Boston, August 21st, 1839
My dearest will be glad to know that her husband has not had to endure the heavy sunshine this afternoon;—he came home at three o'clock or thereabout, and locking the door, betook himself to sleep—first ensuring himself sweet slumber1 and blissful dreams (if any dreams should come) by reperusing his sweet wife's letter. His wife was with him at the moment of falling asleep, and at the moment of awaking; but she stole away from him during the interval2. Naughty wife! Nevertheless, he has slept and is refreshed—slept how long he does not know; but the sun has made a far progress downward, since he closed his eyes.
Oh, my wife, if it were possible that you should vanish from me, I feel and know that my soul would be solitary3 forever and ever. I almost think that there would be no "forever" for me. I could not encounter such a desolate4 Eternity5, were you to leave me. You are my first hope and my last. 50 If you fail me (but there is no such if) I might toil6 onward7 through this life without much outward change, but I should sink down and die utterly8 upon the threshold of the dreary9 Future. Were you to find yourself deceived, you would betake yourself at once to God and Heaven, in the certainty of there finding a thousand-fold recompense for all earthly disappointment; but with me, it seems as if hope and happiness would be torn up by the roots, and could never bloom again, neither in this soil nor the soil of Paradise.
August 22d. Five or six o'clock P.M. I was interrupted by the supper bell, while writing the foregoing sentence; and much that I might have added has now passed out of my mind—or passed into its depths. My beloved wife, let us make no question about our love, whether it be true. Were it otherwise, God would not have left your heart to wreck10 itself utterly—His angels keep watch over you—they would have given you early and continued warning of the approach of Evil in any shape.
Two letters has my Dove blessed me with, since that of Monday—both beautiful—all three, indeed, most beautiful. There is a great deal in all of them that should be especially answered; but how may this be effected in one little sheet?—moreover, 51 it is my pleasure to write in a more desultory11 fashion.
Nevertheless, propound12 as many questions as you see fit, in your letters, but, dearest, let it be without expectation of a set response.
When I first looked at that shadow of the Passing Hour, I thought her expression too sad; but the more I looked the sweeter and pleasanter it grew—and now I am inclined to think that few mortals are waited on by happier Hours than is my Dove, even in her pensive13 moods. My beloved, you make a Heaven round about you, and dwell in it continually; and as it is your Heaven, so is it mine. My heart has not been very heavy—not desperately14 heavy—any one time since I loved you; not even your illness and headaches, dearest wife, can make me desperately sad. My stock of sunshine is so infinitely15 increased by partaking of yours, that even when a cloud flits by, I incomparably prefer its gloom to the sullen16, leaden tinge17 that used to overspread my sky. Were you to bring me, in outward appearance, nothing save a load of grief and pain, yet I do believe that happiness, in no stinted18 measure, would somehow or other be smuggled19 into the dismal20 burthen. But you come to me with no grief—no pain—you come with flowers of Paradise; 52 some in bloom, many in the bud, and all of them immortal21.
August 23d—between 7 and 8 P.M. Dearest wife, when I think how soon this letter will greet you, it makes my heart yearn22 towards you so much the more. How much of life we waste! Oh, beloved, if we had but a cottage somewhere beyond the sway of the east wind, yet within the limits of New England, where we could be always together, and have a place to be in—what could we desire more? Nothing—save daily bread, (or rather bread and milk, for I think I should adopt your diet) and clean white apparel every day for mine unspotted Dove. Then how happy I would be—and how good! I could not be other than good and happy, when your kiss would sanctify me at all my outgoings and incomings. And you should draw, and paint, and sculpture, and make music, and poetry too, and your husband would admire and criticise23; and I, being pervaded24 with your spirit, would write beautifully and make myself famous for your sake, because perhaps you would like to have the world acknowledge me—but if the whole world glorified25 me with one voice, it would be a meed of little value in comparison with my wife's smile and kiss. For I shall always read my manuscripts to you, in the summer afternoons 53 or winter evenings; and if they please you I shall expect a smile and a kiss as my reward—and if they do not please, I must have a smile and kiss to comfort me.
Good bye—sweet, sweet, dear, dear, sweetest, dearest wife. I received the kiss you sent me and have treasured it up in my heart. Take one from your own husband.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
点击收听单词发音
1 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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2 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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3 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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4 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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5 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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6 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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7 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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8 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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9 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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10 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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11 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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12 propound | |
v.提出 | |
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13 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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14 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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15 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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16 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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17 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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18 stinted | |
v.限制,节省(stint的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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19 smuggled | |
水货 | |
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20 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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21 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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22 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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23 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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24 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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