He is enchanted with The Wayside.
You know Mr. Hawthorne is a sort of load-stone, which attracts all men's confidences without a word of question, and scarcely any answer; and so Mr. Miller tells his whole life and thoughts. If he has the national reservedness generally, it certainly vanishes in my husband's presence, for it seems as if he could not tell enough. On Monday and Tuesday we expected to have Mr. Ticknor here, whom Mr. Hawthorne wished to see about his book, but he did not come.
Mr. Hawthorne feels better now, and looks natural, with living color. [He had been terribly shocked and overcome by the death, by drowning from a burning vessel, of his sister Louisa.] Poor, dear Louisa! It is harder and harder for me to realize that I shall not see her again. And she had such a genuine joy in the children. But it is a positive bliss to me to contemplate Louisa and her mother together. If there is anything immortal in life it is the home relations, and heaven would be no heaven without them. God never has knit my soul with my husband's soul for such a paltry moment as this human life! I have not loved my mother for one short day! My children do not thrill my heart-strings with less than an eternal melody. We know that God cannot trifle! This is all more real to me than what my human eye rests on. I heard one of the truly second-sighted say once, that in a trance he saw the spiritual world; and while gazing enraptured on its green pastures, a spirit whispered to him, "Out of this greenness your earthly pastures are green."
Yesterday afternoon Mr. Miller left us. Oh, dear, how the little man talked! I do not know as the Cataract of Lodore is an adequate exemplification, for that has some airy, fairy jets and overfalls. But the good faith and earnestness with which Mr. Miller coined the air into words were more like the noise and pertinacity of a manufactory. He was certainly a new phase of man to me. When he finally vanished, with his portfolio under his arm, my wings sprang up as if an iron band had been holding them down. It was with a truly divine patience that my husband gave ear to this personated Paper-Mill, because he saw that he was good and true and honest. (I might have only said "good.") Into those depths of misty gray light which stand for eyes under my husband's brow, the little man was drawn as by a line. Miss Bremer said to me of Mr. Hawthorne's eyes, "Wonderful, wonderful eyes! They give, but receive not." But they do draw in. Mr. Miller kept his face turned to him, as the sunflower to the sun; and when I spoke, and he tried to turn to me, his head whirled back again. It really is marvelous, how the mighty heart, with its charities, and comprehending humanity, which glows and burns beneath the grand intellect, as if to keep warm and fused the otherwise cold abstractions of thought,—it is marvelous how it opens the bosoms of men. I have seen it so often, in persons who have come to him. So Mr. Melville, generally silent and incommunicative, pours out the rich floods of his mind and experience to him, so sure of apprehension, so sure of a large and generous interpretation, and of the most delicate and fine judgment. Thus only could the poetic insight and far-searching analytic power be safely intrusted to him. To him only who can tenderly sympathize must be given the highest and profoundest insight.
How wonderfully it is arranged, that in the very person who most imperiously demands absolute beauty and perfection (for so does Mr. Hawthorne), in this very person is found the subtlest and widest appreciation of human shortcomings, and the pleadings of weakness and failure. In "Blithedale" I think one feels this tender humanity. It will come out more and more.
Shall I tell you where I am? I am sitting in our acacia grove, on the hill, with a few pines near enough for me to hear their oceanic murmur. It is only necessary for me to shut my eyes, to hear every variety of water sounds. The pine gives me the long, majestic swell and retreat of the sea waves; the birch, the silvery tinkle of a pebbly brook; the acacia, the soft fall of a cascade; and all mingled together, a sound of many waters most refreshing to the sense. I thank heaven that we possess a hilltop. No amount of plains could compete with the value of this. To look down on the world actually is typical of looking down spiritually, and so it is good. Una and Julian are wandering around; Una having been reading to Julian. Rosebud is asleep. Oh, she enjoys a summer day so much! This morning I set her down on the green grass. Without looking at me, the happiest smile began to dawn over her face; and then she suddenly waved her hands like wings, and set forth. To fall down seemed a new joy. Julian undertook to be her escort. It was a charming picture—the two figures grouped together; the fair little blue-eyed face turned up to the great brown, loving eyes, and all sorts of dulcet sounds responding to one another. I could not help smiling to read in your letter that you would have a rug spread for her. I should as soon think of keeping an untamed bird on a rug as baby. I assure you that since she has had the use of her feet she does not pause in the race of life. . . . It is good to see such an expression of immense satisfaction as dwells upon her face. Most lovingly your child,
SOPHIECHEN.
September 19.
