Love Letters of Great Men by Kirkland John C

Author:Kirkland, John C. [Kirkland, John C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

~129~

The Scarlet Letter by T.H. Matteson (1860)

~129~

Nathaniel Hawthorne

to Sophie Peabody

September 23, 1839

Boston

Belovedest little wife—sweetest Sophie Hawthorne—what a delicious walk that was, last Thursday! It seems to me, now, as if I could really remember every footstep of it. It is almost as distinct as the recollection of those walks, in which my earthly form did really tread beside your own, and my arm uphold you; and, indeed, it has the same character as those heavenly ramblings—for did we tread on earth even then?

Oh no—our souls went far away among the sunset clouds, and wherever there was ethereal beauty, there were we, our true selves; and it was there that we grew into each other, and became a married pair.

Dearest, I love to date our marriage as far back as possible; and I feel sure that the tie had been formed, and our union had become indissoluble, even before we sat down together on the steps of the “house of spirits.” How beautiful and blessed those hours appear to me!

True; we are far more conscious of our relation, and therefore infinitely happier, now, than we were then; but still those remembrances are among the most precious treasures of my soul.

It is not past happiness; it makes a portion of our present bliss. And thus, doubtless, even amid the Joys of Heaven, we shall love to look back at our earthly bliss, and treasure it forever in the sum of our infinitely accumulating happiness.

Perhaps not a single pressure of the hand, not a glance, not a sweet and tender tone, not one kiss, but will be repeated sometime or other in our memory.

Oh, dearest blessed Dove, I never felt sure of going to Heaven, till I knew that you loved me; but now I am conscious of God’s love in your own. And now good bye for a little while, mine own wife. I thought it was just on the verge of supper-time when I began to write—and there is the bell now. I was beginning to fear that it had rung unheard, while I was communining with my Dove. Should we be the more ethereal if we did not eat? I have a most human and earthly appetite. Mine own wife, since supper I have been reading over again (for the third time, the two first being aboard my salt ship—Marcia Cleaves) your letter of yesterday—and a dearest letter it is—and meeting with Sophie Hawthorne twice, I took the liberty to kiss her very fervently. Will she forgive me? Do know yourself by that name, dearest, and think of yourself as Sophie Hawthorne. It thrill my heart to write it, and still more, I think, to read it in the fairy letters of your own hand.

Oh, you are my wife, my dearest, truest, tenderest, most beloved wife. I would not be disjoined from you for a moment, for all the world. And how strong, while I write, is the consciousness that I am truly your husband!

Dove, come to my bosom—it yearns for you as it never did before.

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