to take long walks, in such a state of
the sky; nor have I any buoyancy of spirit. Thy husband is a very dull
person, just at this time. I suspect he wants thee. It is his purpose,
I believe, either to walk or ride to Boston, about the end of next
week, and give thee a kiss--after which he will return quietly and
contentedly to the farm. Oh, what joy, when he will again see thee
every day!

We had some tableaux last night. They were very stupid, (as, indeed,
was the case with all I have ever seen) but do not thou tell Mrs.
Ripley so. She is a good woman, and I like her better than I did--her
husband keeps his old place in my judgment. Farewell, thou gentlest
Dove--thou perfectest woman--


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_,
     Septr. 25th, 1841--½ past 7 A.M.

Ownest Dove, it was but just now that I thought of sending thee a few
lines by Mr. Ripley; for this penning of epistles is but a wretched
resource. What shall I do? What shall I do? To talk to thee in this
way does not bring thee nearer; it only compels me to separate myself
from thee, and put thee at a distance. Of all humbugs, pretending to
alleviate mortal woes, writing is the greatest.

Yet, thy two letters were a great comfort to me--so great, that they
could not possibly have been dispensed with. Dearest, I did not write
thee what Mr. and Mrs. Ripley said to me, because they have said
nothing which I did not know before. The ground, upon which I must
judge of the expediency of our abiding here, is not what they may say,
but what actually is, or is likely to be; and of this I doubt whether
either of them is capable of forming a correct opinion. Would that
thou couldst he here--or could have been here all summer--in order to
help me think what is to be done. But one thing is certain--I cannot
and will not spend the winter here. The time would be absolutely
thrown away, so far as regards any literary labor to be
performed,--and then to suffer this famished yearning for thee, all
winter long! It is impossible.

Dearest, do not thou wear thyself out with working upon that bust. If
it cause thee so much as a single head-ache, I shall wish that Laura
Bridgman were at Jericho. Even if thou shouldst not feel thyself
wearied at the time, I fear that the whole burthen of toil will fall
upon thee when all is accomplished. It is no matter if Laura should go
home without being sculptured--no matter if she goes to her grave
without it. I dread to have thee feel an outward necessity for such a
task; for this intrusion of an outward necessity into labors of the
imagination and intellect is, to me, very painful.

Oh, what weather! It seems to me as if every place were sunny, save
Brook Farm. Nevertheless, I had rather a pleasant walk to a distant
meadow, a day or two ago; and we found white and purple grapes, in
great abundance, ripe, and gushing with rich juice when the hand
pressed their clusters. Didst thou know what treasures of wild grapes
there are in this land. If we dwell here, we will make our own
wine--of which, I know, my Dove will want a great quantity.

Good bye, sweetest. If thou canst contrive to send me a glimpse of
sunshine, I will be the gratefullest husband on earth. I love thee
inextinguishably. Thou hast no place to put all the love which I feel
for thee.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, Septr. 27th, 1841. 7½ A.M.

_Dearest love,_

Thy two letters of business came both together, Saturday evening! What
an acute and energetic personage is my little Dove! I say it not in
jest (though with a smile) but in good earnest, and with a comfortable
purpose to commit all my business transactions to thee, when we dwell
together. And why dost thou seem to apprehend that thou mayst possibly
offend me. Thou canst do so never, but only make me love thee more and

Now as to this affair with Munroe. I fully confide in thy opinion that
he intends to make an unequal bargain with thy poor simple and
innocent husband--never having doubted this, myself. But how is he to
accomplish it? I am not, nor shall be, in the least degree in his
power; whereas, he is, to a certain extent, in mine. He might announce
his projected library, with me for the editor, in all the newspapers
in the universe; but still I could not be bound to become the
editor, unless by my own act; nor should I have the slightest scruple
in refusing to be so, at the last moment, if he persisted in treating
me with injustice. Then, as for his printing Grandfather's Chair, I
have the copy-right in my own hands, and could and would prevent the
sale, or make him account to me for the profits, in case of need.
Meantime, he is making arrangements for publishing this library,
contracting with other booksellers, and with printers and engravers,
and, with every step, making it more difficult for himself to draw
back. I, on the other hand, do nothing which I should not do, if the
affair with Munroe were at an end; for if I write a book, it will be
just as available for some other publisher as for him. My dearest,
instead of getting me within his power by this delay, he has trusted
to my ignorance and simplicity, and has put _himself_ in _my_ power.
Show the contrary, if thou canst.

He is not insensible of this. At our last interview, he himself
introduced the subject of our bargain, and appeared desirous to close
it. But thy husband was not prepared, among other reasons, because I
do not yet see what materials I shall have for the republications in
the library; the works that he has shown me being all ill-adapted for
that purpose; and I wish first to see some French and German books,
which he has sent for to New York. And, belovedest, before concluding
the bargain, I have promised George Hillard to consult him and let him
do the business. Is not this consummate discretion? And is not thy
husband perfectly safe? Then why does my Dove put herself into a
fever? Rather, let her look at the matter with the same perfect
composure that I do, who see all around my own position, and know that
it is impregnable.

Most sweet wife, I cannot write thee any more at present, as Mr.
Ripley is going away instantaneously; but we will talk at length on
Saturday, when God means to send me to thee. I love thee infinitely,
and admire thee beyond measure, and trust thee in all things, and will
never transact any business without consulting thee--though on some
rare occasions, it may happen that I will have my own way, after all.
I feel inclined to break off this engagement with Munroe; as thou
advisest, though not for precisely the reasons thou urgest; but of
this hereafter.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, Septr. 29th, 1841.--A.M.

Ownest wife, I love thee most exceedingly--never so much before;
though I am sure I have loved thee through a past eternity. How dost
thou do? Dost thou remember that, the day after tomorrow, thou art to
meet thy husband? Does thy heart thrill at the thought?

Dearest love, thy husband was elected to two high offices, last
night--viz., to be a Trustee of the Brook Farm estate, and Chairman of
the Committee of Finance!!!! Now dost thou not blush to have formed so
much lower an opinion of my business talents, than is entertained by
other discerning people? From the nature of my office, I shall have
the chief direction of all the money affairs of the community--the
making of bargains--the supervision of receipts and expenditures &c.
&c. &c. Thou didst not think of this, when thou didst pronounce me
unfit to make a bargain with that petty knave of a publisher. A
prophet has no honor among those of his own kindred, nor a financier
in the judgment of his wife.

Belovedest, my accession to these august offices does not at all
decide the question of my remaining here permanently. I told Mr.
Ripley, that I could not spend the winter at the farm, and that it was
quite uncertain whether I returned in the spring.

Now, farewell, most dear and sweet wife. Of course, thou canst not
expect that a man in eminent public station will have much time to
devote to correspondence with a Dove. I will remember thee in the
intervals of business, and love thee in all my leisure moments. Will
not this satisfy thee?

God bless thee, mine ownest--my treasure--thou gold and diamond of my
soul!--my possession forever--my enough and to spare, yet never,
never, to be spared! Sweetest, if it should be very stormy on
Saturday, expect me not--but the first fair day thereafter.

I put all my love into one kiss, and have twice as much left as


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, Octr. 9th--Before Breakfast [1841]

     _Most dear,_

Here is thy husband trying to write to thee, while it is so dark that
he can hardly see his own scribble--not that it is very early; for the
sun is up long ago, and ought to be shining into my window. But this
dismal gloom! I positively cannot submit to have this precious month
all darkened with cloud and sullied with drizzle.

Dearest, I return the manuscript tale. It is pretty enough; but I
doubt whether it be particularly suited to the American public; and,
if intended for publication, I trust it will undergo a very severe
revision. It will need it. I speak frankly about this matter; but I
should do the same (only more frankly still) if the translation were
my Dove's own.

I wonder whether Munroe has yet returned Grandfather's Chair to
Elizabeth. I send back his books to-day.

Belovedest, I think thou wilt see me in the latter half of next week.
Thou needest not to give up any visit to South Boston on this account;
for I cannot get to thee before twelve o'clock. It will be but an hour
or so's visit.

Thine with deepest and keenest love,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Brook Farm_, October 18th, Saturday [1841]

Most dear wife, I received thy letter and note, last night, and was
much gladdened by them; for never has my soul so yearned for thee as
now. But, belovedest, my spirit is moved to talk to thee to day about
these magnetic miracles, and to beseech thee to take no part in them.
I am unwilling that a power should be exercised on thee, of which we
know neither the origin nor the consequence, and the phenomena of
which seem rather calculated to bewilder us, than to teach us any
truths about the present or future state of being. If I possessed such
a power over thee, I should not dare to exercise it; nor can I consent
to its being exercised by another. Supposing that this power arises
from the transfusion of one spirit into another, it seems to me that
the sacredness of an individual is violated by it; there would be an
intrusion into thy holy of holies--and the intruder would not be thy
husband! Canst thou think, without a shrinking of thy soul, of any
human being coming into closer communion with thee than I may?--than
either nature or my own sense of right would permit me? I cannot. And,
dearest, thou must remember, too, that thou art now a part of me, and
that, by surrendering thyself to the influence of this magnetic lady,
thou surrenderest more than thine own moral and spiritual
being--allowing that the influence _is_ a moral and spiritual one.
And, sweetest, I really do not like the idea of being brought, through
thy medium, into such an intimate relation with Mrs. Park!

Now, ownest wife, I have no faith whatever that people are raised to
the seventh heaven, or to any heaven at all, or that they gain any
insight into the mysteries of life beyond death, by means of this
strange science. Without distrusting that the phenomena which thou
tellest me of, and others as remarkable, have really occurred, I think
that they are to be accounted for as the result of a physical and
material, not of a spiritual, influence. _Opium_ has produced many a
brighter vision of heaven (and just as susceptible of proof) than
those which thou recountest. They are dreams, my love--and such dreams
as thy sweetest fancy, either waking or sleeping, could vastly
improve upon. And what delusion can be more lamentable and
mischievous, than to mistake the physical and material for the
spiritual? What so miserable as to lose the soul's true, though
hidden, knowledge and consciousness of heaven, in the mist of an
earth-born vision? Thou shalt not do this. If thou wouldst know what
heaven is, before thou comest thither hand in hand with thy husband,
then retire into the depths of thine own spirit, and thou wilt find it
there among holy thoughts and feelings; but do not degrade high Heaven
and its inhabitants into any such symbols and forms as those which
Miss Larned describes--do not let an earthly effluence from Mrs.
Park's corporeal system bewilder thee, and perhaps contaminate
something spiritual and sacred. I should as soon think of seeking
revelations of the future state in the rottenness of the grave--where
so many do seek it.

Belovedest wife, I am sensible that these arguments of mine may appear
to have little real weight; indeed, what I write does no sort of
justice to what I think. But I care the less for this, because I know
that my deep and earnest feeling upon the subject will weigh more with
thee than all the arguments in the world. And thou wilt know that the
view which I take of this matter is caused by no want of faith in
mysteries, but from a deep reverence of the soul, and of the mysteries
which it knows within itself, but never transmits to the earthly eye
or ear. Keep thy imagination sane--that is one of the truest
conditions of communion with Heaven.

Dearest, after these grave considerations, it seems hardly worth while
to submit a merely external one; but as it occurs to me, I will write
it. I cannot think, without invincible repugnance, of thy holy name
being bruited abroad in connection with these magnetic phenomena. Some
(horrible thought!) would pronounce my Dove an impostor; the great
majority would deem thee crazed; and even the few believers would feel
a sort of interest in thee, which it would be anything but pleasant to
excite. And what adequate motive can there be for exposing thyself to
all this misconception? Thou wilt say, perhaps, that thy visions and
experiences would never be known. But Miss Larned's are known to all
who choose to listen.

October 19th. Monday.--Most beloved, what a preachment have I made to
thee! I love thee, I love thee, I love thee, most infinitely. Love is
the true magnetism. What carest thou for any other? Belovedest, it is
probable that thou wilt see thy husband tomorrow. Art thou
magnificent? God bless thee. What a bright day is here; but the woods
are fading now. It is time I were in the city, for the winter.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


_Brook Farm_, October 21st, 1841--Noon

Ownest beloved, I know thou dost not care in the least about receiving
a word from thy husband--thou lovest me not--in fact thou hast quite
forgotten that such a person exists. I do love thee so much, that I
really think that all the love is on my side;--there is no room for
any more in the whole universe.

Sweetest, I have nothing at all to say to thee--nothing, I mean, that
regards this external world; and as to matters of the heart and soul,
they are not to be written about. What atrocious weather! In all this
month, we have not had a single truly October day; it has been a real
November month, and of the most disagreeable kind. I came to this
place in one snowstorm, and shall probably leave it in another; so
that my reminiscences of Brook Farm are like to be the coldest and
dreariest imaginable. But next month, thou, belovedest, will be my
sunshine and my summer. No matter what weather it may be then.

Dearest, good bye. Dost thou love me after all? Art thou magnificently
well? God bless thee. Thou didst make me infinitely happiest, at our
last meeting. Was it a pleasant season likewise to thee?

     Thine ownest,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


_Salem_, Novr. 27th, 1841

_Dearest Soul,_

I know not whether thou wilt have premonitions of a letter from thy
husband; but I feel absolutely constrained to write thee a few lines
this morning, before I go up in town. I love thee--I love thee--and I
have no real existence but in thee. Never before did my bosom so yearn
for the want of thee--so thrill at the thought of thee. Thou art a
mighty enchantress, my little Dove, and hast quite subdued a strong
man, who deemed himself independent of all the world. I am a captive
under thy little foot, and look to thee for life. Stoop down and kiss
me--or I die!

Dearest, I am intolerably weary of this old town; and I would that my
visits might not be oftener than once in ten years, instead of a
fortnight. Dost thou not think it really the most hateful place in all
the world? My mind becomes heavy and nerveless, the moment I set my
foot within its precincts. Nothing makes me wonder more than that I
found it possible to write all my tales in this same region of
sleepy-head and stupidity. But I suppose the characteristics of the
place are reproduced in the tales; and that accounts for the
overpowering disposition to slumber which so many people experience,
in reading thy husband's productions.

Belovedest, according to thy instructions, I have been very careful in
respect to mince-pies and other Thanksgiving dainties; and so have
passed pretty well through the perils of the carnival season. Thou art
a dearest little wife, and I would live on bread and water, to please
thee, even if such temperate regimen should produce no other good. But
truly thou art very wise in thy dietetic rules; and it is well that I
have such a wife to take care of me; inasmuch as I am accustomed to
eat whatever is given me, with an appetite as indiscriminate, though
not quite so enormous, as that of an ostrich. Setting aside fat pork,
I refuse no other Christian meat.

Dearest, I write of nothing; for I had nothing to write when I began,
save to make thee aware that I loved thee infinitely; and now that
thou knowest it, there is no need of saying a word more. On Monday
evening, please God, I shall see thee. How would I have borne it, if
thy visit to Ida Russel were to commence before my return to thine

God bless thee, mine ownest.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


54 Pinckney St., Jany. 1st, [1842]

_Very dearest,_

I would gladly go to Salem immediately if I could, but I am detained
here by some ceremonies, which are needful to be gone through,
previous to my final deliverance from the Custom-House. As Mr.
Bancroft is not expected back from Washington for some days, I shall
probably remain till nearly the close of next week. Meantime, I must
be near at hand, because my presence may be required at any moment.

Naughtiest, thou shouldst not put thy little white hands into cold
clay. Canst thou not use warm water? How canst thou hope for any
warmth of conception and execution, when thou art working with
material as cold as ice?

As to the proof-sheets, I think we need not trouble.... (Remainder of
letter missing)


     _Salem_, Jany. 20th, 1842--11 o'clock A.M.

     _Truest Heart,_

Here is thy husband in his old chamber, where he produced those
stupendous works of fiction, which have since impressed the Universe
with wonderment and awe! To this chamber, doubtless, in all succeeding
ages, pilgrims will come to pay their tribute of reverence;--they will
put off their shoes at the threshold, for fear of desecrating the
tattered old carpet. "There," they will exclaim, "is the very bed in
which he slumbered, and where he was visited by those ethereal
visions, which he afterward fixed forever in glowing words! There is
the wash-stand, at which this exalted personage cleansed himself from
the stains of earth, and rendered his outward man a fitting exponent
of the pure soul within. There, in its mahogany frame, is the
dressing-glass, which reflected that noble brow, those hyacinthine
locks, that mouth, bright with smiles, or tremulous with feeling,
that flashing or melting eye, that--in short, every item of the
magnanimous phiz of this unexampled man! There is the pine
table--there the old flag-bottomed chair--in which he sat, and at
which he scribbled, during his agonies of inspiration! There is the
old chest of drawers, in which he kept what shirts a poor author may
be supposed to have possessed! There is the closet, in which was
reposited his threadbare suit of black! There is the worn-out
shoe-brush with which this polished writer polished his boots. There
is--" but I believe this will be pretty much all;--so here I close the

Most dear, I love thee beyond all limits, and write to thee because I
cannot help it;--nevertheless, writing grows more and more an
inadequate and unsatisfactory mode of revealing myself to thee. I no
longer think of saying anything deep, because I feel that the deepest
and truest must remain unsaid. We have left expression--at least, such
expression as can be achieved with pen and ink--far behind us. Even
the spoken word has long been inadequate. Looks are a better language;
but, bye-and-bye, our spirits will demand some more adequate
expression even than these. And thus it will go on; until we shall be
divested of these earthly forms, which are at once our medium of
expression, and the impediments to full communion. Then we shall melt
into [one] another, and all be expressed, once and continually,
without a word--without an effort.

Belovedest, my cold is very comfortable now. Mrs. Hillard gave me some
homo--I don't know how to spell it--homeopathic medicine, of which I
took a dose last night; and shall not need another. Art thou likewise
well? Didst thou weary thy poor little self to death, yesterday? I do
not think that I could possibly undergo the fatigue and distraction of
mind which thou dost. Thou art ten times as powerful as I, because
thou art so much more ethereal.

Sweetest, thy husband has recently been both lectured about and
preached about, here in his native city. The preacher was Rev. Mr. Fox
of Newburyport; but how he contrived to hook me into a sermon, I know
not. I trust he took for his text that which was spoken of my namesake
of old--"Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile."
Belovedest, if ever thou shouldst happen to hear me lauded on any
public occasion, I shall expect thee to rise, and make thine own and
my acknowledgments, in a neat and appropriate speech. Wilt thou not?
Surely thou wilt--inasmuch as I care little for applause, save as it
shall please thee; so it is rather thy concern than mine.

Mine ownest, it is by no means comfortable to be separated from thee
three whole days at a time. It is too great a gap in life. There is no
sunshine in the days in which thou dost not shine on me. And speaking
of sunshine, what a beautifullest day (to the outward eye, I mean) was
yesterday; and to-day seems equally bright and gladsome, although I
have not yet tasted the fresh air. I trust that thou has flown abroad,
and soared upward to the seventh heaven. But do not stay there,
sweetest Dove! Come back for me; for I shall never get there, unless
by the aid of thy wings.

Now God bless thee, and make thee happy and joyful, until Saturday
evening, when thou must needs bear the infliction of


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, Feby. 27th, 1842--Forenoon

     _Thou dearest Heart,_

As it is uncertain whether I shall return to Boston tomorrow, I write
thee a letter; for I need to commune with thee; and even if I should
bring the scroll of my thoughts and feelings with me, perhaps thou
wilt not refuse to receive it. It is awful, almost (and yet I would
not have it otherwise, for the world) to feel how necessary thou hast
become to my well-being, and how my spirit is disturbed at a
separation from thee, and stretches itself out through the dimness and
distance to embrace its other self. Thou art my quiet and
satisfaction--not only my chiefest joy, but the condition of all other
enjoyments. When thou art away, vague fears and misgivings sometimes
steal upon me; there are heart-quakes and spirit-sinkings for no real
cause, and which never trouble me when thou art with me.