MY DEAR MOTHER,—On Friday Mr. Hawthorne returned from nearly a three weeks' visit to the Isles of Shoals. I did not tell you about it while he was there, because your heart is so tender I knew you would have no peace, and you would all the time be thinking that he was separated from us by water. But here he is, looking in splendid health, all safe and sound. General Pierce, and some other dignitaries with their wives, met Mr. Hawthorne for a day or two; and the rest of the time he had all to himself. I must tell you a story, by which you will be enabled to see into political slander. An officer of the army, resident at Baltimore, told the editor of a paper friendly to General Pierce, that while in Mexico General Pierce was at a gambling-table with another officer; and, a squabble ensuing, this officer struck General Pierce in the face, and that the General took it without a word. He told the editor also that the officer who offered this insult was in California, making it difficult to have a word from him upon the subject. The editor, in perplexity, sent the paragraph to General Pierce, who was at a loss how to prove the utter falsity of the whole story. But, behold, the next thing which he laid his hand upon, on his table, was a letter postmarked "California." He opened it, and it was from the very officer who was said to have insulted him so foully, and was an expression of the highest admiration and respect, and congratulations upon his present position. This was an unanswerable denial; and so he sent the letter to Baltimore. This story, fabricated out of nothing but malice, was meant to injure in two ways, by proving him a gambler, and also pusillanimous. The slanderous officer will probably cease to be one, as I believe falsehood is not considered a military grace.
Mr. Hawthorne went to Brunswick, having been cordially invited by the President of the College. He met his classmates there. On account of the heavy rains he was detained so many hours on his way thither that he did not arrive till noon of the day, and thus providentially escaped hearing himself orated and poetized about in the morning. Brunswick was so full that he had to go to Bath to sleep; and there he had funny adventures, some old sea-captains insisting upon considering him a brother, and calling him all the time "Cap'n Hathorne." At the Isles of Shoals he had the ocean all to himself; but when he wished to see human beings, he found Mr. and Mrs. Thaxter very pleasant. Mrs. Thaxter sent Una a necklace of native shells with a gold and coral clasp, Julian a plume made of white owl feathers, and Rosebud a most exquisite wreath of sea-moss upon a card. I kept a journal for my husband, according to his express injunction. The children missed papa miserably, and I could not bear the trial very well. I could not eat, sitting opposite his empty chair at table, and I lost several pounds of flesh.
To-day, when baby waked from a nap of four hours and a half, she called for the first time, "Mamma!" I ran up, and she was smiling like a constellation of stars. She mourned after papa a great deal, and sometimes would hold a long discourse about him, pointing all the while at the portrait. One day a neighbor sent me, to cheer my loneliness, the most superb bouquet of rare and costly rosebuds that I ever saw. I put them in the Study, in a pretty champagne-glass [the tall, old-fashioned kind], and they filled the room with fragrance. I tended them very carefully; but they bloomed too fully at last. Yet just at that moment, the lady gave me a fresh supply—the very day before Mr. Hawthorne's return; and on that bright Friday afternoon I put the vase of delicious rosebuds, and a beautiful China plate of peaches and grapes, and a basket of splendid golden Porter apples on his table; and we opened the western door [leading from the Study to the lawn] and let in a flood of sunsetting. Apollo's "beautiful disdain" seemed kindled anew. Endymion smiled richly in his dream of Diana. Lake Como was wrapped in golden mist. The divine form in the Transfiguration floated in light. I thought it would be a pity if Mr. Hawthorne did not come that moment. As I thought this, I heard the railroad-coach—and he was here. He looked, to be sure, as he wrote in one of his letters, "twice the man he was." Dear little Una went to the village with the mail-bag, just before it was time to expect her father, and I told her I hoped she would drive home with him. She met him, caught a glance, and he was gone. It surprised me that her sense of duty prevented her from turning back at once. I asked her why she did not, as the letters were not of so much importance, since papa had come. "Oh," said she, "I did not know but it would be wrong to go back only because I wanted to." At last she came. She entered the Study in a very quiet way (apparently), received his loving greeting, and then, taking off her hat, sat down at my feet to look at him, and hear him. When she went to bed, she said, "Oh, mamma, my head has tingled so, ever since I saw papa, that I could hardly bear the pain! Do not tell him, for it might trouble him." Was it not sweet and heroic in her to keep so quiet for two hours? This is a good specimen of Una's powers of self-sacrifice. It has sometimes made me wish to weep over her delicious tears.
