[Late August, 1858 ?]
Amherst.
Dear Mr Bowles, — I got the little pamphlet.
I think you sent it to me, though unfamiliar with your hand — I may mistake.
Thank you, if I am right. Thank you, if not, since here I find bright pretext to ask you how you are to-night, and for the health of four more, elder and minor Mary, Sallie and Sam, tenderly to inquire.
I hope your cups are full.
I hope your vintage is untouched. In such a porcelain life one likes to be sure that all is well lest one stumble upon one's hopes in a pile of broken crockery.
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them! They tell me those were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is.
God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him! The charms of the heaven in the bush are superseded, I fear, by the heaven in the hand, occasionally.
Summer stopped since you were here. Nobody noticed her — that is, no men and women. Doubtless, the fields are rent by petite anguish, and 'mourners go about' the woods. But this is not for us. Business enough indeed, our stately resurrection! A special courtesy, I judge, from what the clergy say! To the 'natural man' bumblebees would seem an improvement, and a spicing of birds, but far be it from me to impugn such majestic tastes!
Our pastor says we are a 'worm.' How is that reconciled? 'Vain, sinful worm' is possibly of another species.
Do you think we shall 'see God'? Think of Abraham strolling with Him in genial promenade!
The men are mowing the second hay. The cocks are smaller than the first, and spicier. I would distil a cup, and bear to all my friends, drinking to her no more astir, by beck, or burn, or moor!
Good-night, Mr Bowles. This is what they say who come back in the morning; also the closing paragraph on repealed lips. Confidence in daybreak modifies dusk.
Blessings for Mrs Bowles, and kisses for the bairns' lips. We want to see you, Mr Bowles, but spare you the rehearsal of 'familiar truths.'
Good-night, Emily.
[Winter, 1858 ?]
Monday Eve.
Dear Mrs Bowles, — You send sweet messages. Remembrance is more sweet than robins in May orchards.
I love to trust that round bright fires, some, braver than I, take my pilgrim name. How are papa, mamma, and the little people? . . .
It storms in Amherst five days — it snows, and then it rains, and then soft fogs like veils hang on all the houses, and then the days turn topaz, like a lady's pin.
Thank you for bright bouquet, and afterwards verbena. I made a plant of a little bough of yellow heliotrope which the bouquet bore me, and call it Mary Bowles. It is many days since the summer day when you came with Mr Bowles, and before another summer day it will be many days. My garden is a little knoll with faces under it, and only the pines sing tunes, now the birds are absent. I cannot walk to the distant friends on nights piercing as these, so I put both hands on the window-pane, and try to think how birds fly, and imitate, and fail, like Mr 'Rasselas.' I could make a balloon of a dandelion, but the fields are gone, and only 'Professor Lowe' remains to weep with me. If I built my house I should like to call you. I talk of all these things with Carlo, and his eyes grow meaning, and his shaggy feet keep a slower pace. Are you safe to-night? I hope you may be glad.
I ask God on my knee to send you much prosperity, few winter days, and long suns. I have a childish hope to gather all I love together and sit down beside and smile. . . .
Will you come to Amherst? The streets are very cold now, but we will make you warm. But if you never came, perhaps you could write a letter, saying how much you would like to, if it were 'God's will.' I give good-night, and daily love to you and Mr Bowles.
Emilie.