Belovedest, I have thought much of thy parting injunction to tell my
mother and sisters that thou art her daughter and their sister. I do
not think that thou canst estimate what a difficult task thou didst
propose to me--not that any awful and tremendous effect would be
produced by the disclosure; but because of the strange reserve, in
regard to matters of feeling, that has always existed among us. We are
conscious of one another's feelings, always; but there seems to be a
tacit law, that our deepest heart-concernments are not to be spoken
of. I cannot gush out in their presence--I cannot take my heart in my
hand, and show it to them. There is a feeling within me (though I know
it is a foolish one) as if it would be as indecorous to do so, as to
display to them the naked breast. And they are in the same state as
myself. None, I think, but delicate and sensitive persons could have
got into such a position; but doubtless this incapacity of free
communion, in the hour of especial need, is meant by Providence as a
retribution for something wrong in our early intercourse.

Then it is so hard to speak of thee--_really_ of thee--to anybody! I
doubt whether I ever have _really_ spoken of thee to any person. I
have spoken the name of Sophia, it is true; but the idea in my mind
was apart from thee--it embraced nothing of thine inner and essential
self; it was an outward and faintly-traced shadow that I summoned
up, to perform thy part, and which I placed in the midst of thy
circumstances; so that thy sister Mary, or Mrs. Ripley, or even
Margaret, were deceived, and fancied that I was talking about thee.
But there didst thou lie, thy real self, in my deepest, deepest heart,
while far above, at the surface, this distant image of thee was the
subject of talk. And it was not without an effort which few are
capable of making, that I could ever do so much; and even then I felt
as if it were profane. Yet I spoke to persons from whom, if from any,
I might expect true sympathy in regard to thee.

I tell thee these things, in order that my Dove, into whose infinite
depths the sunshine falls continually, may perceive what a cloudy veil
stretches over the abyss of my nature. Thou wilt not think that it is
caprice or stubbornness that has made me hitherto resist thy wishes.
Neither. I think, is it a love of secrecy and darkness. I am glad to
think that God sees through my heart; and if any angel has power to
penetrate into it, he is welcome to know everything that is there.
Yes; and so may any mortal, who is capable of full sympathy, and
therefore worthy to come into my depths. But he must find his own way
there. I can neither guide him nor enlighten him. It is this
involuntary reserve, I suppose, that has given the objectivity to my
writings. And when people think that I am pouring myself out in a tale
or essay, I am merely telling what is common to human nature, not what
is peculiar to myself. I sympathise with them--not they with me.

Feb. 28th--Forenoon.--Sweetest, thou shalt have this letter instead of
thy husband, to-night. Dost thou love me? I shall not find any letter
from thee at the Post Office, because thou dost expect to hear my
footsteps on thy staircase, at six o'clock this evening. Oh, but
another day will quickly pass; and then this yearning of the soul will
be appeased, for a little while at least. I wonder, I wonder, I
wonder, where on earth we are to set up our tabernacle. God
knows;--but I want to know too.

Dearest love, I am very well, and comfortable as I desire to be, in
thy absence. After all, it is a happiness to need thee, to sigh for
thee, to feel the nothingness of all things without thee. But do not
thou think so--thou must be happy always, not independently of thy
husband, but with a bliss equally pervading presence and absence.

Belovedest, I have employed most of my time here in collecting
curiosities, and have so many on my hands that I begin to fear it
will require a volume to contain the catalogue. I would we had such a
museum in reality. And now good-bye, most true Heart. Methinks this is
the longest letter that I have written thee for a great while. Shalt
thou expect me to write during my journey to New York?--or, were it
not better to allow thee to forget me entirely, during that interval
of a week? God bless thee, thou unforgettablest and unforgettingest,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     13 West-street,
     Boston, Mass.


     _New York_, March 4th, 1842

Dearest, I can find only this torn sheet of paper, on which to
scribble thee a bulletin. We are arrived safely; but I am very
homesick for thee--otherwise well and in good spirits. I love thee
infinitely much. Belovedest, I know not whether the Colonel and I will
leave this city on Monday or Tuesday, but if thou hast not already
written, it will be to[o] late to direct a letter hither. In that
case, best wife, write to Albany--whence I shall write to thee. The
steam-engine kept me awake last night; but I cared not, for I was
thinking about thee.

I am exceedingly well.

Dost thou love me?

     Thine ownest


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Albany_, March 10th, 1842

Mine own Heart, I arrived here early this morning, by the steamboat;
and thou mayst be well assured that I lost no time in going to the
Post Office; and never did even a letter from thee so thrill my heart
as this. There is no expressing what I feel; and so I will not
try--especially now when I am compelled to write in a bar-room with
people talking and drinking around me. But I love thee a thousand
infinities more than ever.

Most dear, I have come hither to see Mr. O'Sullivan, with whom I have
relations of business as well as friendship, all which thou shalt
know, if thou thinkest them worth enquiring about. The good colonel is
with me; but is going about a hundred miles into the interior,
tomorrow. In the meantime I shall remain here; but thou wilt see me
again on Tuesday evening. How is it possible to wait so long? It is
not possible--yet I have much to talk of with O'Sullivan; and this
will be the longest absence that we shall be compelled to endure,
before the time when thou shalt be the companion of all my journeys.

Truest wife, it is possible that the cars may not arrive in Boston
till late in the evening; but I have good hope to be with thee by six
o'clock, or a little after, on Tuesday. God bless us.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.

     _Salem_, Wednesday, April 5th, 1842

     _My Dear,_

It was thy husband's intention to spend all his leisure time, here at
home, in sketching out a tale; but my spirit demands communion with
thine so earnestly, that I must needs write to thee, if all the
affairs in the world were pressing on me at once. My breast is full of
thee; thou art throbbing throughout all my veins. Never, it seems to
me, did I know what love was, before. And yet I am not satisfied to
let that sentence pass; for it would do wrong to the blissful and holy
time that we have already enjoyed together. But our hearts are
new-created for one another daily, and they enter upon existence with
such up-springing rapture as if nothing had ever existed before--as
if, at this very _now_, the physical and spiritual world were but
first discovered, and by ourselves only. This is Eternity--thus will
every moment of forever-and-ever be the first moment of life, and no
weariness can gather upon us from the past.

It is a bliss which I never wish to enjoy, when I can attain that of
thy presence; but it is nevertheless a fact, that there is a bliss
even in being absent from thee. This yearning that disturbs my very
breath--this earnest stretching out of my soul towards thee--this
voice of my heart, calling for thee out of its depths, and complaining
that thou art not instantly given to it--all these are a joy; for they
make me know how entirely our beings have blended into one another.
After all, these pangs are but symptoms of the completeness of our
spiritual union--the effort of the outward to respond to the inward.
Dearest, I do not express myself clearly on this matter; but what
need?--wilt not thou know better what I mean than words could tell
thee? Dost not thou too rejoice in everything that gives thee a more
vivid consciousness that we are one?--even if it have something like
pain in it. The desire of my soul is to know thee continually, and to
know that thou art mine; and absence, as well as presence, gives me
this knowledge--and as long as I have it, I live. It is, indeed,
impossible for us ever to be really absent from one another; the only
absence, for those who love, is estrangement or forgetfulness--and we
can never know what those words mean. Oh, dear me, my mind writes
nonsense, because it is an insufficient interpreter for my heart.

... Most beloved, I am thinking at this moment of thy dearest nose!
Thou canst not know how infinitely better I know and love Sophie
Hawthorne, since she has yielded up that fortress. And, in requital, I
yield my whole self up to her, and kiss her beloved foot, and
acknowledge her for my queen and liege-lady forever more. Come into my
heart, dearest; for I am about to close my letter. Hitherto, I have
kept thee at arms' length; because the very act of writing necessarily
supposes that thou art apart from me; but now I throw down the pen, in
order that thou mayst be the closer to me.

     Thine ownest Husband,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     54 Pinckney St., Monday,

     11 o'clock A.M. [1842]

     _Most dear love,_

I have been caught by a personage who has been in search of me for two
or three days, and shall be compelled to devote this unfortunate
evening to him, instead of to my Dove. Dost thou regret it?--so does
thy poor husband, who loves thee infinitely, and needs thee
continually. Art thou well to-day very dearest? How naughty was I,
last night, to contend against thy magnetic influence, and turn it
against thyself! I will not do so again. My head has been in pain for
thine--at least my heart has. Thou wast very sweet and lovely, last
night--so art thou always.

Belovedest, thou knowest not how I yearn for thee--how I long and pray
for the time when we may be together without disturbance--when absence
shall be a rare exception to our daily life. My heart will blossom
like a rose, when it can be always under thy daily influence--when
the dew of thy love will be falling upon it, every moment.

Most sweet, lest I should not be able to avoid another engagement for
tomorrow evening, I think it best for me to come in the
afternoon--shortly after two o'clock, on Tuesday. Canst thou devote so
much of thy precious day to my unworthiness? Unless I hear from thee,
I shall come. I love thee. I love thee.

Dearest, I kiss thee with my whole spirit.

     Thy husband,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     54 Pinckney St., May 19th [1842]

     _My Ownest_,

Mr. Hillard, this morning, put into my hands the enclosed paragraph
from the Philadelphia Saturday Courier. It is to be hoped that the
penny papers of this city will copy an item of so much public

Canst thou tell me whether the "Miss Peabody" here mentioned, is Miss
Mary or Miss Elizabeth Peabody?


P.S. Please to present my congratulations to the "accomplished Miss
Peabody." But I shall call, this evening, and present them in person.

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West-street,


     54 Pinckney St., May 27th, 1842

     _Dearest Heart_,

Thy letter to my sisters was most beautiful--sweet, gentle, and
magnanimous; such as no angel save my Dove, could have written. If
they do not love thee, it will be because they have no hearts to love
with;--and even if this were the case, I should not despair of thy
planting the seeds of hearts in their bosoms. They will love thee, all
in good time, dearest; and we will be very happy. I am so at this
moment, while my breast heaves with the consciousness of what a
treasure God has given me--in whom I see more to worship, and admire,
and love, every day of my life; and shall see more and more as long as
I live; else, it will be because my own nature retrogrades, instead of
advancing. But thou wilt make me better and better, till I am even
worthy to be thy husband.

Oh, truest wife, what a long widowhood is this! Three evenings without
a glimpse of thee! And I know not whether I am to come at six or
seven o'clock tomorrow evening--or scarcely, indeed, whether I am to
come at all. But, unless thou orderest me to the contrary, I shall
come at seven o'clock.

I met Mr. Emerson at the Athenaeum yesterday. He tells me that our
garden, &c., makes fine progress. Would that we were there. God bless


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     No. 13 West-street,


     _Salem_, June 9th, 1842--Afternoon

     _Dearest wife_,

I love thee beyond all hope of expression--so do thou measure it by
thine own love for me, if indeed thou canst continue to love me, after
our parting. But never did I love thee better than then; and I am even
glad that this vapor of tobacco smoke did, for once, roll thus darkly
and densely between us, because it helps me to hate the practice
forevermore. Thou wast very sweet not to scold me fiercely, for
allowing myself to be so impregnated.

Sweetest, scarcely had I arrived here, when our mother came out of her
chamber, looking better and more cheerful than I have seen her this
some time, and enquired about the health and well-being of my Dove!
Very kindly too. Then was thy husband's heart much lightened; for I
knew that almost every agitating circumstance of her life had hitherto
cost her a fit of sickness; and I knew not but it might be so now.
Foolish me, to doubt that my mother's love would be wise, like all
other genuine love! And foolish again, to have doubted my Dove's
instinct--whom, henceforth--(if never before)--I take for my unerring
guide and counsellor in all matters of the heart and soul. Yet if,
sometimes, I should perversely follow mine own follies, do not thou be
discouraged. I shall always acknowledge thy superior wisdom in the
end; and, I trust, not too late for it to exert its good influence.
Now I am very happy--happier than my naughtiness deserves. It seems
that our mother had seen how things were, a long time ago. At first,
her heart was troubled, because she knew that much of outward as well
as inward fitness was requisite to secure thy foolish husband's peace;
but, gradually and quietly, God has taught her that all is good; and
so, thou dearest wife, we shall have her fullest blessing and
concurrence. My sisters, too, begin to sympathise as they ought; and
all is well. God be praised! I thank Him on my knees, and pray him to
make me worthy of thee, and of the happiness thou bringest me.

Mine ownest, I long for thee, yet bear our separation patiently,
because time and space, and all other finite obstructions, are so fast
flitting away from between us. We can already measure the interval
by days and hours. What bliss!--and what awe is intermingled with
it!--no fear nor doubt, but a holy awe, as when an immortal spirit is
drawing near to the gate of Heaven. I cannot tell what I feel; but
thou knowest it all.

Sweetest, it is my purpose to remain here till Friday, when, unless
thou forbiddest me, I shall be with thee at seven o'clock. God bless
thee! I have no more words, but a heart full of love.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, June 20th, 1842--A.M. 11 o'clock

     _True and Honorable Wife_,

Thou hast not been out of mind a moment since I saw thee last,--and
never wilt thou be, so long as we exist. Canst thou say as much?
Dearest, dost thou know that there are but ten days more in this
blessed month of June? And dost thou remember what is to happen within
those ten days? Poor little Dove! Now dost thou tremble, and shrink
back, and beginnest to fear that thou hast acted too rashly in this
matter. Now dost thou say to thyself--"Oh, that I could prevail upon
this wretched person to allow me a month or two longer to make up my
mind; for, after all, he is but an acquaintance of yesterday; and
unwise am I, to give up father, mother, and sisters, for the sake of
such a questionable stranger!" Ah, foolish virgin! It is too late;
nothing can part us now; for God Himself hath ordained that we shall
be one. So nothing remains, but to reconcile thyself to thy destiny.
Year by year, thou must come closer and closer to me; and a thousand
ages hence, we shall be only in the honeymoon of our marriage. Poor
little Dove!

Sweetest wife, I cannot write to thee. The time for that species of
communion is past. Hereafter, I cannot write my feelings, but only
external things, business, facts, details, matters which do not relate
to the heart and soul, but merely to our earthly condition. I have
long had such a feeling, whenever I took up my pen--and now more than

Would that I knew when the priest is to thrust himself between us!
Dearest, the last day of the month, if I mistake not, is Thursday, of
next week. Unless thou desirest my presence sooner, I shall return to
Boston probably on Sunday evening. Then will the days lag heavily,
till we can flee away and be at rest. And, I pray thee, let our flight
be in the morning; for it would be strange and wearisome to live half
a day of ordinary life at such an epoch. I should be like a body
walking about the city without a soul--being therein the reverse of
good old Dr. Harris, whose soul walks about without the body. And this
reminds me, that he has not made himself visible of late. Foolish me,
not to have accosted him; for perhaps he wished to give us some good
advice on our entrance into connubial life--or possibly, he intended
to disclose the hiding-place of some ancient hoard of gold, which
would have freed us forever from all pecuniary cares. I think we shall
not need his counsel on the former point; but on the latter, it would
have been peculiarly acceptable.

Ownest, would there be anything amiss in exchanging that copy of
Southey's Poems for some other book? We should still have Campbell's
English Poets as an immediate keepsake from Miss Burley; and whatever
book we might procure would be none the less a gift from her. My copy
of Southey went to the Manse with my furniture; else I should have
brought it hither and given it to Elizabeth--who, however, does not
especially admire Southey.

Now good bye, dearest love. I fear thou wilt make thyself sick with
much care and toil. God bless thee! Our mother and sisters would send
their love, if they knew that I am writing to thee. They love thee,
and link us together in their thoughts. God bless them, and us, and
everybody. Dost thou perceive how love widens my heart?


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Boston_, June 24th.--past 8 o'clock P.M. [1842]

     _Mine ownest_,

I have just received thy letter, and rejoice unspeakably at the news
which thou tellest me. Dearest, thou knowest not how I have yearned
for thee during thy absence; and yet thou didst seem so well and happy
there, that I sent thee a letter, yesterday morning, submitting it to
thy wisdom whether thou hadst not better stay another week. But thou
hast done more wisely to come; for my heart is faint with hunger for
thee. I have been quite sad and dolorous at thy absence. And oh, what
joy to think that henceforth there shall be no long separations for
us. It has taken me so by surprise that I know not what to say upon
the subject; but my heart throbs mightily.

Dearest, thou canst not have a long letter to-night, because thy
husband is weary, and moreover he wants to think about thee, and
embrace thee a thousand million times deep within himself. Art thou
quite well? Most beloved, I beseech [thee] not to agitate thyself in
this removal of the household gods. I shall come on Saturday, but
perhaps not till late. God bless and keep thee.

     Thine ownest, lovingest husband,


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Salem, Mass.


     54 Pinckney St., June 27th.
     --7 o'clock P.M. [1842]

     _Most Dear_,

I have just arrived from Salem, and find thy note, in which thou
tellest me of thy illness. Oh, my poor little Dove, thou dost need a
husband with a strong will to take care of thee; and when I have the
charge of thee, thou wilt find thyself under much stricter discipline
than ever before. How couldst thou be so imprudent? Yet I will not
scold thee till thou art quite well. Then thou must look for scoldings
and chastisement too.

Belovedest, I shall not say a single word to induce thee to go through
the ceremony on Monday;--nay I do not know that I will consent to its
taking place then. This we will determine upon tomorrow evening. If
thou art not very well indeed, I shall be afraid to take thee from
under thy mother's care. And, belovedest, do not fear but that I will
bear patiently any necessary delay--and I know that thou wilt
recover as soon as possible, for my sake.

Dearest, God bless thee. Keep thy heart quiet; and tomorrow evening we
will meet in hope and joy.


     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West-street,


     54 Pinckney St.--June 30th.--morning [1842]

     _Dearest Love_,

Thy sister Mary, after I left thee, told me that it was her opinion
that we should not be married for a week longer. I had hoped, as thou
knowest, for an earlier day; but I cannot help feeling that Mary is on
the safe and reasonable side. Shouldst thou feel that this
postponement is advisable, thou wilt find me patient beyond what thou
thinkest me capable of. I will even be happy, if thou wilt only keep
thy mind and heart in peace.

Belovedest, didst thou sleep well, last night? My pillow was haunted
with ghastly dreams, the details whereof have flitted away like
vapors, but a strong impression remains about thy being magnetised.
God save me from any more such! I awoke in an absolute quake. Dearest,
I cannot oppose thy submitting to so much of this influence as will
relieve thy headache; but, as thou lovest me, do not suffer thyself to
be put to sleep. My feeling on this point is so strong, that it
would be wronging us both to conceal it from thee.

My ownest, if it will at all reconcile thee to the ceremony, I will go
to Concord, tomorrow or next day, and see about our affairs there. I
would even go there and live alone, if thou didst bid me though I
shall be much happier in lingering here, and visiting thy couch every
evening, and hearing thee say that thou art better than the night

What a sweet morning is this; it makes me feel bright and hopeful,
after the troubles of the night.


P.S. I enclose an order for a case of mine, which is to be given to
the baggage-wagoner, when he comes for the furniture. He can present
it, and receive the case.

P.S. 2d. I love thee! I love thee! I love thee.

P.S. 3d. Dost thou love me at all?

     Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
     13 West-street,


     _Salem_, March 12th (Saturday), 1843

Own wifie, how dost thou do? I have been in some anxiety about thy
little head, and indeed about the whole of thy little person. Art thou
ill at ease in any mode whatever? I trust that thy dearest soul will
not be quite worn out of thee, with the activity and bustle of thy
present whereabout, so different from the intense quiet of our home.
That poor home! How desolate it is now! Last night, being awake, my
thoughts travelled back to the lonely old house; and it seemed as if I
was wandering up stairs and down stairs all by myself. My fancy was
almost afraid to be there, alone. I could see every object in a sort
of dim, gray light--our bed-chamber--the study, all in confusion--the
parlor, with the fragments of that abortive breakfast on the table,
and the precious silver-forks, and the old bronze image keeping its
solitary stand upon the mantel-piece. Then, methought, the wretched
Pigwigger came and jumped upon the window-sill, and clung there with
her forepaws, mewing dismally for admittance, which I could not grant
her, being there myself only in the spirit. And then came the ghost of
the old Doctor stalking through the gallery, and down the staircase,
and peeping into the parlor; and though I was wide awake, and
conscious of being so many miles from the spot, still it was quite
awful to think of the ghost having sole possession of our home; for I
could not quite separate myself from it, after all. Somehow, the
Doctor and I seemed to be there tete-a-tete, and I wanted thee to
protect me. Why wast not thou there in thought, at the same moment;
and then we should have been conscious of one another, and have had no
fear, and no desolate feeling. I believe I did not have any fantasies
about the ghostly kitchen-maid; but I trust Mary left the flat-irons
within her reach; so that she may do all the ironing while we are
away, and never disturb us more at midnight. I suppose she comes
thither to iron her shroud, and perhaps, likewise, to smooth the
doctor's band. Probably, during her lifetime, she allowed the poor old
gentleman to go to some ordination or other grand clerical celebration
with rumpled linen, and ever since, and throughout all earthly
futurity (at least, so long us the house shall stand) she is doomed
to exercise a nightly toil, with spiritual flat-irons. Poor
sinner--and doubtless Satan heats the irons for her. What nonsense is
all this!--but really, it does make me shiver to think of that poor
house of ours. Glad am I that thou art not there without thy husband.