Sunday, October 24, 1852.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,—To-day we all went into the woods above and behind our house, and sat down and wove wreaths of red and russet leaves, and dreamed and mused with a far-off sound of booming waves and plash of sea on smooth beach in the pine-trees about us. It was beautiful to see the serene gleam of Una's face, fleckered with sunlight; and Julian, with his coronet of curls, sitting quiet in the great peace. My husband, at full length on the carpet of withered pine, presented no hindrance to the tides of divine life that are ready to flow through us, if we will. There are no Words to describe such enjoyment; but you can understand it well. It is the highest wisdom, I think, to sometimes do nothing; but only keep still, and reverently be happy, and receptive of the great omnipresence. How studiously we mortals keep it out of our eternal business. There should be no business at least once a week. I rather think it is the best proof that Moses was inspired that he instituted a Sabbath of rest from labor. God needs not, but man needs, rest.
Sunset. I left you to go out again and join my husband on the hilltop, while the children's voices kept us advised of their welfare somewhere about the place. My husband and I sat on a terrace on the side of the hill, both looking off upon the tranquil horizon, beginning to be veiled with a dim blue haze. Una ran up, calling out that Mr. Hosmer wished to see papa and mamma. So we descended, and met the old gentleman on a lower terrace, where I invited him to sit on the green sofa; and we grouped about him. Julian at first went rushing through our ranks like a young Olympian exercising heroic games, and finally extended himself on the grass to listen to the palaver. Mr. Hosmer began with the Great Daniel [Webster], who died at three o'clock this morning. He expressed admiration of him, as we all did; and I thought his death an immense loss. Mr. Hosmer was very glad that he died in the fullness of his power of mind, and not sunken in the socket. He discoursed upon the massive grandeur of his speeches, his wonderful letters, and of all that was mighty in him. Also of his shortcomings and their retribution. You would have liked to have heard Mr. Hosmer glorify John Adams—even his appearance. He said that at eighty-three (when he sat near him every Sunday at church) he was a "perfect beauty;" that his cheeks were as unwrinkled as a girl's, and as fair and white, and his head was a noble crown; and that any woman would fall in love with him. So we talked of great men, till I came in to watch baby's sleep. She soon waked, all smiles and love; and then Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Hosmer came in, still upon the theme of great men. Mr. Hosmer thought Oliver Cromwell greatest of all, I believe. Una and I made you a wreath of richly tinted oak leaves to-day, and when I go to Newton I will take it. I wish you could hear her repeat poetry in her dulcet, touching tones. I never heard any one repeat poetry so much to my mind.
Evening. Mr. Hawthorne is drawn forcibly out of doors by the moon's rays, they are so clear and superb to-night. He looked out and sighed, for he did not really want to go; but he felt under a moral necessity. I walk out in him, being mamma and nurse [Rosebud was still up]. When you write to Mr. Plumly, bless him for me for the mantle [his gift to Mrs. Peabody] and his beautiful, refreshing letter about it. I had a great mind to write to him myself of his appreciation of you and of my husband. What a noble, lovely person he is!
Your child, SOPHY.
April 14, 1853.
My husband went off in a dark rain this morning, on his way to Washington. Mary Herne called to baby to come and take care of her dolly, who was upon the floor in the kitchen. Rose rushed in a breakneck manner across the parlor, exclaiming as if in the utmost maternal distress, "Oh, mershy, mershy!" and rescued Dolly from her peril. She was quite happy and still in the kitchen; and then I heard her shout, "I like it—I like it motch!" I asked Mary what it was that baby liked so "motch." When Mary got up to investigate, she found baby in the closet at the molasses jug, still crying, "I like it—I like it motch!" She was very much diverted by our consternation; and when, at tea-time, I was speaking of it, she burst into inextinguishable laughter; and as soon as she could speak, said, "I glad! Was ever such a mischief?" Twice to-day she began to go into the Study for "papa take her." I sent Julian to the village at five, and he returned in a pouring rain. His sack kept him dry, but he thought he was soaked to the skin because his nose was wet. He brought a letter from Charlotte Bridge, inclosing two notes to my husband from Mr. Bridge. To-day I found nothing in the post-office but Mr. Emerson. He walked along with me and said he had a letter from Mr. Synge [whom Hawthorne met, later, in England], an attache of the British Legation, asking for an autograph of Mr. Hawthorne. Grandpapa, baby, and I sat in the parlor in the afternoon, and baby was in the highest spirits, and conversed for the first time in the most facetious manner, casting side glances, and laughing with a great pretense of being vastly amused, and of superior insight into the bearing of things.
April 19. The great day of the Concord fight. I was awakened by cannon and the ringing of bells. The cannon thundered all around the welkin, in a very grand, stately, and leisurely manner. I read the history of the day to the children. What made the morning beautiful and springlike to me was a letter which Julian brought from my husband.
