Boston, Novr. 25th, 1839—6 P.M.
Belovedest Wife,
This very day I have held you in my arms; and yet, now that I find myself again in my solitary1 room, it seems as if a long while had already passed—long enough, as I trust my Dove will think, to excuse my troubling her with an epistle. I came off in the two o'clock cars, through such a pouring rain, that doubtless Sophie Hawthorne set it down for certain that I should pass the day and night in Salem. And perhaps she and the Dove are now watching, with beating heart, to hear your husband lift the door-latch. Alas2, that they must be disappointed! Dearest, I feel that I ought to be with you now; for it grieves me to imagine you all alone in that chamber3, where you "sit and wait"—as you said to me this morning. This, I trust, is the last of your sorrow, mine own wife; in which you will not have all the aid that 90 your husband's bosom4, and the profoundest sympathy that exists within it, can impart.
I found your letter in the Measurer's Desk; and though I knew perfectly5 well that it was there, and had thought of it repeatedly, yet it struck me with a sense of unexpectedness when I saw it. I put it in my breast-pocket, and did not open it till I found myself comfortably settled for the evening; for I took my supper of oysters6 on my way to my room, and have nothing to do with the busy world till sunrise tomorrow. Oh, mine own beloved, it seems to me the only thing worth living for that I have ever done, or been instrumental in, that God has made me the means of saving you from the heaviest anguish7 of your brother's loss. Ever, ever, dearest wife, keep my image, or rather my reality, between yourself and pain of every kind. Let me clothe you in my love as in an armour8 of proof—let me wrap my spirit round about your own, so that no earthly calamity9 may come in immediate10 contact with it, but be felt, if at all, through a softening11 medium. And it is a blessed privilege, and even a happy one, to give such sympathy as my Dove requires—happy to give—and, dearest, is it not also happiness to receive it? Our happiness consists in our sense of the union of our hearts—and has not that union 91 been far more deeply felt within us now, than if all our ties were those of joy and gladness? Thus may every sorrow leave us happier than it found us, by causing our hearts to embrace more closely in the mutual12 effort to sustain it.
Dearest, I pray God that your strength may not fail you at the close of this scene. My heart is not quite at rest about you. It seems to me, on looking back, that there was a vague inquietude within me all through this last visit; and this it was, perhaps, that made me seem more sportive than usual.
Did I tell my carefullest little wife that I had bought me a fur cap, wherewith my ears may bid defiance13 to the wintry blast—a poor image, by the way, to talk of ears bidding defiance. The nose might do it, because it is capable of emitting sounds like a trumpet—indeed, Sophie Hawthorne's nose bids defiance without any sound. But what nonsense this is. Also (I have now been a married man long enough to feel these details perfectly natural, in writing to my wife) your husband, having a particular dislike to flannel14, is resolved, every cold morning, to put on two shirts, and has already done so on one occasion, wonderfully to his comfort. Perhaps—but this I leave to Sophie Hawthorne's judgment—it 92 might be well to add a daily shirt to my apparel as the winter advances, and to take them off again, one by one, with the approach of spring. Dear me, what a puffed-out heap of cotton-bagging would your husband be, by the middle of January! His Dove would strive in vain to fold her wings around him.
My beloved, this is Thanksgiving week. Do you remember how we were employed, or what our state of feeling was, at this time last year? I have forgotten how far we had advanced into each other's hearts—or rather, how conscious we had become that we were mutually within one another—but I am sure we were already dearest friends. But now our eyes are opened. Now we know that we have found all in each other—all that life has to give—and a foretaste of eternity15. At every former Thanksgiving-day I have been so ungrateful to Heaven as to feel that something was wanting, and that my life so far had been abortive16; and therefore, I fear, there has often been repining instead of thankfulness in my heart. Now I can thank God that he has given me my Dove, and all the world in her. I wish, dearest, that we could eat our Thanksgiving dinner together; and were it nothing but your bowl of bread and milk, we would both of us be therewith 93 content. But I must sit at our mother's table. One of these days, sweetest wife, we will invite her to our own.
Will my Dove expect a letter from me so soon? I have written this evening, because I expect to be engaged tomorrow—moreover, my heart bade me write. God bless and keep you, dearest.
Your Ownest Deodatus.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
点击收听单词发音
1 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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2 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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3 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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4 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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5 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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6 oysters | |
牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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7 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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8 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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9 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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10 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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11 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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12 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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13 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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14 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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15 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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16 abortive | |
adj.不成功的,发育不全的 | |
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