I found our mother tolerably well; and Louisa, I think, in especial
good condition for her, and Elizabeth comfortable, only not quite
thawed. They speak of thee and me with an evident sense that we are
very happy indeed, and I can see that they are convinced of my having
found the very little wife that God meant for me. I obey thy
injunctions, as well as I can, in my deportment towards them; and
though mild and amiable manners are foreign to my nature, still I get
along pretty well for a new beginner. In short, they seem content with
thy husband, and I am very certain of their respect and affection for
his wife.

Take care of thy little self, I tell thee! I praise heaven for this
snow and "slosh," because it will prevent thee from scampering all
about the city, as otherwise thou wouldst infallibly have done. Lie
abed late--sleep during the day--go to bed seasonably--refuse to see
thy best friend, if either flesh or spirit be sensible of the
slightest repugnance--drive all trouble out of thy mind--and above
all things, think continually what an admirable husband thou hast! So
shalt thou have quiet sleep and happy awaking; and when I fold thee to
my bosom again, thou wilt be such a round, rosy, smiling little dove,
that I shall feel as if I had grasped all cheerfulness and sunshine
within the span of thy waist.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, March 15th, 1843

Dearest wife, Thy letters have all been received; and I know not that
I could have kept myself alive without them; for never was my heart so
hungry and tired as it is now. I need thee continually wherever I am,
and nothing else makes any approach towards satisfying me. Thou hast
the easier part--being drawn out of thyself by society; but with me
there is an ever-present yearning, which nothing outward seems to have
any influence upon. Four whole days must still intervene before we
meet--it is too long--too long--we have not so much time to spare out
of eternity.

As for this Mr. Billings, I wish he would not be so troublesome. I put
a note for him into the Boston Post-Office, directed according to his
own request. His scheme is well enough, and might possibly become
popular; but it has no peculiar advantages with reference to myself;
nor do the subjects of his proposed books particularly suit my fancy,
as themes to write upon. Somebody else will answer his purpose just
as well; and I would rather write books of my own imagining than be
hired to develope the ideas of an engraver; especially as the
pecuniary prospect is not better, nor so good, as it might be
elsewhere. I intend to adhere to my former plan, of writing one or two
mythological story books, to be published under O'Sullivan's auspices
in New York--which is the only place where books can be published,
with a chance of profit. As a matter of courtesy, I may perhaps call
on Mr. Billings, if I have time; but I do not intend to be connected
with this affair.

It is queer news that thou tellest me about the Pioneer. I expected it
to fail in due season, but not quite so soon. Shouldst there be an
opportunity within a day or two, I wish thou wouldst send for any
letters that may be in the Post-Office there; but not unless some
person is going thither, with intent to return before Wednesday next.
If thou receive any, keep them till we meet in Boston.

I dreamed the other night that our house was broken open, and all our
silver stolen. No matter though it be:--we have steel forks and German
silver spoons in plenty, and I only wish that we were to eat our
dinner with them to-day. But we shall have gained nothing on the score
of snow, and slosh, and mud, by our absence; for the bad walking
will be at its very _ne plus ultra_, next week. Wouldst thou not like
to stay just one little fortnight longer in Boston, where the
sidewalks afford dry passage to thy little feet? It will be mid-May,
at least, ere thou wilt find even tolerable walking in Concord. So if
thou wishest to walk while thou canst, we will put off our return a
week longer. Naughty husband that I am! I know by my own heart that
thou pinest for our home, and for the bosom where thou belongest. A
week longer! It is a horrible thought.

We cannot very well afford to buy a surplus stock of paper, just now.
By and by, I should like some, and I suppose there will always be
opportunities to get it cheap at auction. I do wonder--and always
shall wonder, until the matter be reformed--why Providence keeps us so
short of cash. Our earnings are miserably scanty at best; yet, if we
could but get even that pittance, I should continue to be thankful,
though certainly for small favors. The world deserves to come to a
speedy end, if it were for nothing else save to break down the
abominable system of credit--of keeping possession of other people's
property--which renders it impossible for a man to be just and honest,
even if so inclined. It is almost a pity that the comet is
retrograding from the earth; it might do away with all our
perversities at one smash. And thou, my little dove, and thy husband
for thy sake, might be pretty certain of a removal to some sphere
where we should have all our present happiness, and none of these
earthly inconveniences.

Ah, but, for the present, I like this earth better than Paradise
itself. I love thee, thou dearest. It is only when away from thee,
that the chill winds of the world make me shiver. Thou always keepest
me warm, and always wilt; and without thee, I should shiver in Heaven.
Dearest, I think I prefer to write thy name "Mrs. Sophia A.
Hawthorne," rather than "Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne";--the latter gives
me an image of myself in petticoats, knitting a stocking. I feel so
sensibly that thou art my chastest, holiest wife--a _woman_ and an
angel. But thou dost not love to blush in the midst of people.

Ownest, expect me next Tuesday in the forenoon; and do not look for
another letter. I pray heaven that I may find thee well, and not tired
quite to death. Even shouldst thou be so, however, I will restore thee
on Wednesday.

     Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, Decr. 2d, 1844

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Thy letter came this morning--much needed; for I was feeling desolate
and fragmentary. Thou shouldst not ask me to come to Boston, because I
can hardly resist setting off this minute--and I have no right to
spend money for such luxuries. I think I shall stay here until Bridge
reaches Boston; for he wishes to see me then; and, if he could meet
thee, and baby, and me, it would save him and us the trouble and
perplexity of a visit at Concord. He will probably be in Boston in not
much more or less than a week; and I have written to him to call at
13, West St. When he arrives, let him be told to send for me
forthwith, or do thou write thyself; and I will immediately make my
appearance. Sweetest wife, it goes against my conscience to add
another inhabitant to the immense multitude in thy mother's
caravanserai; nevertheless, methinks I may come there for one night,
and, if I stay longer, remove thence to George Hillard's. But I don't
know. I should like to spend two or three days in Boston, if it could
be done without any derangement of other people or myself; but I
should not feel easy in the caravanserai. Perhaps it would be better
to go at once to George Hillard's. After we get home, we will rest one
another from all toils.

I am very well, dearest, and it seems to me that I am recovering some
of the flesh that I lost, during our long Lent. I do not eat quite
enough to satisfy mother and Louisa; but thou wouldst be perfectly
satisfied, and so am I. My spirits are pretty equable, though there is
a great vacuity caused by thy absence out of my daily life--a
bottomless abyss, into which all minor contentments might be flung
without filling it up. Still, I feel as if our separation were only
apparent--at all events, we are at less than an hour's distance from
one another, and therefore may find it easier to spend a week apart.
The good that I get by remaining here, is a temporary freedom from
that vile burthen which had irked and chafed me so long--that
consciousness of debt, and pecuniary botheration, and the difficulty
of providing even for the day's wants. This trouble does not pursue me
here; and even when we go back, I hope not to feel it nearly so much
as before. Polk's election has certainly brightened our prospects; and
we have a right to expect that our difficulties will vanish, in the
course of a few months.

I long to see our little Una; but she is not yet a vital portion of my
being. I find that her idea merges in thine. I wish for thee; and our
daughter is included in that wish, without being particularly
expressed. She has quite conquered the heart of our mother and
sisters; and I am glad of it, for now they can transfer their interest
from their own sombre lives to her happy one; and so be blest through
her. To confess the truth, she is a dear little thing.

Sweetest Phoebe: I don't intend to stay here more than a week, even if
Bridge should not arrive;--and should there be any reason for our
returning to Concord sooner, thou canst let me know. Otherwise, I
purpose to come to Boston in a week from to-day or tomorrow,--to spend
two or three days there--and then go back to the old Abbey; of which
there is a very dismal picture at present in my imagination, cold,
lonely, and desolate, with untrodden snow along the avenue, and on the
doorsteps. But its heart will be warm, when we are within. If thou
shalt want me sooner, write,--if not so soon, write.

God bless thee, mine ownest. I must close the letter now, because it
is dinner-time; and I shall take it to the Post-Office immediately
after dinner. I spend almost all my afternoons at the Athenaeum. Kiss
our child for me--one kiss for thyself and me together. I love her,
and live in thee.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     [December, 1844]

     _Darlingest Phoebe_,

I knew that a letter must come to-day; and it cheered and satisfied
me, as mine did thee. How we love one another! Blessed we! What a blot
I have made of that word "blessed"! But the consciousness of bliss is
as clear as crystal in my heart, though now and then, in great stress
of earthly perplexities, a mist bedims its surface.

Belovedest, it will not be anywise necessary for thee to see Bridge at
all, before I come,--nor then either, if thou preferrest meeting him
in Concord. If I find him resolved to go to Concord, at any rate, I
shall not bring him to see thee in Boston; because, as a lady ought,
thou appearest to best advantage in thine own house. I merely asked
him to call at 13 West-street to learn my whereabout--not to be
introduced to thee. Indeed; I should prefer thy not seeing him till I
come. It was his purpose to be in Boston before this time; but
probably he has remained in Washington to see the opening of Congress,
and perhaps to try whether he can help forward our official
enterprises. Unless he arrive sooner, I purpose to remain here till
Wednesday, and to leave on the evening of that day.

I have not yet called on the Pickmen or the Feet, but solemnly purpose
so to do, before I leave Salem.

Mr. Upham, it is said, has resigned his pastorship. When he returned
from Concord, he told the most pitiable stories about our poverty and
misery; so as almost to make it appear that we were suffering for
food. Everybody that speaks to me seems tacitly to take it for granted
that we are in a very desperate condition, and that a government
office is the only alternative of the almshouse. I care not for the
reputation of being wealthier than I am; but we never have been quite
paupers, and need not have been represented as such.

Now good-bye, mine ownest little wife! I thank God above all things
that thou art my wife--next that Una is our child. I shall come back
to thee with tenfold as much love as ever I felt before. Nobody but we
ever knew what it is to be married. We alone know the bliss and the
mystery; if other people knew it, this dull old earth would have a
perpetual glow round about it.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, December 20th (Friday morning), 1844

     _Sweetest Phoebe_,

It will be a week tomorrow since I left thee; and in all that time, I
have heard nothing of thee, nor thou of me. Nevertheless, I am not
anxious, because I know thou wouldst write to me at once, were
anything amiss. But truly my heart is not a little hungry and thirsty
for thee; so, of my own accord, or rather of my own necessity, I sit
down to write thee a word or two. First of all, I love thee. Also, I
love our little Una--and, I think, with a much more adequate
comprehension of her loveliness, than before we left Concord. She is
partly worthy of being thy daughter;--if not wholly to, it must be her
father's fault.

Mine own, I know not what to say to thee. I feel now as when we clasp
one another in our arms, and are silent.

Our mother and sisters were rejoiced to see me, and not altogether
surprised; for they seem to have had a kind of presentiment of my
return. Mother had wished Louisa to write for us both to come back;
but I think it would not be wise to bring Una here again, till warm
weather. I am not without apprehensions that she will have grown too
tender to bear the atmosphere of our cold and windy old Abbey in
Concord, after becoming acclimated to the milder temperature of thy
father's house. However, we will trust to Providence, and likewise to
a good fire in our guest-chamber. Thou wilt write to me when all
things are propitious for our return. They wish me to stay here till
after Christmas;--which I think is next Wednesday--but I care little
about festivals. My only festival is when I have thee. But I suppose
we shall not get home before the last of next week;--it will not do to
delay our return much longer than that, else we shall be said to have
run away from our creditors.

If I had not known it before, I should have been taught by this long
separation, that the only real life is to be with thee--to be thy
husband--thy intimatest, thy lovingest, thy belovedest--and to share
all things, good or evil, with thee. The days and weeks that I have
spent away from thee are unsubstantial--there is nothing in them--and
yet they have done me good, in making me more conscious of this
truth. Now that I stand a little apart from our Concord life, the
troubles and incommodities look slighter--our happiness more vast and
inestimable. I trust Heaven will not permit us to be greatly pinched
by poverty, during the remainder of our stay there. It would be a pity
to have our recollection of this first home darkened by such
associations,--the home where our love first assumed human life in the
form of our darling child.

I hear nothing yet from O'Sullivan--nor from Bridge. I am afraid the
latter gentleman must be ill; else, methinks, he would certainly have
written; for he has always been a punctual correspondent, when there
was anything to write about.

Ownest Dove, I think I shall not go back to Hillard's. I shall be
ready to go back to Concord whenever thou art; but, not having the
opportunity to consult thee, I now propose that we settle our return
for Saturday, a week from tomorrow. Should anything prevent thee from
going then (for instance, the want of a girl) I may go and pay our
debts, as far as in my power, and then return. But this need not be
anticipated. There is no absolute necessity--(except in our hearts,
which cannot endure to be away from one another much longer)--for our
being at home before the first of January; but if all things are
convenient, we will not delay longer than Saturday. Oh, what sweet,
sweet times we will have.

Give Una a kiss, and her father's blessing. She is very famous here in


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, April 14th (Sunday), 1844

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Thy letter reached me yesterday forenoon, and made me truly
happy--happier than I can tell. I do not think that I am the more
conscious of the baby, by standing aloof from her. She has not yet
sufficiently realised herself in my soul; it seems like a dream,
therefore, which needs such assurances as thy letter, to convince me
that it is more than a dream. Well; I cannot write about her--nor
about thee, belovedest, for whom I have at this moment an unutterable
yearning. Methinks my hand was never so out of keeping with my heart.

I called at the book room in Boston, and saw there thy mother, thy
brother Nat, and Elizabeth!!--besides two or three ladies. It was the
most awkward place in the world to talk about Una and other kindred
subjects; so I made my escape as soon as possible, promising to return
to dine if convenient, and resolving that it should be as
inconvenient as possible. I wish thy mother could be so inhospitable
as never to ask me--but at all events, I need never go, except when
thou art there. I went to George Hillard's office, and he spoke with
unmitigable resolution of the necessity of my going to dine with
Longfellow before returning to Concord; but I have an almost
miraculous power of escaping from necessities of this kind. Destiny
itself has often been worsted in the attempt to get me out to dinner.
Possibly, however, I may go. Afterwards I called on Colonel Hall, who
held me long in talk about politics and other sweetmeats. Here,
likewise, I refused one or two invitations to dinner. Then I stept
into a book-auction, not to buy, but merely to observe; and after a
few moments, who should come in, with a smile as sweet as sugar
(though savoring rather of molasses) but, to my horror and
petrifaction, Mr. Watterson! I anticipated a great deal of bore and
botheration; but, through Heaven's mercy, he merely spoke a few words,
and then left me. This is so unlike his deportment in times past, that
I suspect the Celestial Railroad must have given him a pique; and if
so, I shall feel as if Providence had sufficiently rewarded me for
that pious labor.

In the course of the forenoon, I encountered Mr. Howes in the street.
He looked most exceedingly depressed, and pressing my hand with
peculiar emphasis, said that he was in great affliction, having just
had news of his son George's death in Cuba. He seemed encompassed and
overwhelmed by the misfortune, and walked the street as in a heavy
cloud of his own grief, forth from which he extended his hand to meet
my grasp. I expressed my sympathy, which I told him I was now the more
capable of feeling in a father's suffering, as being myself the father
of a little girl--and, indeed, the being a parent does give one the
freedom of a wider range of sorrow as well as happiness. He again
pressed my hand, and left me.

Well, dove, when I got to Salem, there was great joy, as you may
suppose. Our mother and sisters take as much interest in little Una as
can possibly be desired. They think the lock of hair very beautiful,
and deny that it has the faintest tinge of red. Mother hinted an
apprehension that poor baby would be spoilt--whereupon I irreverently
observed, that having spoilt her own three children, it was natural
for her to suppose that all other parents would do the same; when she
knocked me into a cocked hat, by averring that it was impossible to
spoil such children as Elizabeth and me, because she had never been
able to do anything with us. This I believe to be very true. There was
too much gentleness in her nature for such a task. She remonstrates,
by the by, against Una's being carried about in anybody's arms, and
says that it will soon be impossible to keep her quiet in any other
way. This was the case with Elizabeth; and mother never allowed her
other children to become habituated to it.

I could scarcely convince them that Una has begun to smile so soon. It
surprised even mother; though her own children appear to have been
bright specimens of babyhood. Elizabeth could walk and talk at nine
months old. I do not understand that thy husband was quite such a
miracle of precocity, but should think it not improbable, inasmuch as
precocious boys are said to make stupid men.

Ownest wife, I long so much to get back to thee, that it is a mockery
to try to say how much. Yet I think I shall be benefitted by the
absence, though it be truly an unpalatable medicine. I hope thy father
will be able to stay till Friday. It is just possible, if I go out to
see Longfellow, that I may not come till Saturday night; but this
will depend partly on what day the steamer comes. I shall consult thy
mother about the necessity of thy father's presence in Boston earlier
than that.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Concord, Massachusetts.


     _Concord_, May 27th, 1844

     _Dearest Phoebe_,

I cannot let the day pass without speaking a little word to thee, to
tell thee how strange the old Abbey seems without thy presence, and
how strange this life, when thou art away. Nevertheless, I truly
rejoice in thy absence, as hoping it will do good to thy dearest
brain, which has been over-wrought, as well as thy physical frame. And
how does our belovedest little Una? whom I love more than I ever told
thee, though not more than thou knowest--for is she not thine and
mine, the symbol of the one true union in the world, and of our love
in Paradise.

Dearest, my cook does his office admirably. He prepared what I must
acknowledge to be the best dish of fried fish and potatoes for dinner
to-day, that I ever tasted in this house. I scarcely recognized the
fish of our own river. I make him get all the dinners while I confine
myself to the much lighter labors of breakfast and tea. He also
takes his turn at washing the dishes. Ellery Channing came to see me
this morning, and was very gracious and sociable; and we went a
fishing together. He says his little girl weighed seven pounds at her
birth, and is doing very well. Miss Prescott is now there.

We had a very pleasant dinner at Longfellow's; and I liked Mrs.
Longlady (as thou naughtily nicknamest her) quite much. The dinner was
late, and we sate long; so that Conolly and I did not get here till
half-past nine o'clock--and truly the old house seemed somewhat dark
and desolate. The next morning came George Prescott with Una's lion,
who greeted me very affectionately, but whined and moaned as if he
missed somebody who should have been here. I am not quite as strict as
I should be in keeping him out of the house; but I commiserate him and
myself--for are we not both of us bereaved. Still I am happy, and more
quiet than when thou wast here; because I feel it to be good for thee
to be there. Dearest, keep thyself at peace, and do not let persons
nor things trouble thee; and let other people take all the care of Una
that is possible; and do not fear to go out occasionally; and think
sometimes of thy husband, who loves thee unspeakably; and because he
cannot tell its immensity, he may as well stop here, especially as
Conolly (whom I can no more keep from smoking than I could the kitchen
chimney) has just come into the study with a cigar, which might
perfume this letter, and make thee think it came from thy husband's
own enormity.

I love thee. I love thee.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Concord_, May 29th, 1844

     _Ownest Wife_,

Conolly is leaving me, to my unspeakable relief; for he has had a bad
cold, which caused him to be much more troublesome, and less amusing,
than might otherwise have been the case. Thy husband is in perfect
health; and as happy in the prospect of being alone, as he would be in
anything, except to be reunited to thee. I suppose I must invite Mr.
Farley to come by-and-by; but not quite yet--Oh, not quite yet--it is
so sweet to be alone. I want to draw a little free breath. Ah, why
canst not thou be with me here--and no Mary--no nobody else! But our
little Una! Should not she be of the party? Yes; we have linked a
third spirit forever to our own; and there is no existing without her.