April 21. A day like a dulcimer. It was so charming to rake and plant and prune that I remained out a long time, and tore my hands nicely.
Julian requested to go and take a quiet walk in the woods, and returned just as I was becoming anxious about him, shouting, with a sweet-brier bush which he had pulled up by the roots in the wood. I took a spade, and dug a great cave, and planted it beneath his western window; and I am sure it must grow for him, for he sent sunshine down into the earth from his eyes upon the roots while I was setting it out.
The stage-coach drove up and brought me Mrs. S. G. Ward and Sarah Clarke. Mrs. Ward was cruelly disappointed not to see Mr. Hawthorne; and I told her that he would probably tear his hair when he came back and found what he had lost. "Tell him," said she, "that I tore out all mine." She was splendid and radiant beyond my power to tell; dressed in rich green and a rose-colored bonnet, and her beautiful hair curling round her wonderful face. I do not believe there is another such woman in the world. When she had stepped from the house, Julian begged me to run after her, and tell her she must go to England [whither the family now expected to journey]; and with the most enchanting grace she laughed, and said, "Tell him I certainly shall!"
Sunday. At ten, my little flock gathered [Mrs. Hawthorne taught reading, geography, drawing, etc., to several children besides her own, for love, and gave them Sunday-school lessons also]; and I read them the story of Balaam's ass, and about the death of Moses. They were much afflicted that Moses was not allowed to go to the Promised Land. I read that he looked down from Mount Pisgah and saw Canaan and the City of Palms, and showed them my Cuban sketch of a palm, describing exactly how they looked and grew; and the vision of the City of Palms became very beautiful to them. Poor little Mary Ellen felt ill, but she was so interested that I could not persuade her to go home.
April 26. I met Mr. Rockwood Hoar, who congratulated us upon our expected residence in England, which he said was "the only place fit to live in out of America."
April 29. A neighbor came yesterday with an English white rose, and set out the tree for me. He said it was for Rosebud. We are getting to look quite nice, but all will look black and bare to my husband, after being at the South. Baby is filled with joy to be out in such lovely weather, and makes no hesitation to take the heaviest tools, and dig and rake and hoe. She will not come in even to drink her milk. Some documents came this morning from the State Department, relating to the Consulate at Liverpool. The peach-trees are all in bloom, and the cherry-trees also. I looked about, as I sat down in our pine grove, and tried to bear my husband's absence but it is desolation without him. This is the sweetest place—I really cannot bear to leave it. My scholars drew flowers, this morning. Mr. Emerson and Ellery Charming passed along; and Mr. Emerson asked Julian to go with the children to Fairy Land [in Walden woods]. He went, in a state of ecstatic bliss. He brought me home, in a basket, cowslips, anemones, and violets.
In June the voyage to England, as Hawthorne was appointed Consul at Liverpool by President Pierce, was undertaken, and pleasantly accomplished.
Hawthorne's "English Note-Books," as well as the elaborated papers that make up "Our Old Home," disclose something of his daily life in England during his consulship; but it was in the rapid, familiar letters of my mother to her family that his life was most freely narrated. I have preserved these letters, and shall give extracts from them in the pages that follow, prefacing and interpolating a few girlish memories of my father and of the places in which I saw him, although they are trivial and meagre in incident. He died the day before my thirteenth birthday, and as my existence had begun at a time when his quiet life was invaded (if we may use that term in connection with a welcome guest) by fame, with its attendant activity in the outside world, my intercourse with him was both juvenile and brief. In England, he mingled more than ever before with the members of literary and fashionable society. I, who in 1853 was but two years old, had to be satisfied with a glance and a smile, which were so much less than he had been able to give to my brother and sister in their happier childhood days, for they had enjoyed hours of his companionship as a constant pastime. I was, moreover, much younger than the others, and was never allowed to grow, as I wished, out of the appellations of Rosebud, Baby, and Bab (as my father always called me), and all the infantine thought which those pet names imply. I longed myself to hear the splendidly grotesque fairy tales, sprung from his delicious jollity of imagination, which Una and Julian had reveled in when our father had been at leisure in Lenox and Concord; and the various frolics about which I received appetizing hints as I grew into girlhood made me seem to myself a stranger who had come too late. But a stranger at Hawthorne's side could be very happy, and, whatever my losses, I knew myself to be rich.
