MY DEAR SOPHIA,—After reading your letter I wanted to write a few lines, as are not in such a hasty, interrupted fashion. Yet not much have I to say, for great occasions of bliss, of bane,—tell their own story, and we would not by unnecessary words come limping after the true sense. If ever mortal was secure of a pure and rational happiness which shall grow and extend into immortal life, I think it is you, for the love that binds you to him you love is wise and pure and religious; it is a love given not chosen, and the growth not of wants and wishes, but of the demands of character. Its whole scope and promise is very fair in my eyes; and in daily life as well as in the long account I think there will be great happiness; for if ever I saw a man who combined delicate tenderness to understand the heart of a woman, with quiet depth and manliness enough to satisfy her, it is Mr. Hawthorne. . . . To one who cannot think of love merely in the heart, or even in the common destiny of two souls, but as necessarily comprehending intellectual friendship too, it seems the happiest lot imaginable that lies before you. . . . The whole earth is decked for a bridal. I see not a spot upon her full and gold-bespangled drapery. All her perfumes breathe, and her eye glows with joy. . . . My affectionate remembrances to your friend. You rightly felt how glad I should be to be thought of in the happy hour. As far as bearing an intelligent heart, I think I deserve to be esteemed a friend. And thus in affection and prayer, dear Sophia,
Yours, MARGARET F.
A year or two later my father received the following letter from her:—
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,—You must not think I have any black design against your domestic peace. Neither am I the agent of any secret tribunal of the dagger and cord; nor am I commissioned by the malice of some baffled lover to make you wretched. Yet it may look so, when you find me once again, in defiance of my failure last summer, despite your letter of full exposition, once more attempting to mix a foreign element in your well compounded cup. But indeed, oh severest and most resolute man, these propositions are none of mine. How can I help it, if gentle souls, ill at ease elsewhere, wish to rest with you upon the margin of that sleepy stream? How can I help it if they choose me for an interpreter? [A suggestion is then made, for the second time, that my parents should admit a friend into the Old Manse as a boarder. The notion was sometimes alluded to by my mother in after-years with unfading horror.] I should like much to hear something about yourselves; what the genius loci says, whether through voice of ghost, or rat, or winter wind, or kettle-singing symphony to the happy duet; and whether by any chance you sometimes give a thought to your friend
MARGARET.
And again:—
NEW YORK, May 22, evening.
DEAR SOPHIA AND MR. HAWTHORNE,—I received your letter and read it with attention; then laid it aside, and thought I would not reply, for so much had been said and written about my pamphlet that I was weary of it, and had turned to other things. When my interest revives, I shall probably make reply, but I hope viva voce.
Yes! I hope to see you once more at the clear old house, with the green fields and lazy river; and have, perhaps, sweet hours [fragment torn away] and if all works well, I hope to come. Una alone will be changed; yet still, I think, the same. Farewell, dear friends, now; for this is only meant as a hasty sign of affection from M.
Mrs. Hawthorne writes, at the threshold of The Wayside residence:—