Dearest Phoebe, I do trust thou art well and at ease. Thou absolutely
knowest not how I love thee. God bless thee, mine ownest--God bless
our daughter--God bless thy husband--God bless us altogether, and the
whole world too.

I write in the greatest hurry.


Have no apprehensions on my account. I shall write to Farley at the
end of the week--and till then shall bathe myself in solitude.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     13 West-street,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Concord_, May 31st, 1844

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Thy two dearest letters have been received, and gave me infinite
comfort. Oh, keep thyself quiet, best wife, and do not think of coming
home till thou art quite cured, even though Una should grow to be
quite a large girl in the interim. As for me, I get along admirably,
and am at this moment superintending the corned beef, which has been
on the fire, as it appears to me, ever since the beginning of time,
and shows no symptom of being done before the crack of doom. Mrs. Hale
says it must boil till it becomes tender; and so it shall, if I can
find wood to keep the fire a-going. Meantime, I keep my station in the
dining-room, and read or write as composedly as in my own study. Just
now, there came a very important rap to the front door; and I threw
down a smoked herring which I had begun to eat (as there is no hope of
the corned beef to-day) and went to admit the visitor. Who should it
be but Ben, with a very peculiar and mysterious grin upon his face! He
put into my hands a missive directed to "Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne"; it
contained a little hit of card signifying that "Dr. Lemuel Fuller and
Miss Catherine Barrett receive their friends Thursday Eve, June 6th,
at 8 o'clock." I am afraid I shall be too busy washing my dishes, to
pay many visits during thy absence. This washing of dishes does seem
to me the most absurd and unsatisfactory business that I ever
undertook. If, when once washed, they would remain clean forever and
ever, (which they ought in all reason to do, considering how much
trouble it is,) there would be less occasion to grumble; but no sooner
is it done, than it requires to be done again. On the whole I have
come to the resolution not to use more than one dish at each meal.
However, I moralise deeply on this and other matters, and have
discovered that all the trouble and affliction in the world arises
from the necessity of cleansing away our earthly pollutions.

I ate the last morsel of bread, yesterday, and congratulated myself on
being now reduced to the fag-end of necessity. Nothing worse can
happen (according to ordinary modes of thinking) than to want bread;
but, like most afflictions, it is worse in prospect than reality. I
found one cracker in the tureen, and exulted over it as if it had been
so much gold. However, I have sent a petition to Mrs. Prescott,
stating my destitute condition, and imploring her succor; and till it
arrives, I shall keep myself alive on smoked herrings and apples,
together with part of a pint of milk, which I share with Leo. He is my
great trouble now, though an excellent companion too. But it is not
easy to find food for him, unless I give him what is fit for
Christians--though, for that matter, he appears to be as good a
Christian as most laymen, or even as some of the clergy. I fried some
pouts and eels, yesterday, on purpose for him; for he does not like
raw fish. They were very good; but I should hardly have taken the
trouble on my own account.

George Prescott has just come to say, that Mrs. Prescott has no bread
at present, and is gone away this afternoon, but that she will send me
some tomorrow. I mean to have a regular supply from the same
source--which thou shalt repay after thy return.

I go to bed at dusk, now-a-days, out of a tender consideration for the
oil-can, which does not possess the peculiar virtues of the Widow
Cruse's. [sic] Oh, dear little wife! Dost thou even think of me? I
think of thee continually, and of our darling Una, and long to see
both thee and her, yet not with an impatient and importunate longing.
I am too sure of my treasures not to be able to bear a little
separation of them, when it is for thine own good. Thou needest be
under no uneasiness for my sake. Everything goes on well, and I enjoy
my solitude, next to thy society. I suppose I shall write to Mr.
Farley tomorrow, but it would content me well to be quite alone till
thy return. Thou canst not imagine how much the presence of Leo
relieves the feeling of perfect loneliness. He insists upon being in
the room with me all the time, (except at night, when he sleeps in the
shed) and I do not find myself severe enough to drive him out. He
accompanies me, likewise, on all my walks, to the village and
elsewhere; and, in short, keeps at my heels all the time, except when
I go down cellar. Then he stands at the head of the stairs and howls,
as if he never expected to see me again. He is evidently impressed
with the present solitude of our old Abbey, both on his own account
and mine, and feels that he may assume a greater degree of intimacy
than would be otherwise allowable. He will easily be brought within
the old regulations, after thy return.

Ownest, I have written to-day, because I thought thou wouldst be
anxious to know what sort of a life I lead, now that my guest has
departed. Thou wilt see that I am fit to be trusted in my own keeping.
No ghost has haunted me, and no living thing has harmed me. God bless
thee and our little Una. I say to myself, when I feel lonely, "I am a
husband!--I am a father!"--and it makes me so happy!


P.S.--Three o'clock.--The beef is done!!!

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Concord_, June 2d, 1844. 12 o'clock

     _Mine ownest_,

Thy letter was brought this morning by one of the Fullers--which, I
know not--but it was the young man who called on us last winter; and
he promises to call and take this. Sweetest, if it troubles thee to
write, thou must not make the attempt. Perhaps it is not good for thy
head; and thy mother can just say a word or two, to let me know that
all is going on well. Oh, keep thyself quiet, dearest wife, and let
not thy brain be whirled round in the vortex of thy present
whereabout; else I must have thee back again as soon as possible. But
if it be for thy good, I can spare thee at least a month longer;
indeed, thou must not come till the Doctor has both found out thy
disorder and cured it.

Everything goes on well with thy husband. Thou knowest, at the time of
writing my last letter, I was without bread. Well, just at supper
time came Mrs. Brown with a large covered dish, which proved to
contain a quantity of special good slap jacks, piping hot, prepared, I
suppose, by the fair hands of Miss Martha or Miss Abby; for Mrs.
Prescott was not at home. They served me both for supper and
breakfast; and I thanked Providence and the young ladies, and compared
myself to the prophet fed by ravens--though the simile does rather
more than justice to myself, and not enough to the generous donors of
the slap jacks. The next morning, Mrs. Prescott herself brought two
big loaves of bread, which will last me a week, unless I have some
guests to provide for. I have likewise found a hoard of crackers in
one of the covered dishes; so that the old castle is sufficiently
provisioned to stand a long siege. The cornbeef is exquisitely done,
and as tender as a young lady's heart, all owing to my skilful
cookery; for I consulted Mrs. Hale at every step; and precisely
followed her directions. To say the truth, I look upon it as such a
masterpiece in its way, that it seems irreverential to eat it; so
perhaps thou wilt find it almost entire at thy return. Things on which
so much thought and labor are bestowed should surely be immortal.

Ellery Channing intends to make a tour presently. Wm. Fuller says he
is at variance with Miss Prescott--or at least is uncomfortable in the
house with her. What a gump! I have had some idea of inviting him to
stay here till thy return; but really, on better consideration, the
experiment would be too hazardous. If he cannot keep from quarrelling
with his wife's nurse, he would surely quarrel with me, alone in an
empty house; and perhaps the result might be a permanent breach. On
the whole, he is but little better than an idiot. He should have been
whipt often and soundly in his boyhood; and as he escaped such
wholesome discipline then, it might be well to bestow it now. But
somebody else may take him in hand; it is none of my business.

Leo and I attended divine services, this morning, in a temple not made
with hands. We went to the farthest extremity of Peter's path, and
there lay together under an oak, on the verge of the broad meadow.
Dearest Phoebe, thou shouldst have been there. Thy head would have
been quite restored by the delicious air, which was too good and pure
for anybody but thee to breathe. Shouldst thou not walk out, every
day, round the common, at least, if not further? Thou must not fear to
leave Una occasionally. I shall not love her, if she imprisons thee
when thy health requires thee to be abroad. Do not people offer to
take thee to ride?

I doubt whether Mr. Bradford could be comfortable here, unless there
were womankind in the house to keep it in better order than it suits
my convenience to do. A man of his nice conscience would be shocked, I
suppose, if the whole house were not swept, every day, from top to
bottom, or if the dishes of several meals were suffered to accumulate,
in order to save trouble by a general cleansing. Now such enormities
do not at all disturb my composure. Besides, I find myself such good
company, and the hours flit so rapidly away, that I have no time to
bestow on anybody else. Talk is but a waste of time. When I cannot be
with thee, mine ownest--my true life--then let me be alone. I wrote to
Mr. Farley, yesterday; and am sorry for it, since I received thy
letter. But I presume there is no prospect of his coming; and should
he do so, I shall not hesitate to advise him to go away, if our mode
of life here should seem unsuitable to his condition.

Darlingest wife, when thou writest next, tell me if thou canst see the
termination of thy absence; but do not think it in the least necessary
to hurry on my account. I find I have shirts enough for a fortnight or
three weeks longer; and can get somebody to wash them, at the end of
that time. Do not hurry thyself--do not be uneasy. I had rather come
and see thee in Boston, than that thou shouldst return too soon.

Give my blessing to our daughter.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     13 West-street,

     By Mr. Fuller.


     _Concord_, June 6th, 1844

Mine ownest, ownest love, dost thou not want to hear from thy husband?
There is no telling nor thinking how much I love thee; so we will
leave all that matter without another word. Dearest, Mr. Farley
arrived yesterday, and appeared to be in most excellent health, and as
happy as the sunshine. Almost the first thing he did was to wash the
dishes; and he is really indefatigable in the kitchen; so that thy
husband is quite a gentleman of leisure. Previous to his coming, I had
kindled no fire for four entire days, and had lived all that time on
the corned beef--except one day, when Ellery and I went down the river
on a fishing excursion. Yesterday we boiled some lamb, which we shall
have cold for dinner to-day. This morning, Mr. Farley fried a
sumptuous dish of eels for breakfast, and he avows his determination
to make me look fat before thy return. Mrs. Prescott continues to be
the instrument of Providence, and yesterday sent us a very nice
plum-pudding. Thou seest, therefore, that domestic matters are going
on admirably. I have told Mr. Farley that I shall be engaged in the
forenoons, and he is to arrange his own occupations and amusements
during that time. Thus, as everything is so comfortably regulated,
thou canst stay in Boston without the slightest solicitude about my
welfare, as long as there is any object in being near Dr. Wesselhoeft.
But how our hearts will rush together, when we meet again! Oh, how I
love thee!

Not much has happened of late. Leo, I regret to say, has fallen under
suspicion of a very grave crime--nothing less than murder--a fowl
crime it may well be called--for it is the slaughter of one of Mr.
Hayward's hens. He has been seen to chase the hens, several times, and
the other day one of them was found dead. Possibly he may be innocent;
and as there is nothing but circumstantial evidence, it must be left
with his own conscience. Meantime, Mr. Hayward or somebody else seems
to have given him such a whipping, that he is absolutely stiff, and
walks about like a rheumatic old gentleman. I am afraid, too, that he
is an incorrigible thief. Ellery Channing says he saw him coming up
the avenue with a whole calf's head in his mouth. How he came by it,
is best known to Leo himself. If he were a dog of fair character, it
would be no more than charity to conclude that he had either bought it
or had it given to him; but, with the other charges against him, it
inclines me to great distrust of his moral principles. Be that as it
may, he managed his stock of provisions very thriftily--burying it in
the earth, and eating a portion of it whenever he felt an appetite. If
he insists upon living by highway robbery, dost thou not think it
would be well to make him share his booty with us? Our butcher's bill
might thus be considerably lessened.

Miss Barret came a day or two ago to enquire whether I thought my wife
would be willing to lend our astral lamp for the great occasion of
this evening. Thou seest, she has a very proper idea of the authority
of the wife, and cannot imagine that I should venture to lend any
article without reference to thy wishes. As she pledged herself, if
there were any damages, to "make it good," I took the liberty to put
the lamp into her hands. Thou knowest its trick of going out in the
middle of the evening; and it will be a truly laughable and melancholy
mishap, if it should suddenly leave them in darkness, at the most
critical moment. Methinks it would be no favorable omen for the
prosperity of the marriage. Miss Catherine regrets very much that
thou art not to be here, this evening. I wonder thou dost not come on
purpose. By the by, it was not our old broken astral lamp, but the
solar lamp that I lent her.

Ownest wife, am I really a father?--the father of thy child! Sometimes
the thought comes to me with such a mighty wonder that I cannot take
it in. I love our little Una a great deal better than when I saw her
last; and all the love that grows within me for her, is so much added
to the infinite store of my love for thee. Ah, dost thou think of
me?--dost thou yearn for me?--does thy breast heave and thy heart
quake with love for thy husband?--... (portion of letter missing) I
can hardly breathe for loving thee so much.

Dearest, Mr. Farley is to carry this letter to the Post-Office this
morning, and perhaps he will find a line or two from thee. If so, I
shall be happy; and if not, then too I shall be glad that thou hast
not tasked thy dearest little head to do any pen-work.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Concord_, June 10th, 1844

     _Only Belovedest_,

Thy letter came yesterday; and I suppose thou didst get mine about the
same time. Dearest, I take it for granted that thou hast concluded to
await the arrival of the money from O'Sullivan; so that I shall not
expect thee till Friday or Saturday. I think it is an excellent plan
to have thy mother come with thee; so pray ask her immediately, if
thou hast not done it already. I shall not be able to send away Mr.
Farley before thou comest; but he will go on Monday.

Mr. Farley is in perfect health, and absolutely in the seventh Heaven;
and he talks, and talks, and talks, and talks; and I listen, and
listen, and listen, with a patience for which (in spite of all my
sins) I firmly expect to be admitted to the mansions of the blessed.
And there is really a contentment in being able to make the poor,
world-worn, hopeless, half-crazy man so entirely comfortable as he
seems to be here. He is an admirable cook. We had some roast veal and
a baked rice pudding on Sunday--really a fine dinner, and cooked in
better style than Mary can equal; and George Curtis came to dine with
us. Like all male cooks, he is rather expensive, and has a tendency to
the consumption of eggs in his various concoctions, which thou wouldst
be apt to oppose. However, we consume so much fish of our own
catching, that there is no great violation of economy upon the whole.
I have had my dreams of splendor, but never expected to arrive at the
dignity of keeping a man-cook. At first, we had three meals a day, but
now only two.

We dined at Mr. Emerson's the other day, in company with Mr. Hedge.
Mr. Bradford has been to see us two or three times. And, speaking of
him, do thou be most careful never to say a word in depreciation of
Sarah Stearns, in his presence. Both of us (horrible to say!) have
fallen into this misfortune, on former occasions. Mr. Farley has given
me most unlooked for intelligence in regard to him and her. He looks
thinner than ever--judge, then, how thin he must be--his face is so
thin, and his nose is so sharp, that he might make a pen with it; and
I wish he would make me a better one than I am now writing with. He
is particularly melancholy, and last Saturday, when we were alone on
the river together, seemed half-inclined to tell me the why and
wherefore. But I desire no such secrets. Keep this to thy little self.

I love thee, I love thee! Thou lovest me, thou lovest me! Oh, I shiver
again to think how much I love thee--how much we love, and that thou
art soon, soon, coming back to thine own home--to thine ownest
husband; and with our beloved baby in thine arms. Shall I know little
Una, dost thou think?

Now good bye, sweetest wife. It will be no more than decent for me to
go down and offer my assistance to Mr. Farley in some of the minor
preparations of dinner. Thy mother must put her skill in exercise;
else he will find a sad falling-off in our living, after thy return. I
shall look for thee partly on Friday, but shall not be disappointed if
thou comest not till Saturday. God bless thee, thou belovedest.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Boston_, May 23d, 1845

     _Ownest Dearest_,

I write this little note in order to warn thee in due season that I
shall not be at home till Monday. Hillard has made an engagement for
me with Longfellow for Sunday; so that, without disappointing both of
those worthies exceedingly, I cannot come away sooner. Belovedest, I
love thee a million times as much every hour that I stay away from
thee; and my heart swells toward thee like a mighty flood. Also, I
have a yearning for our little Una; and whenever I go, and with
whomsoever I am talking, the thought of thee and her is ever present
with me. God bless thee! What a happy home we have. That is the
knowledge that I gain by staying away from thee.

I saw thy mother this forenoon. She told me that Elizabeth had gone to
Concord this morning.

Remember me to "Our Boarder."

     In utmost haste,

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Concord, Mass.


     _Salem_, August 25th, 1845

     _Dearest Phoebe Hawthorne_,

Already an age has elapsed since I parted from thee, mine own life;
although, according to human measurement, it is but about twenty-seven
hours. How I love thee, wife of my bosom! There is no telling; so
judge it by what is in thine own deepest and widest little heart.

Sweetest, what became of that letter? Whose fault was it, that it was
left behind? I was almost afraid to present myself before thy mother
without it. Nevertheless, the Count and I made it our first business
to call at 13 West-street, where we found Madame Peabody (I will call
her so to please my Dove) in the book room alone. She seemed quite as
well as usual, and regretted, I believe, that she had not gone to
Concord--and so did thy husband; but thou needest not say so to the
good old gentleman who sits looking at the outside of this letter,
while thou art reading the inside. I gave her all the information I
could about thy condition--being somewhat restrained, however, by the
presence of O'Sullivan.

Taking leave of thy mother, I went with the Count to Mr. Bancroft's
door, and then parted with him, with some partial expectation of
meeting him again at dinner. Then I looked in at the Athenaeum
reading-room, and next went to George Hillard's office. Who should I
find here but Longfellow, and with him Mr. Green, the Roman consul,
whom, as thou knowest, it was Bridge's plan to eject from office for
thy husband's benefit. He has returned to this country on a visit.
Never didst thou see such an insignificant looking personage (or
person rather;) and it surprised me so much the more, for I had formed
a high idea of his intellectual incarnation from a bust by Crawford,
at Longfellow's rooms. Longfellow himself seems to have bloomed forth
and found solidity and substance since his marriage;--never did I
behold a man of happier aspect; although I know one of happier
fortunes incomparably. But Longfellow appears perfectly satisfied, and
to be no more conscious of any earthly or spiritual trouble than a
sunflower is--of which lovely blossom he, I know not why, reminded me.
Hillard looked better than I have ever before seen him, and was in
high spirits on account of the success of his oration. It seems to
have had truly triumphant success--superior to that of any Phi Beta
Kappa oration ever delivered. It gladdened me most to see this
melancholy shadow of a man for once bathed and even pervaded with a
sunshine; and I must doubt whether any literary success of my own ever
gave me so much pleasure. Outward triumphs are necessary to him; to
thy husband they are anything but essential.

From Hillard's I went to see Colonel Hall, and had a talk about
politics and official matters; and the good Colonel invited me to
dinner; and I concluded to accept, inasmuch as, by dining with the
Count, I should have been forced to encounter Brownson--from whom the
Lord deliver us. These are the main incidents of the day; but I did
not leave Boston till half past five, by which time I was quite
wearied with the clatter and confusion of the city, so unlike our
quiet brooding life at home. Oh, dear little Dove, thou shouldst have
been with me; and then all the quiet would have been with me likewise.

Great was the surprise and joy of Louisa when she found me at the
door. I found them all pretty well; but our poor mother seems to have
grown older and thinner since I saw her at last. They all inquired
for thee with loving kindness. Louisa intended to come and visit us in
about a week; and I shall not thwart her purpose, if it still
continue. She thinks she may be ready in a week from to-day. And,
dearest little wife, I fear that thy husband will have to defer his
return to thy blessed arms till the same day. Longfellow wants me to
dine with him on Friday; and my mother will not be content to give me
up before Thursday; and indeed it is not altogether unreasonable that
she should have me this long; because she will not see me again.

But, sweetest Phoebe, thou knowest not how I yearn for thee. Never
hadst thou such love, as now. Oh, dearest wife, take utmost care of
thyself; for if any harm should come to thee during my absence, I
should always impute blame to myself. Do watch over my Dove, now that
I am away. And should my presence be needful before Saturday, I will
fly to thee at a moment's warning. If all continue well, I shall
proceed to Boston on Thursday, visit Longfellow on Friday, and come
home (Oh, happiest thought!) on Saturday night, with Louisa, if she
finds it possible to come. If anything should detain her, it will be
our mother's health. God bless thee. Amen.

Afternoon.--What a scrawl is the foregoing! I wrote fast because I
loved fervently. I shall write once more before my return. Take care
of thy dearest little self and do not get weary.


     Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne,
     Concord, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, Novr. 10th, 1845


It was revealed to me that thou didst write on Saturday, and so, at
nightfall, I went to the Post-Office, but found no letter. This
morning, it has arrived, with the postmark of to-day. It gladdens me
to hear of Una's joy, and of thy being with people whom thou knowest
well, and who know thee well, and with whom thou canst have real
intercourse and sympathy. As for us in Castle Dismal, we miss thee
greatly, all of us, and dwell in a deeper shadow for lack of thee, and
that streak of living sunshine with which thou hast illuminated the
earth. Whom do I mean by this brilliant simile? Can it be that little
redheaded personage? Louisa complains of the silence of the house; and
not all their innumerable cats avail to comfort them in the least. Thy
husband thinks of thee when he ought to be scribbling nonsense--and
very empty and worthless is his daily life, without thee.
Nevertheless, if thou art at ease, do not come home in less than a
week. I feel as if it were good for thee to be there, and good for Una
too. Louisa told me, yesterday, with some alarm in her manner, that
Dr. Moss (thy medical friend) says that the illness from vaccination
does not come on, or does not reach its crisis, till the ninth day.
Can this be so? And will it be necessary to wait so long? That would
postpone thy return till the middle of next week--a term to which I
cannot yet reconcile myself.

I read Una's note, addressed to "Madame Hawthorne," then sealed it up
and threw it downstairs. Doubtless, they find it a most interesting
communication; and I feel a little shamefaced about meeting them.

I hear nothing from Washington as yet; nor, indeed, is it yet time to
expect any definite intelligence. Meanwhile Pike and thy friend David
are planning to buy us an estate, and build a house, and have even
gone so far as to mark out the ground-plot of the house, in chalk, on
David's hearth. I fear it will prove a castle in the air; and yet, a
moderate smile of Providence would cause it to spring out of the
earth, on that beautiful hillside, like a flower in the summer time.
With a cottage of our own, and the surveyorship, how happy we might
be!--happier than in Concord, on many accounts. The Surveyorship I
think we shall have; but the cottage implies an extra thousand or
fifteen hundred dollars.

I have heard of Mr. Atherton's being in Boston since thy
departure;--whether Mrs. Atherton is with him I know not. Governor
Fairfield, I understand, starts for Washington to-day.

God bless thee, dearest!--and blessed be our daughter, whom I love
next to thee! Again, if thou feelest it good for thee, on any account,
to stay longer in Boston, do not hasten home;--but whenever thou
comest, my heart will open to take thee in.



     _Castle Dismal_, Novr. 13th, 1845

     _Intimatest Friend_,

I cannot settle down to work this forenoon, or do anything but write
to thee--nor even that, I fear, with any good effect; for I am just as
much dissatisfied with this mode of intercourse as always hitherto. It
is a wretched mockery. But then it _is_ a semblance of communication,
and, thus far, better than nothing.

I got thy letter of Tuesday the same evening, while it was still warm
out of thy heart; and it seemed to fill the air round about me with
Nona's prattle. I do love her--that is the truth,--and almost feel it
a pity to lose a single day of her development;--only thou wilt tell
me, by letter or by mouth, all the pretty things that she says or
does, and more over find a beauty in them which would escape my
grosser perception. Thus, on the whole, I shall be a gainer by our
occasional separations. Thee I miss, and without any recompense. I
marvel how it is that some husbands spend years and years away from
their wives, and then come home with perhaps a bag or two of gold,
earned by the sacrifice of all that life. Even poverty is better--and
in saying that, thou knowest how much I say.

Nothing has happened here since I wrote thee last. I suspect the
intelligence of thy meditated baby is very pleasant to the grandmother
and aunts; for Louisa met me at dinner, that day, with unusual
cheerfulness, and observed that Thanksgiving was at hand, and that we
must think of preparing. [As] for me, I already love the future little
personage; and yet, somehow or other, I feel a jealousy of him or her,
on Una's account, and should not choose to have the new baby better
than the old one. So take care what thou dost, Phoebe Hawthorne! And
now I think of it, do not thou venture into that tremendous press and
squeeze, which always takes place on landing from the ferry-boat at
the East Boston depot. Thou art not to be trusted in such a tumult; it
will be far better to wait behind, and compel the conductor to find
thee a seat. There is always the densest squeeze on Saturdays.

But I shall not expect thee back on Saturday. According to Dr.
Wesselhoeft's dictum, and supposing the vaccination to have taken,
that will be precisely the critical day;--if Dr. Moss be correct, the
crisis comes on Monday. In either case, I hope thou wilt wait a
little. There is the greatest satisfaction to me in thinking how
comfortably situated thou art, with thy sister at thy elbow, and thy
mother at arms' length, and thy Aesculapius within a five minutes'
summons. If I (and thou too, thou lovingest one) could endure it, I
should be glad that thou mightest spend the winter there; but that is
too heart-chilling to think of--so thou must even come back, in a few
days more, to old Castle Dismal! But I shall never feel at home here
with thee. I went, the other afternoon, to look at the hill where Pike
and the Chancellor have built a castle in the air for our reception.
Thou hast no idea what capacities it has.

(Portion of letter missing)


     _Salem_, Jany. 19th, 1846.--Tuesday

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

The shoe arrived last evening; but on what evidence thou dost so
confidently accuse me of putting it into the trunk, I cannot imagine.
Thou positively didst put it there thyself. I saw thee!

Dearest, if any money comes from New York by to-day's mail, I will
come to Boston on Thursday morning, to escort thee home. Otherwise, I
really do not think I ought. Heaven knows, I desire it; but as it is
not necessary for thy safety, and as we are so miserably poor,
methinks the dollar should be reserved for indispensables. I did hope
the New York money would have come to hand before now. Providence must
take our matters in hand very speedily.

I hope, Phoebe, thou hast not engaged to pay Winifred's passage,
either to or from Boston. She told Mrs. Dromedary that she should not
have gone with thee, only that her passage would be paid. She has a
cousin living at the Essex House in this city; and the Dromedary
thinks she is partly engaged to go there herself. This is the secret
of her willingness to remain in Salem. Dotish as she appeared, she has
wit enough to be fair and false, like all her countryfolk. It will be
well to investigate this matter before thou returnest; and, if she
really means to leave us, perhaps thou hadst better engage a new girl
in Boston forthwith.

Poor little Una's back--my heart bleeds for it. Do not come back till
it is well, nor till thou thyself hast undergone thorough repairs,
even though thou shouldst be compelled to hire a lodging.

Ownest, be careful not to slip down. Thou art prudent in behalf of
other people, but hast little caution on thine own account. In going
to the cars do not get entangled in that great rush of people who
throng out of the ferry-boat. Remain behind, and Heaven will find thee
a seat. Would thou wast safe home again, eating thy potatoes, and
glancing sideways at me with thy look of patient resignation. Never
did I miss thee so much as during this separation. But for the idea of
thee, my existence would be as cold and wintry as the weather is now,
and with a cloudy gloom besides, instead of the dazzling sunshine. I
was driven to play cards with Louisa, last evening!

God bless thee! I have nothing more to say, that can be said.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, April 24th, 1846.--6 P.M.

     _Ownest dearest_,

I have this moment received the packet and thy letter, and cannot
tolerate that thou shouldst not have a word from thy husband tomorrow
morning. Truly, Castle Dismal has seemed darker than ever, since I
returned to it;--and not only to me, but to its other inmates. Louisa
spoke of the awful stillness of the house, and said she could not bear
to give Una's old shoes to that little Lines child, and was going to
keep them herself. I rejoiced her much, by telling her of Una's

Fees were tolerably good, yesterday and to-day; and I doubt we shall
have enough to live on, during thy continuance in Boston--for which
let us be thankful.

Bridge came to see me this afternoon, and says Mary Pray has consented
to come to thee; and by this time, I hope, thou hast her. Thou canst
not think what a peace I enjoy in the consideration that thou art
within reach of Dr. Wesselhoeft. It is by my feelings as to thee and
Una, more than on my own account, that I find I am a true believer in

Ownest, I love thee. I love little Una dearly too. Tell her so, and
show her the place, and give her a kiss for me.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     [_Salem_, March 15th, 1847]

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Above is the note. I will not say how much beyond all money I feel
indebted to Mr. Shaw for his kindness. It relieves my spirits from a
great burthen, and now I feel calm and very happy.

I love thee infinitely, and need thee constantly. I long to hear Una's
voice. I find that I even love Bundlebreech!!!

Ellery and I have a very pleasant time, and take immense walks every
afternoon, and sit up talking till midnight. He eats like an Anaconda.
Thou didst never see such an appetite.

Thou dost not tell me when thou wilt turn thy face homeward. Shouldst
thou stay till next week, I will come and escort thee home. Ellery, I
suppose, will go as soon as Saturday. (I shall need some money to
come with. Couldst thou send me ten dollars?) In haste, in depths of


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, March 20th, 1847.--Saturday

     _Ownest Wife_,

Thy letter of Thursday did not reach me till this morning. Ellery goes
to-day--much to my satisfaction, though we have had a good time. Thou
dost not know how much I long to see thee and our children. I never
felt anything like it before--it is too much to write about.

I do not think I can come on Monday before 10 ½, arriving in Boston at
about 11. It is no matter about the session at Johnson's; and if thou
choosest to give him notice, so be it.

Now that the days are so long, would it not do to leave Boston, on our
return, at ½ past 4?

Kiss Una for me--likewise Bundlebreech.


P.S. Of course, my coming on Monday must be contingent on reasonably
pleasant weather.

I shall probably go to Johnson's immediately after my arrival--before
coming to West-street. I hope he will be otherwise engaged.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, July 13th, 1847

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Greatly needed by me were thy two letters; for thou hadst never before
been away from me so long without writing. And thou art still busy,
every moment! I was in hopes thou wouldst have a little quiet now,
with Dora to take care of the children;--but that seems fated never
more to be thine. As for me, I sink down into bottomless depths of
quiet:--never was such a quiet life as mine is, in this voiceless
house. Thank God, there are echoes of voices in my heart, else I
should die of this marble silence. Yet I am happy, and, dearest
Phoebe, I wish that thou, likewise, couldst now and then stand apart
from thy lot, in the same manner, and behold how fair it is. I think
we are very happy--a truth that is not always so evident to me, until
I step aside from our daily life. How I love thee!--how I love our
children! Can it be that we are really parents!--that two beautiful
lives have gushed out of our life! I am now most sensible of the
wonder, and the mystery, and the happiness.

Sweetest wife, I have nothing to tell thee. My life goes on as
regularly as our kitchen clock. It has no events, and therefore can
have no history.

Well; when our children--these two, and three or four more are grown
up, and married off, thou wilt have a little leisure, and mayst paint
that Grecian picture that used to haunt thy fancy. But then our
grandchildren--Una's children, and Bundlebreech's,--will be coming
upon the stage. In short, after a woman has become a mother, she may
find rest in Heaven, but nowhere else.

This pen is so horrible that it impedes my thought. I cannot write any
more with it. Dearest, stay as long as it is good for the children and
thyself. I have great joy in thinking how good it has been for Una to
have this change. When thou comest back to me, it will be as the
coming of an angel, and with a cherub in each hand. Indeed, it does
not require absence and distance to make an angel of thee; but the
divine qualities of the children do become somewhat more apparent, by
occasionally getting beyond the reach of their clamor.

I think I had better not come on Saturday; but if thou wilt tell me
the day of thy return, I will come in the afternoon, and escort thee
back. Poor little Una! How will she bear to be caged up here again.
Give her a kiss for me, and tell her I want to see her _very much_. I
have been much affected by a little shoe of hers, which I found on the
floor. Does Bundlebreech walk yet?


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, Oct. 7th, 1847

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

Thy letter has just come. I knew the day would not pass over without
one. Would that my love could transform this ugly east wind into the
sweet south-west--then wouldst thou be full of pleasant air and
sunshine. I want to be near thee, and rest thee.

Dearest, the things all arrived safe--not having suffered even the
dollar's worth of damage to which the man restricted himself. The
carpet shall not be put down till thou comest. There is no need of it,
except to save thee the trouble. We are in hopes of getting an elderly
woman (Hannah Lord, whom I think thou hast heard of) for a handmaiden,
but this is not so certain as I could wish. Our mother and Louisa
repugn at the idea of an Irish girl; and there are scarcely any others
to be heard of. I should not wonder, after all, if we had to seek
one in Boston. The usual price here is $1.25. I trust we shall be
provided by the time thou art ready to come; but if otherwise, Mrs.
Campbell is now well, and can officiate for a few days.

Duyckinck writes me that the African Cruise has come to a second
edition. It is also to be published in a cheaper style, as one of the
numbers of a District School Library.

The weather is so bad that I hope thou wilt not have gone to Horn pond
to-day. How different these east winds are from anything that we felt
in Concord. Nevertheless, I feel relieved at having left that place of
many anxieties, and believe that we shall pass a happy winter here.
All that I need is to have shelter, and clothes, and daily bread, for
thee and Una, without the anguish of debt pressing upon me
continually;--and then I would not change places with the most
fortunate person in the world. What a foolish sentence that is! As if
I would change places, in our worst estate, either with man or angel.

Phoebe, I think I had better not come for thee till Monday, as the
weather is so unpropitious for thy visits. If that be too soon, tell
me; for thou hadst better calculate on not seeing Boston again for
some months; and, that being the case, it will be advisable to act
as if thou wast going to make a voyage to Europe.

I find I shall love thee as thou never wast loved before. God bless
our little Una. She is our daughter! What a miracle! I love mother and
child so much that I can put nothing into words.

I think I shall be diligent with my pen, in this old chamber whence so
many foolish stories have gone forth to the world. I have already
begun to scribble something for Wiley & Putnam.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     Surveyor's Office, _Salem_, May 5th, 1848

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

I am altogether in favor of getting the six chairs; as to the glass, I
know not what to think. In fact, I must leave all other articles to
thy judgment, and shall be satisfied, whatever thou dost. We can
dispense with the glass better than with anything else. I rather covet
the large marble-top table; but perhaps the repairs would make it
otherwise than cheap.

Una behaves (as thou wouldst affirm) like an angel. We rode out to
Lynn, yesterday afternoon, and had a long walk--much to her delight. I
bathed her this morning; and I believe she has not shown the slightest
wilfulness or waywardness, since thy departure. We have very loving
times together.

I had a great mind to come to Boston, yesterday, with Una, instead
of alighting at Lynn. I felt thy magnetism drawing me thither.


If thou canst get me a book or two, I shall be glad. Kiss old
Bundlebreech, and ask him if he remembers me. If thou art very
desirous of it, thou mayst stay till Monday--or, indeed, a week or two
longer--or ten years, if thou thinkest proper. I seem already to have
been solitary at least so long.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Mass.


     Surveyor's Office, [_Salem_,] June 19th, 1848

     _Only Belovedest_,

I received thy letter on Saturday evening, and was more refreshed by
it than if it had been a draft of ice-water--a rather inapt
comparison, by the way. Thou canst have no imagination how lonely our
house is. The rooms seem twice as large as before--and so awfully
quiet! I wish, sometime or other, thou wouldst let me take the two
children and go away for a few days, and thou remain behind.
Otherwise, thou canst have no idea of what it is. I really am half
afraid to be alone, and feel shy about looking across the dimly
moon-lighted chamber. I expend a great deal of sentiment as often as I
chance to see any garment of thine, in my rambles about the house, or
any of the children's playthings. And after all, there is a strange
bliss in being made sensible of the happiness of my customary life,
by this blank interval.

Tell my little daughter Una that her dolly, since her departure, has
been blooming like a rose--such an intense bloom, indeed, that I
rather suspected her of making free with the brandy-bottle. On taxing
her with it, however, she showed no signs of guilt or confusion; and I
trust it was owing merely to the hot weather. The color has now
subsided into quite a moderate tint, and she looks splendidly at a
proper distance; though, on too close inspection, her skin appears
rather coarse--not altogether unlike that of thy good Aunt B. She has
contracted an unfortunate habit of squinting; and her mouth, I am
sorry to say, is somewhat askew. I shall take her to task on these
matters, and hope to produce a reformation. Should I fail, thou must
take her in hand. Give Una a kiss, and tell her I love her dearly. The
same to little Bundlebreech, who has probably forgot "faver" by this

Dora complains terribly of lonesomeness, and so does Aunty N. In
short, we are pretty forlorn. Nevertheless, I have much joy in your
all being in the country, and hope thou wilt stay as long as thou
feelest it to be for the best. How I love the children!--how I love
thee, best of wives!--and how I shall make thee feel it, when thou
comest home! Dost thou love me?


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Newton, Mass.


     _Salem_, June 27th, 1848

Dearest Phoebe, when I saw thy thick letter, last night, I could not
imagine what might be its contents, unless thou hadst sent a large
package of the precious roses, which I should have kissed with great
reverence and devotion. Thou wast naughty not to do it. But the letter
truly refreshed my heart's thirst; and Una's also were very
delightful. What a queer epistle was that which she dictated! It
seemed as if she were writing from Paradise to comfort me on earth.

Dearest, I long for thee as thou dost for me. My love has increased
infinitely since the last time we were separated. I can hardly bear to
think of thy staying away yet weeks longer. I think of thee all the
time. The other night, I dreamed that I was at Newton, in a room with
thee, and with several other people; and thou tookst occasion to
announce, that thou hadst now ceased to be my wife, and hadst taken
another husband. Thou madest this intelligence known with such
perfect composure and _sang froid_--not particularly addressing me,
but the company generally--that it benumbed my thoughts and feelings,
so that I had nothing to say. Thou wast perfectly decided, and I had
only to submit without a word. But, hereupon, thy sister Elizabeth,
who was likewise present, informed the company, that, in this state of
affairs, having ceased to be thy husband, I of course became hers; and
turning to me, very coolly inquired whether she or I should write to
inform my mother of the new arrangement! How the children were to be
divided, I know not. I only know that my heart suddenly broke loose,
and I began to expostulate with thee in an infinite agony, in the
midst of which I awoke; but the sense of unspeakable injury and
outrage hung about me for a long time--and even yet it has not quite
departed. Thou shouldst not behave so, when thou comest to me in

I had a letter from Bridge, yesterday, dated in the latter part of
April. He seems to be having a very pleasant time with his wife; but I
do not understand that she is, as the Germans say, "of good hope." In
the beginning of the letter, he says that Mrs. Bridge will return to
America this summer. In another part, he says that the ship in which
he is will probably return late in the autumn; but he rather wishes
that it may [be] delayed till Spring, because Mrs. Bridge desires to
spend the winter in Italy.

Oh, Phoebe, I want thee much. My bosom needs thy head upon it,--thou
alone art essential. Thou art the only person in the world that ever
was necessary to me. Other people have occasionally been more or less
agreeable; but I think I was always more at ease alone than in
anybody's company, till I knew thee. And now I am only myself when
thou art within my reach. Thou art an unspeakably beloved woman. How
couldst thou inflict such frozen agony upon me, in that dream! Thou
shouldst have caressed me and embraced me.

But do not think, much as I want thee, that I wish thee to come as
long as thou judgest it good for the children to be away, and as long
as thou thinkest we can afford the expense. We have a pervading
happiness, that goes on whether we are present or absent in the body.
Their happiness depends upon time and place; and the difference to
them between town and country must be almost that of a cage or the
free air, to the birds. And then it is so much better for their

Hast thou remembered to ask Mrs. Mann whether little Pick Mann was
named out of pure gratitude and respect for the old refugee Colonel,
or whether there was not a little earthly alloy--an idea of gilding an
ugly name with a rich legacy?

Ownest, if I write any more, it would be only to try to express more
lovings, and longings--and as they are impossible to express, I may as
well close.

     My only belovedest,

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     West Newton.


     _Salem_, July 1st, 1848

Ownest, How long is it since I heard from thee--and what an eternity
since thou didst go away! It seems at least as long as the whole time
that we have been married. My heart calls for thee, very loudly, and
thou comest not. And I want to hear our children's voices;--it would
be pleasant, even, to see little Tornado in one of her tantrums. She
is a noble child. Kiss her and Bundlebreech for me, and talk to them
about me, lest I be entirely forgotten.

If this had been a pleasant day, I should probably have gone to New
York on Custom-House business; but it being thick and dismal, I shall
give up the expedition, although it would have been a very favorable
opportunity. I should have been back here on Wednesday morning; and as
one of the intervening days is Sunday, and another the Fourth of
July, only a single day of attendance at my office would have been
lost. Best of all, it would have cost nothing.

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

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

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.


     _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

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,


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.


     _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!


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.


     _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

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.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _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

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!


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _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

What a shadowy day is this! While this weather lasts, thou canst not


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.


     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 again. Keep such things for thy and my
worst enemies. Give thy husband bread, or cold potatoes; and he
never will complain--but pease and Indian pudding! God forgive me for
ever having burthened my conscience with such abominations. They are
the Unpardonable Sin and the Intolerable Punishment, in one and the
same accursed spoonfull!

I think I hardly ever had such a dismal time as yesterday. I cannot
bear the loneliness of the house. I need the sunshine of the children;
even their little quarrels and naughtinesses would be a blessing to
me. I need thee, above all, and find myself, at every absence, so much
the less able to endure it. Come home come home!

Where dost thou think I was on Saturday afternoon? Thou wilt never

In haste; for it is almost Custom House time.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     13 West Street,
     Boston, Mass.


     _Salem_, May 9th, 1849


Thy letter was received last night. What a time thou hast!--and I not
there to help thee! I almost feel as if I ought to come every day; but
then I should do so little good--arriving at 4 o'clock; and the
children going to bed at six or seven; and the expense is so
considerable. If thou canst hold out till Friday, I shall endeavor to
come in the afternoon and stay till Monday. But this must depend on
arrangements hereafter to be made; so do not absolutely expect me
before Saturday. Oh that Providence would bring all of you home,
before then! This is a miserable time for me; more so than for thee,
with all thy toil, and watchfulness and weariness. These sunless days
are as sunless within as without. Thou hast no conception how
melancholy our house can be. It absolutely chills my heart.

If it is necessary for me to come sooner, write by express. Give my
love to Una and Julian, and tell them how much I miss them. God bless
thee and them.


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
     13 West-street,


     _Navy Yard_, April 26th, 1850

     _Ownest wife_,

Thy letter (dated 22d, but postmarked this very day) has just arrived,
and perplexed me exceedingly with its strange aspect. Thy poor dear
thumb! I am afraid it puts thee to unspeakable pain and trouble, and I
feel as if I ought to be with thee; especially as Una is not well.
What is the matter?--anything except her mouth? I almost wish thou
hadst told me to come back.

It rained so continually on the day of my departure that I was not
able to get over to the Navy Yard, but had to put up at the Rockingham
House. Being recognized there, I was immediately lugged into society,
whether I would or no; taking tea at one place, and spending the
evening at another. I have since dined out, and been invited to a
party--but escaped this latter infliction. Bridge's house, however, is
the quietest place imaginable, and I only wish thou couldst be here,
until our Lenox home is ready. I long to see thee, and am sad for want
of thee. And thou too so comfortless in all that turmoil and

I have been waiting for thee to write; else I should have written
before, though with nothing to say to thee--save the unimportant fact
that I love thee better than ever before, and that I cannot be at
peace away from thee. Why has not Dr. Wesselhoeft cured thy thumb?
Thou never must hereafter do any work whatever; thou wast not made
strong, and always sufferest tenfold the value of thy activities. Thou
didst much amiss, to marry a husband who cannot keep thee like a lady,
as Bridge does his wife, and as I should so delight to keep thee,
doing only beautiful things, and reposing in luxurious chairs, and
with servants to go and to come. Thou hast a hard lot in life; and so
have I that witness it, and can do little or nothing to help thee.
Again I wish that thou hadst told me to come back; or, at least,
whether I should come or no. Four days more will bring us to the first
of May, which is next Wednesday; and it was my purpose to return then.
Thou wilt get this letter, I suppose, tomorrow morning, and, if
desirable, might send to me by express the same day; and I could
leave here on Monday morning. On looking at the Pathfinder Guide, I
find that a train leaves Portsmouth for Boston at 5 o'clock P.M.
Shouldst thou send me a message by the 11 o'clock train, I might
return and be with thee tomorrow (Saturday) evening, before 8 o'clock.
I should come without being recalled; only that it seems a sin to add
another human being to the multitudinous chaos of that house.

I cannot write. Thou hast our home and all our interests about thee,
and away from thee there is only emptiness--so what have I to write


P.S. If thou sendest for me to-morrow, and I do not come, thou must
conclude that the express did not reach me.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Care of Dr. Nathl. Peabody,
     Boston, Massachusetts.


     _Lenox_, July 30th, 1851

     _Dearest Phoebe_,

We are getting along perfectly well, and without a single event that
could make a figure in a letter. I keep a regular chronicle of all our
doings; and you may read it on your return. Julian seems perfectly
happy, but sometimes talks in rather a sentimental style about his
mother. I do hope thou camest safely to West Newton, and meetest with
no great incommodities there. Julian is now out in the garden; this
being the first time since thou wentest away, almost, (except when he
was in bed) that he has left me for five minutes together. I find him
really quite a tolerable little man!

Kiss Una for me, and believe me,

     Thy affectionate husband,

     N. H.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     West Newton.


     _Lenox_, August 1st, Friday [1851]

     _Dearest Phoebe_,

I send the tools, which I found in one of the cupboards. Thy two
letters arrived together, this morning. I was at the P. O. on
Wednesday, and greatly disappointed to find nothing.

Julian and I get along together in great harmony, & as happy as we can
be severed from thee. It grieves me that thou findest nobody to help
thee there. If this state of things is to continue, thou must abridge
thy stay, and return before thou art quite worn out.

I wrote a few lines on Tuesday (I think) which I suppose thou hast
received. I more than ever abhor letter-writing; but thou partly
knowest that I am

     Thy lovingest


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     West Newton.


     _Lenox_, August 7th, 1851.--Thursday

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

I rec'd thy letter yesterday. I will be in Pittsfield on _Thursday_
next (a week from to-day) and will escort thee home.

I have written quite a small volume of Julian's daily life and mine;
so that, on thy return, thou wilt know everything that we have done
and suffered;--as to enjoyment, I don't remember to have had any,
during thy absence. It has been all doing and suffering.

Thou sayest nothing whatever of Una.

Unless I receive further notice from thee I shall consider Thursday
the day. I shall go at any rate, I think, rain or shine; but of
course, thou wilt not start in a settled rain. In that case, I shall
come again to Pittsfield, the next day. But, if fair weather, I hope
nothing will detain thee; or if it necessarily must, and thou has[t]
previous knowledge of it, thou canst write me.

Julian is perfectly well. We both, according to our respective
capacities, long for thee.


     N. H.


     _Lenox_, August 8th, 1851

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

I wrote thee a note yesterday, and sent it to the village by
Cornelius; but as he may have neglected to put it in, I write again.
If thou wilt start from West Newton on _Thursday_ next, I will meet
thee at Pittsfield, which will answer the same purpose as if I came
all the way.

Mrs. Tappan requests that thou wilt bring ten pounds of ground rice
for her; or a less quantity, if thou hast not room for so much.

Julian is very well, and keeps himself happy from morning till night.
I hope Una does the same. Give my love to her.

I shall be most gladdest to see thee.


     N. H.

August 9th.--Saturday.--I recd. yesterday thy note, in which thou
speakest of deferring thy return some days longer. Stay by all means
as long as may be needful. Julian gets along perfectly well; and I am
eager for thy coming only because it is unpleasant to remain torn
asunder. Thou wilt write to tell me finally what day thou decidest
upon;--but unless I hear from thee, I shall go to Pittsfield on
_Saturday_, a week from to-day. But if thou seest reason for staying
longer do so, that nothing may be left at loose ends.

Julian and I had a fine ride yesterday with Herman Melville and two
other gentlemen.

Mrs. Peters is perfectly angelic.


     N. H.


     _West Newton_, Septr. 19th, 1851

     _Dearest Phoebe_,

Here I am as thou seest; and if not here, I know not where I could be;
for Boston is so full that the Mayor has issued proclamation for the
inhabitants to throw open their doors. The President is there.

They all appear to be well here; and thy mother, if Horace and Georgia
say truly, walked three miles yesterday. I went with Mary to see her,
last evening, and found her much better than I ever hoped.

Talking with Mary, last night, I explained our troubles to her, and
our wish to get away from Lenox, and she renewed the old proposition
about our taking this house for the winter. The great objection to it,
when first talked of, was, that we, or I, did not wish to have the
care and responsibility of your father and mother. That is now
removed. It strikes me as one of those unexpected, but easy and
natural solutions wherewith Providence occasionally unknots a
seemingly inextricable difficulty. If you agree with me, you had
better notify Mr. or Mrs. Sedgwick that we shall not want the Kemble
house. We can remain in the red house till we come here.

We shall pay a rent, but I know not as yet precisely what. But we
shall probably only remain half the time Mr. and Mrs. Mann are in

Mary will write.

I shall probably go to Salem on Saturday. Kiss and spank the children.

     Thine ownest in haste,

     N. H.

     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Lenox, Massachusetts.


     _Salem_, Sept. 23d, 1851


I have just received thy two letters; they having been forwarded
hither by Ticknor & Co. I wish thou hadst not had the head-ache; it
gives me the heart-ache.

In regard to the rent, it is much to pay; but thou art to remember
that we take the house only till we can get another; and that we shall
not probably have to pay more than half, at most, of the $350. It does
seem to me better to go; for we shall never be comfortable in Lenox
again. Ticknor & Co. promise the most liberal advances of money,
should we need it, towards buying the house.

I will tell thee my adventures when I come. I am to return to Boston
to-night, and fully intend to be in Lenox by Saturday night.

     In hugest haste,


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Lenox, Massachusetts.


     _Portsmouth_, Sept. 3d, 1852

     _Ownest Phoebe_,

I left Brunswick Wednesday night, and arrived here yesterday, with
Pierce. My adventures thou shalt know when I return, and how I was
celebrated by orators and poets--and how, by the grace of Divine
Providence, I was not present, to be put to the blush. All my
contemporaries have grown the funniest old men in the world. Am I a
funny old man?

I am going to cross over to the Isle of Shoals, this forenoon, and
intend to spend several days there, until I get saturated with

I love thee very much-est;--likewise, the children are very pleasant
to think of. Kiss Una--Kiss Julian--Kiss Rosebud--for me! Kiss
thyself, if thou canst--and I wish thou wouldst kiss me.

A boat passes between Portsmouth and the Isle of Shoals, every
forenoon; and a letter, I presume, would reach me in case of

I long to see thee. It is breakfast time.

     Thine ownest


     Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
     Concord, Massachusetts.


     _New York_, Sunday morng., April 17th, 1853


I arrived here in good condition Thursday night at ½ past 12. Every
moment of my time has been so taken up with calls and engagements that
I really could not put pen to paper until now, when I am writing
before going down to breakfast.

It is almost as difficult to see O'Sullivan here as if he were a
hundred miles off. I rode three miles to his home on Friday, and found
him not at home. However, he came yesterday, and we talked together
until other people came between.

I do wish I could be let alone, to follow my own ideas of what is
agreeable. To-day, I am to dine with a college-professor of
mathematics, to meet Miss Lynch!! Why did I ever leave thee, my own
dearest wife? Now, thou seest, I am to be lynched.

We have an ugly storm here to-day. I intend to leave New York for
Philadelphia tomorrow, and shall probably reach Washington on

I am homesick for thee. The children, too, seem very good and
beautiful. I hope Una will be very kind and sweet. As for Julian, let
Ellen make him a pandowdy. Does Rosebud still remember me? It seems an
age since I left home.

No words can tell how I love thee. I will write again as soon as



     _Philadelphia_, Tuesday 19th, 1853


We left New York yesterday at 3 o'clock, and arrived safely here,
where we have spent the day. We leave for Washington tomorrow morning,
and I shall mail this scribble there, so that thou wilt know that I
have arrived in good condition. Thou canst not imagine the difficulty
of finding time and place to write a word. I enjoy the journey and
seeing new places, but need thee beyond all possibility of telling. I
feel as if I had just begun to know that there is nothing else for me
but thou. The children, too, I know how to love, at last. Kiss them
all for me. In greatest haste (and in a public room),

     Thine ownest,

     N. H.

Baltimore, Wednesday, 5 o'clock.--Thus far in safety. I shall mail the
letter immediately on reaching Washington, where we expect to be at
½ past 9.

With love a thousand times more than ever,


     N. H.

Washington, Thursday.--Before Breakfast.

--Dearest, I arrived so late and tired, last night, that I quite
forgot to mail the letter. I found about a dozen letters awaiting me
at the hotel, from other people, but none from thee. My heart is weary
with longing for thee. I want thee in my arms.

I shall go to the President at nine o'clock this morning--shall spend
three or four days here--and mean to be back early next week.



     _Washington_, April 28th, Thursday. 1853


The President has asked me to remain in the city a few days longer,
for particular reasons; but I think I shall be free to leave by
Saturday. It is very queer how much I have done for other people and
myself since my arrival here. Colonel Miller is to be here to-night.
Ticknor stands by me manfully, and will not quit me until we see
Boston again.

I went to Mount Vernon yesterday with the ladies of the President's
family. Thou never sawst such a beautiful and blossoming Spring as we
have here.

Expect me early in next week. How I long to be in thy arms is
impossible to tell. Tell the children I love them all.



     _Liverpool_, July 26th, '54

     _Dearest Wife_,

We had the pleasantest passage, yesterday, that can be conceived of.
How strange, that the best weather I have ever known should have come
to us on these English coasts!

I enclose some letters from the O'Sullivan's, whereby you will see
that they have come to a true appreciation of Mr. Cecil's merits. They
say nothing of his departure; but I shall live in daily terror of his

I hardly think it worth while for me to return to the island, this
summer;--that is, unless you conclude to stay longer than a week from
this time. Do so, by all means, if you think the residence will
benefit either yourself or the children. Or it would be easy to return
thither, should it seem desirable--or to go somewhere else. Tell me
what day you fix upon for leaving; and I will either await you in
person at the landing-place, or send Henry. Do not start, unless the
weather promises to be favorable, even though you should be all ready
to go on board.

I think you should give something to the servants--those of them, at
least, who have taken any particular pains with you. Michael asked me
for something, but I told him that I should probably be back
again;--so you must pay him my debts and your own too.

It is very lonesome at Rock Ferry, and I long to have you all back
again. Give my love to the children.



     _Liverpool_, Sept. 12th, 1854


We arrived safe at Rock Ferry at about ten. Emily had gone to bed, but
came down in her night-clothes--the queerest figure I ever saw.

I enclose a letter from thy brother N. It contains one piece of
intelligence very interesting to the parties concerned.

Mr. O'Sullivan is going to London, this afternoon. I wish thou wast at
home, for the house is very cheerless in its solitude. But it will be
only a few days before I see thee again; and in the meantime thou must
go to all accessible places, and enjoy thyself for both of us. The
barometer goes backward to-day, and indicates a proximate change of
weather. What wilt thou do in a rain-storm?

I am weighed down and disheartened by the usual immense pile of
American newspapers. What a miserable country!

Kiss all the old people for me--Julian, as well as the others.

     Thine ownest,

     N. H.


     _Liverpool_, July 30th, 1855


I slept at Lancaster, last night, where I arrived at 10 o'clock; and
leaving at ½ past nine, this morning, got here at twelve.

Since leaving you, I have been thinking that we have skimmed the cream
of the lakes, and perhaps may as well go somewhere else, now. What if
you should come to Liverpool (that is, to Rock Ferry Hotel) and spend
a day or two, for the sake of variety, and then go to Matlock or
Malvern, or wherever we may think best? Should you conclude to do
this, I think you had better take a phaeton & pair from Grasmere to
Windermere, and there you can get on the rail. If you wish to stay
longer at the lakes, however, I shall be quite happy to come back. Mr.
Wildeys says that lodgings may be had reasonable (and some at farmers'
houses) in the vicinity of Bourness; but he does not know of any in

Weigh these matters, and decide for yourself. I have an impression, I
hardly know why, that we have done with the lakes for this year; but I
should not regret to have you stay longer.

I send the halves of a £10 & of a £5.

There would be no difficulty in your coming here without a male

Do not think that I wish you to come, contrary to your opinion. If you
and the children are comfortable & happy, I am quite content to take
another draught of the lakes.

Kiss them all.

     THINE N.

Mr. Bradford and Miss Ripley sailed a fortnight ago.

Mr. Bright was in this morning.


     _Liverpool_, Novr. 3d, 1855

     _Dearest wife_,

I received your letter a week ago, telling me of your woeful passage
and safe arrival. If I had thought how much you were to suffer on the
voyage, I never could have consented to thy departure; but I hope thou
art now flourishing in the southern sunshine, and I am sure it would
have been a dreadful matter for thee to remain in such weather as we
have lately had. But I do so long to see thee! If it were not for
Julian, I do not think I could bear it at all. He is really a great
comfort and joy to me, and rather unexpectedly so; for I must confess
I wished to keep him here on his own account and thine, much more than
on my own. We live together in great love and harmony, the best
friends in the world. He has begun to go to dancing-school; and I have
heard of a drawing-master for him, but do not yet let him take
lessons, because they might interfere with his day-school, should we
conclude to send him thither. His health and spirits seem now to be
perfectly good; and I think he is benefitted by a greater regularity
of eating than when at home. He never has anything between meals, and
seems not to want anything. Mrs. Blodgett, Miss Williams, and their
niece, all take motherly care of him, combing his wool, and seeing
that he looks clean and gentlemanly as a Consul's son ought to do.
Since the war-cloud has begun to darken over us, he insists on
buckling on his sword the moment he is dressed, and never lays it
aside till he is ready to go to bed--after drawing it, and making
blows and thrusts at Miss Williams's tom-cat, for lack of a better
antagonist. I trust England and America will have fought out their
warfare before his worship's beard begins to sprout; else he will
pester us by going forth to battle.

I crossed over to Rock Ferry, a few days ago; and thou canst not
imagine the disgust and horror with which I greeted that abominable
old pier. The atmosphere of the river absolutely sawed me asunder. If
we had been wise enough to avoid the river, I believe thou wouldst
have found the climate of England quite another thing; for though we
have had very bad weather for weeks past, the air of the town has
nothing like the malevolence of that of the river. Mrs. Hantress is
quite well, and inquires very affectionately about thee, and the
children, and Fanny. Mrs. Watson crossed in the same boat with me. She
has taken a house at Cloughton, and was now going over to deliver up
the keys of the Rock Ferry house. I forgot to inquire about Miss
Sheppard, and do not know whether she has succeeded in letting our

I dined at Mr. Bright's on Thursday evening. Of course, there were the
usual expressions of interest in thy welfare; and Annie desired to be
remembered to Una. Mr. Channing called on me, a few days since. He has
just brought his family from Southport, where they have been spending
several weeks. Our conversation was chiefly on the subject of the
approaching war; for there has suddenly come up a mysterious rumor and
ominous disturbance of all men's spirits, as black and awful as a
thunder-gust. So far as I can ascertain, Mr. Buchanan considers the
aspect of affairs very serious indeed; and a letter, said to be
written with his privity, was communicated to the Americans here,
telling of the breach of treaties, and a determination on the part of
the British Government to force us into war. It will need no great
force, however, if the Yankees are half so patriotic at home, as we on
this side of the water. We hold the fate of England in our hands, and
it is time we crushed her--blind, ridiculous, old lump of beef, sodden
in strong beer, that she is; not but what she has still vitality
enough to do us a good deal of mischief, before we quite annihilate

At Mr. Bright's table, for the first time, I heard the expression of a
fear that the French alliance was going to be ruinous to England, and
that Louis Napoleon was getting his arm too closely about the neck of
Britannia, insomuch that the old lady will soon find herself short of
breath. I think so indeed! He is at the bottom of these present

One good effect of a war would be, that I should speedily be warned
out of England, and should betake myself to Lisbon. But how are we to
get home? Luckily, I don't care much about getting home at all; and we
will be cosmopolites, and pitch our tent in any peaceable and pleasant
spot we can find, and perhaps get back to Concord by the time our
larch-trees have ten years' growth. Dost thou like this prospect?

What a beautiful letter was thine! I do think nobody else ever wrote
such letters, so magically descriptive and narrative. I have read it
over and over and over to myself, and aloud to Julian, whose face
shone as he listened. By-the-by, I meant that he should have written a
letter to accompany this; but this is his dancing-school day, and I
did not bring him to the Consulate. One packet of letters, intended
for Lisbon, has mysteriously vanished; and I cannot imagine what has
become of it, unless it were slipt by mistake into Ticknor's
letter-bag, and so went to America by the last steamer. It contained a
letter from thy sister Elizabeth, one from Julian, and myself, and, I
believe, one from Mr. Dixon.

Did you pay a bill (of between one or two pounds) of Frisbie, Dyke &
Co.? I inquired in my last about Mr. Weston's bill for coals.

Do not stint thyself on the score of expenses, but live and dress and
spend like a lady of station. It is entirely reasonable and necessary
that thou shouldst. Send Una to whatever schools, and let her take
whatever lessons, thou deemest good.

Kiss Una; kiss naughty little Rosebud. Give my individual love to


P.S. Since writing the above, Mr. Channing has been in, and thou
wouldst be (as I am) at once confounded and delighted to hear the
warlike tone in which he talks. He thinks that the Government of
England is trying to force us into a war, and he says, in so many
words, "LET IT COME!!!" He is already considering how he is to get
home, and says that he feels ready to enlist; and he breathes blood
and vengeance against whomsoever shall molest our shores. Huzza!
Huzza! I begin to feel warlike, too. There was a rumor yesterday, that
our minister had demanded his passports; and I am mistaken in Frank
Pierce if Mr. Crampton has not already been ejected from Washington.

No doubt O'Sullivan's despatches will enable him to give thee more
authentic intelligence than I possess as to the real prospects.

     N. H.


     _Liverpool_, February 7th, 1856

Thy letter, my own most beloved, (dated Jany. 31st) arrived yesterday,
and revived me at once out of a state of half-torpor, half
misery--just as much of each as could co-exist with the other. Do not
think that I am always in that state; but one thing, dearest, I have
been most thoroughly taught by this separation--that is, the absolute
necessity of expression. I must tell thee I love thee. I must be told
that thou lovest me. It must be said in words and symbolized with
caresses; or else, at last, imprisoned Love will go frantic, and tear
all to pieces the heart that holds it. And the only other alternative
is to be torpid. I just manage to hold out from one letter of thine to
another; and then comes life and joy again. Thou canst not conceive
what an effect yesterday's letter had on me. It renewed my youth, and
made my step lighter; it absolutely gave me an appetite; and I went
to bed joyfully to think of it. Oh, my wife, why did God give thee
to poor unworthy me! Art thou sure that He made thee for me? Ah, thy
intuition must have been well-founded on this point; because,
otherwise, all through eternity, thou wouldst carry my stain upon
thee; and how could thine own angel ever need thee then! Thou art
mine!--Thou _shalt_ be mine! Thou hast given thyself to me
irredeemably. Thou hast grown to me. Thou canst never get away.

Oh, my love, it is a desperate thing that I cannot see thee this very
instant. Dost thou ever feel, at one and the same moment, the
impossibility of doing without me, and also the impossibility of
having me? I know not how it is that my strong wishes do not bring
thee here bodily, while I am writing these words. One of the two
impossibilities must needs be overcome; and it seems the strongest
impossibility that thou shouldst be anywhere else, when I need thee so

Well, my own wife, I have a little wreaked myself now, and will go on
more quietly with what I have further to say. As regards
O'Sullivan--(how funny that thou shouldst put quotation marks to this
name, as if astonished at my calling him so! Did we not entirely agree
in thinking "John" an undue and undesirable familiarity? But thou
mayst call him "John," or "Jack" either, as best suits thee.)--as
regards O'Sullivan, then, my present opinion of him is precisely what
thou thyself didst leave upon my mind, in our discussions of his
character. I have often had a similar experience before, resulting
from thy criticism upon any views of mine. Thou insensibly convertest
me to thy own opinion, and art afterwards surprised to find it so; in
fact, I seldom am aware of the change in my own mind, until the
subject chances to come up for further discussion, and I find myself
on what was thy side.

But I will try to give my true idea of his character. I know that he
has most vivid affections--a quick, womanly sensibility--a light and
tender grace, which, in happy circumstances, would make all his deeds
and demonstrations beautiful. In respect to companionship, beyond all
doubt, he has never been in such fortunate circumstances as during his
present intercourse with thee; and I am willing to allow that thou
bringest out his angelic part, and therefore canst not be expected to
see anything but an angel in him. It has sometimes seemed to me that
the lustre of his angel-plumage has been a little dimmed--his
heavenly garments a little soiled and bedraggled--by the foul ways
through which it has been his fate to tread, and the foul companions
with whom necessity and politics have brought him acquainted. But I
had rather thou shouldst take _him_ for a friend than any other man I
ever knew (unless, perhaps, George Bradford, who can hardly be
reckoned a man at all,) because I think the Devil has a smaller share
in O'Sullivan than in other bipeds who wear breeches. To do him
justice, he is miraculously pure and true, considering what his
outward life has been. Now, dearest, I have a genuine affection for
him, and a confidence in his honor; and as respects his defects in
everything that concerns pecuniary matters, I believe him to have kept
his integrity intact to a degree that is really wonderful, in spite of
the embarrassments of a lifetime. If we had his whole life mapped out
before us, I should probably forgive him some things which thy severer
sense of right would condemn. Thou talkest of his high principle; but
that does not appear to me to be his kind of moral endowment. Perhaps
he may have the material that principles are manufactured from.

My beloved, he is not the man in whom I see my ideal of a friend; not
for his lack of principle, not for any ill-deeds or practical
shortcomings which I know of or suspect; not but what he is amiable,
loveable, fully capable of self-sacrifice, utterly incapable of
selfishness. The only reason, that I can put into words, is, that he
never stirs me to any depth beneath my surface; I like him, and enjoy
his society, and he calls up, I think, whatever small part of me is
elegant and agreeable; but neither of my best nor of my worst has he
ever, or could he ever, have a glimpse. I should wish my friend of
friends to be a sterner and grimmer man than he; and it is my opinion,
sweetest wife, that the truest manly delicacy is to be found in those
stern, grim natures--a little alpine flower, of tenderest texture, and
loveliest hue, and delicious fragrance, springing out of a rocky soil
in a high, breezy, mountain atmosphere. O'Sullivan's quick, genial
soil produces an abundant growth of flowers, but not just this
precious little flower. He is too much like a woman, without being a
woman; and between the two characters, he misses the quintessential
delicacy of both. There are some tests of thorough refinement which,
perhaps, he could not stand. And yet I shall not dispute that for
refinement and delicacy he is one out of a thousand; and we might
spend a lifetime together without putting him to a test too severe.
As for his sympathies, he would be always ready to pour them out (not
exactly like Niagara, but like a copious garden-fountain) for those he

If thou thinkest I have done him great injustice in the foregoing
sketch, it is very probable that thou wilt bring me over to thy way of
thinking; and perhaps balance matters by passing over to mine.

Dearest, I do hope I shall next hear of thee from Madeira; for this
suspense is hard to bear. Thou must not mind what I say to thee, in my
impatient agonies, about coming back. Whatever can be borne, I shall
find myself able to bear, for the sake of restoring thee to health. I
have now groped so far through the thick darkness that [a] little
glimmer of light begins to appear at the other end of the passage; it
will grow clearer and brighter continually, and at last it will show
me my dearest wife. I do hope thou wilt find thy husband wiser and
better than he has been hitherto; wiser, in knowing the more
adequately what a treasure he has in thee; and better, because I feel
it such a shame to be loved by thee without deserving it. Dost thou
love me?

Give my love to Una, to whom I cannot write now, without doubling
the postage. Do not let little Rosebud forget me. Remember me to
Fanny, and present my regards to Madame O'Sullivan, and Mrs. Susan,
and Miss Rodgers. So all is said very properly.

Thou toldest me not to write to Madeira before hearing from thee
there; but I shall send this to the care of the American Consul, to
whom I wrote by the last Lisbon steamer, sending the letter to
O'Sullivan's care. Thine own-ownest.

Julian is perfectly well.


     _Liverpool_, March 18th, 1856

In a little while longer, ownest wife, we must think about thy return
to England. The thought is a happiness greater than I can crowd into
my mind. Wilt thou think it best to go back to Lisbon? This must
depend, I suppose, on the length of stay of the O'Sullivans in
Madeira. If they return to Lisbon before June, thou wilt have to go
with them; if they stay so late as the first of June, I should think
it best for thee to come direct to Southampton; but I leave it to thy
decision, as thou canst weigh all the circumstances. I somewhat dread
thy returning to this miserable island at all; for I fear, even if
Madeira quite rids thee of thy cough, England will at once give it
back. But Elizabeth has sent thee a certain article which is vouched
for, by numerous certificates, as a certain cure for all coughs and
affections of the lungs. So far as I can ascertain its structure, it
consists of some layers of quilted flannel, covered with an
oilcloth; and the whole thing is not more than three inches square. It
is worn on the breast, next the skin, and, being so small, it would
not be perceptible under the thinnest dress. In order to make it
efficacious, it is to be moistened with some liquor from a bottle
which accompanied it; and it keeps the person comfortably warm, and
appears to operate like a charm, and makes a little Madeira of its own
about the wearer. If thou wast not so very naughty--if thou wouldst
consent to be benefitted by anything but homeopathy--here in this
little box is health and joy for us!--yes, the possibility of sitting
down together in a mud-puddle, or in the foggiest hole in England, and
being perfectly well and happy. Oh, mine ownest love, I shall clap
this little flannel talisman upon thy dearest bosom, the moment thou
dost touch English soil. Every instant it shall be shielded by the
flannel. I have drawn the size and thickness of it, above.

We are plodding on here, Julian and I, in the same dull way. The old
boy, however, is happy enough; and I must not forget to tell thee that
Mary W. has taken him into her good graces, and has quite thrown off
another boy, who, Julian says, has heretofore been her "adorer." I
told Julian that he must expect to be cast aside in favor of somebody
else, by-and-bye. "Then I shall tell her that I am very much ashamed
of her," said he. "No," I answered; "you must bear it with a good
grace and not let her know that you are mortified." "But why shouldn't
I let her know it, if I _am_ mortified?" asked he; and really, on
consideration, I thought there was more dignity and self-respect in
his view of the case, than in mine; so I told him to act as he thought
right. But I don't think he will be much hurt or mortified; for his
feelings are marvellously little interested, after all, and he sees
her character and criticises her with a shrewdness that quite
astonishes me. He is a wonderfully observant boy; nothing escapes his
notice; nothing, hardly, deceives his judgment. His intellect is
certainly very remarkable, and it is almost a miracle to see it
combined with so warm and true and simple a heart. But his heart
admits very few persons into it, large though it be. He is not, I
think, of a diffusive, but of a concentrative tendency, both as
regards mind and affections.

In Grace Greenwood's last "Little Pilgrim," there is a description of
her new baby!!! in response to numerous inquiries which, she says,
have been received from her subscribers. I wonder she did not think
it necessary to be brought to bed in public, or, at least, in presence
of a committee of the subscribers. My dearest, I cannot enough thank
God, that, with a higher and deeper intellect than any other woman,
thou hast never--forgive me the base idea!--never prostituted thyself
to the public, as that woman has, and as a thousand others do. It does
seem to me to deprive women of all delicacy. Women are too good for
authorship, and that is the reason it spoils them so.

The Queen of England is said to be going to Lisbon, this summer; so
perhaps thou wouldst rather stay there and be introduced to her, than
come hither and be embraced by me--The O'Sullivans would not miss
seeing her, I suppose, for all the husbands on earth. Dearest, I do
not like those three women very much; and, indeed, they cannot be good
and amiable, nor wise, since, after living with thee for months, they
have not made thee feel that they value thee above all things else.
Neither am I satisfied with Mr. Welsh's turning thee out of his house.

Mr. Dallas, our new Ambassador, arrived at Liverpool a few days ago;
and I had to be civil to him and his son, and to at least five ladies
whom he brought with him. He seems to be a good old gentleman
enough, and of venerable aspect; but as regards ability, I should
judge Mr. Buchanan to be worth twenty of him. Dost thou know that we
are going to have a war? It is now quite certain; and I hope I shall
be ordered out of the country in season to meet thee at Madeira. Dost
thou not believe me?

March 19th.--Ownest beloved, this morning came thy letter of the 9th,
by the African steamer. I knew it could not be much longer delayed,
for my heart was getting intolerably hungry. Oh, my wife, thou hast
been so ill! And thou art blown about the world, in the midst of rain
and whirlwind! It was a most foolish project of O'Sullivan's (as all
his projects are) to lead thee from his comfortable fireside, to that
comfortless Madeira. And thou sayest, or Una says, that the rainy
season is just commencing there, and that this month and the next are
the two worst months of the year! Thou _never_ again shalt go away
anywhere without me. My two arms shall be thy tropics, and my breast
thy equator; and from henceforth forever I will keep thee a great deal
too warm, so that thou shalt cry out--"Do let me breathe the cool
outward air for a moment!" But I will not.

As regards teaching Julian French, I wish I had found a master for
him when we first left thee; but there seemed to be so many
difficulties in making him really and seriously study, without
companions, and without constant supervision, that I let it alone,
thinking that, on the continent, all lost time would quickly be made
up. And now it will be so little while before thy return, that I doubt
whether much would be accomplished in the meantime. It is very
difficult to get him really interested in any solitary study; and as
he could not take more than two lessons in a week, and would have
nobody to practise pronounciation with, in the intervals, I think, the
result would be only an ineffectual commencement. I have not myself
the slightest tact or ability in making him study, or in compelling
him to do anything that he is not inclined to do of his own accord;
and to tell thee the truth, he has pretty much his own way in
everything. At least, such is my impression; but thou hast so often
told me of the strength of my will (of which I am not in the least
conscious) that it is very possible I may have been ruling him with a
rod of iron, all the time. It is true, I have a sort of inert and
negative power, with which I should strongly interpose to keep him out
of mischief; but I am always inclined to let him wander around at
his own sweet will, as long as the path is a safe one. Thou hast
incomparably greater faculty of command than I have.

I think he must remain untaught till thou comest back to take the
helm. Thou wilt find him a good and honest boy, healthy in mind, and
healthier in heart than when he left thee; ready to begin his
effectual education as soon as circumstances will permit. Let this
suffice. In body, too, he never was better in his life than now; and
he is a real little rampant devil for physical strength. I find it an
arduous business, now-a-days, to take him across my knee and spank
him; and unless I give up the attempt betimes, he will soon be the
spanker, and his poor father the spankee.

I am going to dine at Mr. Bright's, this evening. He has often
besought me that Julian might come and spend a few days at Sandheys;
and I think I shall let him go, and take the opportunity to run up to
London. What vicissitudes of country and climate thou hast run
through, while I have never once stirred out of this mud and fog of
Liverpool! After returning from London, and as Spring advances, I mean
to make little excursions of a day or two with Julian.

Oh, dearest, dearest, interminably and infinitely dearest--I don't
know how to end that ejaculation. The use of kisses and caresses is,
that they supersede language, and express what there are no words for.
I need them at this moment--need to give them, & to receive them.



     32, St. Anne's Place, _London_, April 7th, 1856

Best wife in the world, here I am in London; for I found it quite
impossible to draw any more breath in that abominable Liverpool
without allowing myself a momentary escape into better air. I could
not take Julian with me; and so I disposed of him, much to his own
satisfaction, first with the Brights, then with the Channings; and I
have now been here more than a week, and shall remain till Thursday.
The old boy writes to me in the best of spirits; and I rather think he
can do without me better than I can without him; for I really find I
love him _a little_, and that his society is one of my necessities,
including, as he does, thyself and everything else that I love.
Nevertheless, my time has been so much occupied in London, that I have
not been able to brood over the miseries of heart-solitudes. They have
found me out, these London people, and I believe I should have
engagements for every day, and two or three a day, if I staid here
through the season. They thicken upon me, the longer I remain.
To-night, I am to dine with the Lord Mayor, and shall have to make a
speech!! Good Heavens! I wish I might have been spared this. Tomorrow
night, I shall dine in the House of Commons, with a member of
Parliament, in order to hear a debate. In short, I have been lionized,
and am still being lionized; and this one experience will be quite
sufficient for me. I find it something between a botheration and a

Oh, my dearest, I feel that my heart will be very heavy, as soon as I
get back to Liverpool; for thy cough is not getting better, and our
dear little Rosebud has been ill! And I was not there! And I do not
know--and shall not know for many days--what may have since happened
to her and thee! This is very hard to bear. We ought never, never, to
have separated. It is most unnatural. It cannot be borne. How strange
that it _must_ be borne!

Most beloved, I have sent down to Liverpool for Elizabeth's talisman
and medicine-bottles; for Mr. Marsh is now in London, and perhaps he
will be able to take them to thee. I fear, however, that they will not
reach me in time to be delivered to him, and I shall be afraid to
trust them to any but a private conveyance. If they come, I hope thou
wilt give them a fair trial, at least, if the weather still continues
cold and wet. What a wretched world we live in! Not one little nook or
corner where thou canst draw a wholesome breath! In all our
separation, I have never once felt so utterly desperate as at this
moment. I _cannot_ bear it.

Everybody inquires about thee. I spent yesterday (Sunday) at Mrs. S.
C. Hall's country-seat, and she was very affectionate in her
inquiries, and gave me this very sheet of paper on which I am now
writing--also some violets, which I have lost, though I promised
faithfully to send them to Madeira. Dear me, I wish I had a little bit
of sentiment! Didst thou ever read any of her books? She is a very
good and kind person, and so is her husband, though he besmeared me
with such sweetness of laudation, that I feel all over bestuck, as
after handling sweetmeats or molasses-candy. There is a limit of
decorum which ought not to be over-stept.

I met Miss Cushman, on Saturday, in the Strand, and she asked me to
dinner, but I could not go, being already engaged to meet another
actress! I have a strange run of luck as regards actresses, having
made friends with the three most prominent ones since I came to
London, and I find them all excellent people; and they all inquire for
thee!! Mrs. Bennoch, too, wishes to see thee very much. Unless thou
comest back in very vigorous health, it will never do for us to take
lodgings in London for any considerable time, because it would be
impossible to keep quiet. Neither shall I dare to have thee come back
to Liverpool, accursed place that it is! We will settle ourselves in
the South of England, until the autumn, and then (unless Elizabeth's
talisman works miracles) we must be gone. The trip to Scotland, I
fear, must be quite given up. I suppose, as regards climate, Scotland
is only a more intensely disagreeable England.

Oh, my wife, I do want thee so intolerably. Nothing else is real,
except the bond between thee and me. The people around me are but
shadows. I am myself but a shadow, till thou takest me in thy arms,
and convertest me into substance. Till thou comest back, I do but walk
in a dream.

I think a great deal about poor little Rosebud, and find that I loved
her about ten million times as much as I had any idea of. Really,
dearest wife, I have a heart, although, heretofore, thou hast had
great reason to doubt it. But it yearns, and throbs, and burns with a
hot fire, for thee, and for the children that have grown out of our
loves. Una, too! I long unutterably to see her, and cannot bear to
think that she has been growing out of her childhood, all the time,
without my witnessing each day's change. But the first moment, when we
meet again, will set everything right. Oh, blessed moment!

Well, dearest, I must close now, and go in search of Mr. Marsh, whom I
have not yet been able to see. God bless thee! I cannot see why He has
permitted so much rain, and such cold winds, where thou art.


I have no time to read over the above, and know not what I have said,
nor left unsaid.


     _Liverpool_, Novr. 24th, 1858

     _Dearest Wife_,

Your letter by the steamer of the 19th has come, and has given me
delight far beyond what I can tell thee. There never were such letters
in the world as thine; but this, no doubt, I have already told thee
over and over. What pleasantly surprises me is, that the beauty of thy
hand-writing has all come back, in these Lisbon letters, and they seem
precisely the same, in that respect, that my little virgin Dove used
to write me.

Before this reaches thee, thou wilt have received the trunks by the
Cintra, and also, the sad news of the death of O'Sullivan's brother. I
shall wait with the utmost anxiety for thy next letter. Do not thou
sympathise too much. Thou art wholly mine, and must not overburthen
thyself with anybody's grief--not even that of thy dearest friend next
to me. I wish I could be with thee.

I am impatient for thee to be well. Thou shouldst not trust wholly to
the climate, but must take medical advice--in Lisbon, if it is to be
had--otherwise, Dr. Wilkinson's. _Do_ take cod-liver oil. It is the
only thing I ever really had any faith in; and thou wilt not take it.
Thou dost confess to growing thin. Take cod-liver oil, and, at all
events, grow fat.

I suppose this calamity of the O'Sullivans will quite shut them up
from the world, at present.

Julian thrives, as usual. He has lately been out to dine with a boy of
about his own age, in the neighborhood. His greatest daily grievance
is, that he is not allowed to have his dinner at 5½, with the rest of
the family, but dines at one, and sups alone at our dinner time. He
never has anything between meals, unless it be apples. I believe I
told thee, in my last, that I had give up the thought of sending him
to school, for the present. It would be so great and hazardous a
change, in the whole system of his life, that I do not like to risk it
as long as he continues to do well. The intercourse which he holds
with the people of Mrs. Blodgett's seems to me of a healthy kind. They
make a playmate of him, to a certain extent, but do him no mischief;
whereas, the best set of boys in the world would infallibly bring him
harm as well as good. His manners improve, and I do not at all
despair of seeing him grow up a gentleman. It is singular how
completely all his affections of the head have disappeared;--and that,
too, without any prescriptions from Dr. Dryasdust. I encourage him to
make complaints of his health, rather than the contrary; but he always
declares himself quite well. The difficulty heretofore has been, I
think, that he had grown morbid for want of a wider sphere.

Miss Williams is very unwell, and, for the last two or three days, has
had several visits from the Doctor;--being confined to her bed, and in
great pain. I don't know what her disorder is; but she is excessively
nervous, and is made ill by anything that agitates her. The rumor of
war with America confined her for several days.

Give my most affectionate regards to the O'Sullivans. I never felt
half so grateful to anybody, as I do to them, for the care they take
of thee. It would make a summer climate of Nova Zembla, to say nothing
of Lisbon.


P.S. I enclose the gold dollar.


     _Liverpool_, Decr. 11th, 1858


This despatch for O'Sullivan has just reached me; and I do not know
whether there will be time to send it by the steamer that sails

Your letters, written immediately after the receipt of the sad news,
did not reach me till yesterday; while those by the Southampton
steamer, written afterwards, arrived here days ago. Those Liverpool
steamers are not nearly such safe mediums as those by Southampton; and
no letters of importance ought to be trusted to them.

Mrs. Blodgett will buy the articles required by Mrs. O'Sullivan, and
likewise the soap for you, and have them in readiness for the next
Liverpool steamer.

We are quite well (Julian and I) and as contented as we can expect to
be, among strangers, and in a continual cold fog. I have heard no
private news from America, since I wrote last.

I have not a moment's time to write Una; but kiss her for me, and
Rosebud too. Neither can I tell thee, in this little moment, how
infinitely I love thee.


P.S. Tell O'Sullivan that Mr. Miller (Despatch Agent) will allow the
postage of this package in his account with Government.


     _Liverpool_, Decr. 13th, 1858


I wrote thee a brief note by a steamer from this port on the 11th,
with O'Sullivan's despatches. Nothing noteworthy has happened since;
and nothing can happen in this dawdling[A] life of ours. The best
thing about our Liverpool days is, that they are very short; it is
hardly morning, before night comes again. Una says that the weather in
Lisbon is very cold. So it is here--that searching, spiteful cold that
creeps all through one's miserable flesh; and if I had to cross the
river, as last winter, I do believe I should drown myself in despair.
Nevertheless, Julian and I are in excellent condition, though the old
boy often grumbles--"It is very cold, papa!"--as he takes his morning

[A] On reading over my letter, I cannot make out this word.]

The other day, speaking of his first advent into this world, Julian
said, "I don't remember how I came down from Heaven; but I'm very
glad I happened to tumble into so good a family!" He was serious in
this; and it is certainly very queer, that, at nearly ten years old,
he should still accept literally our first explanation of how he came
to be among us.

Thy friend John O'Hara still vagabondises about the street; at least,
I met him, some time since, with a basket of apples on his arm, very
comfortably clad and looking taller than of yore. I gave him an
eleemosynary sixpence, as he told me he was getting on pretty well.
Yesterday, his abominable mother laid siege to my office during the
greater part of the day, pretending to have business with me. I
refused to see her; and she then told Mr. Wilding that her husband was
gone to Ireland, and that John was staying at Rock Ferry with Mrs.
Woodward, or whatever the lady's name may be, and that she herself had
no means of support. But I remained as obdurate as a paving-stone,
knowing that, if I yielded this once, she would expect me to supply
her with the means of keeping drunk as long as I stay in Liverpool.
She hung about the office till dusk, but finally raised the siege.

Julian looks like a real boy now; for Mrs. Blodgett has his hair cut
at intervals of a month or so, and though I thought his aspect very
absurd, at first, yet I have come to approve it rather than otherwise.
The good lady does what she can to keep his hands clean, and his nails
in proper condition--for which he is not as grateful as he should be.
There is to be a ball at his dancing-school, next week, at which the
boys are to wear jackets and white pantaloons; and I have commissioned
Miss Maria to get our old gentleman equipped in a proper manner. It is
funny how he gives his mighty mind to this business of dancing, and
even dreams, as he assured me, about quadrilles. His master has
praised him a good deal, and advanced him to a place among his elder
scholars. When the time comes for Julian to study in good earnest, I
perceive that this feeling of emulation will raise his steam to a
prodigious height. In drawing (having no competitors) he does not
apply himself so earnestly as to the Terpsichorean science; yet he
succeeds so well that, last night, I mistook a sketch of his for one
of his master's. Mrs. Blodgett and the ladies think his progress quite
wonderful; the master says, rather coolly, that he has a very
tolerable eye for form.

Una seems to be taking rapid strides towards womanhood. I shall not
see her a child again; that stage has passed like a dream--a dream
merging into another dream. If Providence had not done it, as thou
sayest, I should deeply regret her having been present at this recent
grief-time of the O'Sullivans. It did not seem to me that she needed
experiences of that kind; for life has never been light and joyous to
her. Her letters make me smile, and sigh, too; they are such letters
as a girl of fifteen would write, with a vein of sentiment continually
cropping up, as the geologists say, through the surface. Then the
religious tone startles me a little. Would it be well--(perhaps it
would, I really don't know)--for religion to be intimately connected,
in her mind, with forms and ceremonials, and sanctified places of
worship? Shall the whole sky be the dome of her cathedral?--or must
she compress the Deity into a narrow space, for the purpose of getting
at him more readily? Wouldst thou like to have her follow Aunt Lou and
Miss Rodgers into that musty old Church of England? This looks very
probable to me; but thou wilt know best how it is, and likewise
whether it had better be so, or not. If it is natural for Una to
remain within those tenets, she will be happiest there; but if her
moral and intellectual development should compel her hereafter to
break from them, it would be with the more painful wrench for having
once accepted them.

December 14th.--Friday.--O'Sullivan desires me to send American
newspapers. I shall send some with the parcel by the Liverpool steamer
of the 21st; and likewise through John Miller, whenever I have any
late ones; but the English Post Office does not recognize American
newspapers as being newspapers at all, and will not forward them
except for letter postage. This would be ruinous, considering that the
rate for single letters, between here and Lisbon, is a shilling and
sixpence; and a bundle of newspapers, at a similar rate, would cost
several pounds. I _won't_ do it.

Miss Williams has not yet left her chamber. Her illness was very
serious, and Mrs. Blodgett was greatly alarmed about her; but I
believe she is now hopefully convalescent.

Julian is outgrowing all the clothes he has, and is tightening
terribly in best sack, and absolutely bursting through his trousers.
No doubt thou wouldst blaspheme at his appearance; but all boys are
the awkwardest and unbeautifullest creatures whom God has made. I
don't know that he looks any worse than the rest. I have given Mrs.
Blodgett the fullest liberty to get him whatever she thinks best. He
ought to look like a gentleman's son, for the ladies of our family
like to have him with them as their cavalier and protector, when they
go a-shopping. It amazes me to see the unabashed front with which he
goes into society.

I have done my best, in the foregoing scribble, to put thee in
possession of the outward circumstances of our position. It is a very
dull life; but I live it hopefully, because thou (my true life) will
be restored to me by-and-by. If I had known what thou wouldst have to
suffer, through thy sympathies, I would not for the world have sent
thee to Lisbon; but we were in a strait, and I knew no other way. Take
care of thyself for my sake. Remember me affectionately to the



     31, Hertford St., _London_,
     May 17th, Thursday [1859]


Una must be tired of the monotony of receiving letters from me; and
perhaps thou wilt be willing to relieve her, just for once. Her
letter, and Julian's, and Rosebud's, all three gave me great pleasure;
and I was particularly astonished at the old boy's learned epistle--so
learned, indeed, that it cost me some study to comprehend it. He is
certainly a promising lad, and I wish I could answer his letter in

Affairs succeed each other so fast, that I have really forgotten what
I did yesterday. I remember seeing Henry Bright, and listening to a
stream of babble from his lips, as we strolled in the Park and along
the Strand. Today, I have breakfasted with Fields, and met, among
other people, Mr. Field Talfourd, who promises to send thee a
photograph of his portrait of Mr. Browning. He was very agreeable,
and seemed delighted to see me again. At lunch, we had Lady Dufferin,
Mrs. Norton, and Mrs. Sterling, author of the Cloister Life of Charles
V., with whom we are to dine on Sunday. Thou wouldst be stricken dumb
to see how quietly I accept a whole string of invitations, and, what
is more, perform my engagements without a murmur.

A little German artist has come to me with a letter of introduction,
and a request that I will sit to him for a portrait in bas-relief. To
this, likewise, I have consented!!!--Subject to the condition that I
shall have my leisure.

Mr. Fields has given me, for thee, The Idylls of the King--not the
American, but the English edition.

I have had time to see Bennoch only once. If I go to Canterbury at
all, it must be after my visit to Cambridge; and in that case, I shall
have to defer my return till the 31st of May. I cannot yet tell how it
will be.

The stir of this London life, somehow or other, has done me a
wonderful deal of good, and I feel better than for months past. This
is queer, for, if I had my choice, I should leave undone almost all
the things I do.

I have bought a large Alpaca umbrella, costing nine shillings.
Probably I shall mislay it before my return.

I trust thou dost not burthen thyself with cares. Do drive about, and
see Bath, and make thyself jolly with thy glass of wine.

Remembrances to Fanny, and love to great and small.




     _Pride's Crossing_, Thursday, Aug. 8th, '61

     _Dearest wife_,

This is a very ugly morning, and, I am afraid, will keep Julian and me
at home. The old gentleman had planned a fishing expedition and will
probably insist upon it pretty strenuously, in spite of the imminent
danger of rain. He seems insatiable in his love of the sea, and
regrets that we have but a day or two more to stay, as much as I
rejoice of it.

Thou dost insist too strongly upon the inconveniences and discomforts
of our present abode. I rather need to have the good side of our
condition presented to me than the bad one--being sufficiently prompt
in discovering the latter for myself; and this is true in almost all
cases. I first look at matters in their darkest aspect, and having
satisfied myself with that, I begin gradually to be consoled, to take
into account the advantages of the case, and thus trudge on, in my
heavy way, but with the light brightening around me. Now, while this
process is going on, methinks it would be more advisable to assist the
benigner influence than to range thyself on the side of the sinister
demon, and assure me that I am suffering a thousand inconveniences, of
which I am beginning to be unconscious.

I doubt whether I could have been more comfortable anywhere else than
here. The people of the house are very worthy souls, both of them,
entirely unobtrusive, doing everything they can for us, and evidently
anxious to give us the worth of our money--and kindly disposed,
moreover, beyond money's worth. We live better than I care about
living, and so well that Julian dreads the return to the simple fare
of the Wayside. The vicinity is very beautiful--insomuch that if I had
seen it sooner, I doubt whether I should have built my tower in
Concord--but somewhere among these noble woods of white pine and near
these rocks and beaches. In fact, were it not for the neighborhood of
the railway, the site of this little black house would be an excellent
one; for the wood is within half a minute's walk, and the shore may be
reached in ten minutes. Well;--our sleeping accommodations are
poor;--that is not to [be] denied, but leaving out that matter, we
have nothing to complain of--except the heat, which would have
pervaded any abode, unless it were an Italian palace.

Mrs. Dana (the elder poet's wife, I believe) called here in a barouche
the other day, while Julian and I were out, to see Una, whom she
sup[posed] to be stopping here? She had two or three young ladies with
her, and would probably have asked Una to make a visit at their villa.

Elizabeth came to see us, Tuesday afternoon, and brought some more
books. I proposed that she should take advantage of our escort to
Concord; but she says she cannot be ready before the first week of

It is time we were gone from hence; for everybody seems to have found
us out, and Julian says the boys shout at him from the cliffs, crying
"Mr. Hawthorne! Mr. Hawthorne!!" I don't know whether they mistake him
for his father, or pay him these courteous attentions on his own

You may await tea for us on Saturday--unless the old people chance to
be very hungry.

     With utmost love,
     N. H.


(Letter 50--written by Julian Hawthorne, and continued by N. H.; no
date or superscription.)

Willy has been making a topmast for his ship, but by the way I have
forgot about his ship. He made it and it is 29 inches long, and about
three tuns. He has made a beautiful solid balance for it and he says
it looks just like a real ship he has made or is going to make

     _Dearest Wife_,

Julian did not finish his letter; but I suppose thou wilt be glad to
receive it, such as it is. It rains again most horribly to-day; so
that I have been obliged to leave him at home, where he finds society
enough and the greatest kindness. I believe I told you, in one of my
former letters, that he has quite left off hunching his shoulders. He
has complained of the headache, now and then, but not often; and Dr.
Dryasdust has promised to take him in hand, and entirely refit
him--that is, if he prove to be out of repair.

Do not forget to tell me whether Mr. Westen's coal-bill was paid.

I hoped to have received letters from thee by the Cintra, which
arrived here day before yesterday, having left Lisbon on the 15th. She
reports the Madrid as having arrived on the Friday after sailing. I
long to know whether thy cough yet begins to be benefitted by the
sunshine, and whether thou findest again the elasticity of frame and
spirit, which thou leftest behind in America. Since thou hast
departed, I sometimes feel a strange yearning for the Wayside, and
wish that our wanderings were over, and all of us happy together in
that wretched old house.



     Continental Hotel, _Philadelphia_, March 9th, '62

     _Dearest Wife_,

Wishing to spend a little while in New York, we did not leave there
till 2 o'clock, yesterday, and so are not yet in Washington. I had a
pleasant time in New York, and went on Friday evening, by invitation,
to the Century Club, where I met various artists and literary people.
The next forenoon, Ticknor strolled round among his acquaintances,
taking me with him. Nothing remarkable happened, save that my poor old
bedevilled phizmahogany was seized upon and photographed for a
stereoscope; and as far as I could judge from the negative, it
threatens to be fearfully like.

The weather here is very warm and pleasant; there are no traces of
snow and it seems like the latter end of April. I feel perfectly well,
and have a great appetite. The farther we go, the deeper grows the
rumble and grumble of the coming storm, and I think the two armies
are only waiting our arrival to begin.

We expect to leave Philadelphia at 8¼ tomorrow morning, and shall
reach Washington at 6 o'clock P.M. It I have an opportunity, I shall
send off Una's note the same evening, but cannot tell how.


     [9th May, 1863, _Concord_]

     _Dearest Wife_,

I have been particularly well yesterday and to-day. You must
particularly thank Mr. Fields for the two volumes of the magazine. The
article about Lichfield and Uttoxeter is done; and I shall set about
the remaining article for the magazine in a day or two, and probably
get it finished by the end of the month, since it will not be
necessary to hurry. I shall call it "Civic Banquets," and I suppose it
will be the concluding article of the volume.

I want a new hat, my present one being too shabby to wear anywhere but
at home; and as Mr. Fields is all made up of kindness, I thought he
might be kind enough to get me one at his hatter's. I have measured my
old hat round outside of the hatband, and it is about 24 inches;
inside, it measures 7 inches one way, and a little more than 8 the
other, and is hardly large enough. Get the largest hat possible;
color black, a broad brimmed slouch.

Thank Rose for her kind letter.


     (On the reverse side of the foregoing letter appears the
     following, written by Una)

All Rose's side of the hawthorn is covered with buds, and my wild
violets are rampant. I water your hawthorn branches every morning, and
as yet they have showed no signs of fading, though Papa, with his
usual hopefulness, declares they will. We found today on the hill a
lonely violet, the first of that sisterhood.

Julian appears well and jolly, but yesterday we were all killed by
eating newly-dug horse-radish, which was as pungent as a constellation
of stars. Papa stamped and kicked, and melted into tears, and said he
enjoyed it intensely, and I bore equal tortures more quietly; the
impregnable Julian being entirely unaffected by it, laughed
immoderately at us both.

Papa wants me to leave a place for him, so good-bye.

     Your loving daughter,



     _Dearest wife._

I have nothing to say except that a hen has vouchsafed to lay two eggs
in our barn, and I have directed that one shall be left as a nest egg;
so that you can have a fresh dropt egg every morning for breakfast,
after your return.

Una has considerably improved our table; and I like this new cook much
better than poor Ann.

Do not mind what Una says about staying away longer, but come whenever
you like; though I think you have hardly been away long enough to want
to see us again.

     N. H.


     _Boston_, July 3d, 3½ o'clock

     _Dearest Wife_,

Mr. Fields tells me that a proof sheet was sent to Concord to-day, and
he wishes it to be sent to him in Boston, so that I may look over it
on Monday. You must put two one-cent postage stamps.

This has been a terrifically hot day. I shall leave for Concord (N.
H.) at five o'clock, and shall mail this scribble there, so that you
may know that I have arrived safely.

     With love to the old people,
     N. H.


     _The Wayside_, Sunday morng., Sept. 29th


We were disappointed in not receiving a letter last night, but doubt
not all is going on well with you;--only that miserable headache. Why
was this world created? And thy throat too--which thou wilt never be
at the trouble of curing.

We get on bravely here, in great quiet and harmony; and except that
life is suspended (with me, at least) till thou comest back again, I
do not see how things could go better. We tried hard to be wretched on
Fast Day, in compliance with thy advice; but I think it did not
succeed very well with the two young people; nor could I perceive that
anybody really fasted, except myself, who dined on potatoes and
squash, as usual. I did purpose indulging myself in a plate of hot
soup; but thy exhortations were so earnest that I gave up the idea,
and am doubtless the better for my abstinence--though I do not as
yet see that the country has profited thereby.

Mr. Wetherbie came to see me with his bill; but I informed him of thy
orders not to pay it without some subtraction, and told him he must
await thy return--which he seemed not unwilling to do. He is going to
the wars!--as a dragoon!!--for he says he has all his life been fond
of military service, and the captain of his troop is an "old military
associate." Thou wouldst have thought, to hear him talk, that this
gallant Wetherbie was a veteran of at least twenty campaigns; but I
believe the real motive of his valiant impulses consists in his having
nothing else to do, and in his being dazzled by the sight of $200 in
gold, which W. brought home--where he could have got it (unless by
robbing the dead) I can't imagine; for his wages for three months
would not have been more than $40. But really, dearest, the spirit of
the people must be flagging terribly, when a sick old man like
Wetherbie is accepted as a bold dragoon! It shows that good soldiers
cannot be had.

Julian has had his hair cut according to his own notions; so thou must
expect to see a scarecrow.

Do not thou come home on Wednesday, if it can do any good either to
thyself or Bab to stay longer. But thou hast still another
expedition to make, and the cold weather will soon be upon us. Kiss
Bab for me and believe me


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