In the early years of our stay in England his personality was most radiant. His face was sunny, his aspect that of shining elegance. There was the perpetual gleam of a glad smile on his mouth and in his eyes. His eyes were either a light gray or a violet blue, according to his mood. His hair was brown and waved loosely (I take it very hard when people ask me if it was at all red!), and his complexion was as clear and luminous as his mother's, who was the most beautiful woman some people have ever seen. He was tall, and with as little superfluous flesh and as much sturdy vigor as a young athlete; for his mode of life was always athletic, simple, and abstemious. He leaned his head a little to one side, often, in a position indicating alert rest, such as we find in many Greek statues,—so different from the straight, dogged pose of a Roman emperor. He was very apt to make an assent with an upward movement of the head, a comfortable h'm-m, and a half-smile. Sympathetic he was, indeed, and warm with the fire that never goes out in great natures. He had much dignity; so much that persons in his own country sometimes thought him shy and reticent to the verge of morbidness. But it was merely the gentlemanliness of the man, who was jocund with no one but his intimate friends, and never fierce except with rascals, as I observed on one or two occasions. Those who thought him too silent were bores whom he desired not to attract. Those who thought him unphilosophical (and some philosophers thought that) were not artists, and could not analyze his work. Those who knew him for a man and a friend were manly and salubrious of soul themselves. They have given plenty of testimony as to the good-fellowship of a nature which could be so silent at will.
He was usually reserved, but he was ready for action all the time. His full, smooth lips, sensitive as a child's, would tell a student of facial lines how vivid was his life, though absolutely under his cool command. He was a delightful companion even when little was said, because his eyes spoke with a sort of apprehension of your thought, so that you felt that your expression of face was a clear record for him, and that words would have been a sort of anticlimax. His companionship was exquisitely restful, since it was instinctively sympathetic. He did not need to exert himself to know you deeply, and he saw all the good in you there was to know; and the weakness and the wrong of any heart he weighed as nicely in the balance of tender mercy as we could do in pity for ourselves. I always felt a great awe of him, a tremendous sense of his power. His large eyes, liquid with blue and white light and deep with dark shadows, told me even when I was very young that he was in some respects different from other people. He could be most tender in outward action, but he never threw such action away. He knew swine under the cleverest disguise. I speak of outward acts of tenderness. As for his spirit, it was always arousing mine, or any one's, and acting towards one's spiritual being invisibly and silently, but with gentle earnestness. He evinced by it either a sternly sweet dignity of tolerance, or an approbation generous as a broad meadow, or a sadly glanced, adverse comment that lashed one's inner consciousness with remorse. He was meditative, as all those are who care that the world is full of sorrow and sin, but cheerful, as those are who have the character and genius to see the finite beauty and perfection in the world, which are sent to the true-hearted as indications of heaven. He could be full of cheer, and at the same time never lose the solemnity of a perception of the Infinite,—that familiar fact which we, so many of us, have ceased to fear, but which the greatest men so remember and reverence. He never became wholly merged in fun, however gay the games in which he joined with us children; just as a man of refinement who has been in war never quite throws aside the dignity of the sorrow which he has seen. He might seem, at a superficial glance, to be the merriest of us all, but on second thoughts he was not. Of course, there were times when it was very evident to me that my father was as comfortable and happy as he cared to be. When he stood upon the hearth-rug, before the snapping, blushing English fire (always poked into a blaze towards evening, as he was about to enter the parlor),—when he stood there with his hands clasped behind him, swaying from side to side in a way peculiar to him, and which recalled the many sea-swayed ancestors of his who had kept their feet on rolling decks, then he was a picture of benevolent pleasure. Perhaps, for this moment, the soldier from the battlefields of the soul ceased to remember scenes of cruelty and agony. He swayed from side to side, and raised himself on his toes, and creaked his slippered heels jocosely, and smiled upon me, and lost himself in agreeable musings. He was very courteous, entirely sincere, and quiet with fixed principles as a great machine with consistent movement. He treated children handsomely; harshness was not in him to be subdued, and scorn of anything that was honestly developing would have seemed to him blasphemy. He stooped to my intelligence, and rejoiced it. We were usually a silent couple when off for a walk together, or when we met by chance in the household. I suppose that we were seeing which could outdo the other at "holding the tongue." But still, our intercourse, as I remarked before, might be complete. I knew him very well indeed,—' his power, his supremacy of honesty, his wealth of refinement. And he, I was fully aware, could see through me as easily as if I were a soul in one of his own books.
Even as a child, knowing that he could not think me a remunerative companion, I realized how remarkable it was that in all his being there was not an atom of the poison of contempt. If he did not love stupidity, he forgave it. If he was strong with analysis and the rejection of all sham and wrong, his hand was ready to grasp s any hand, because it was a human creature's, whose destiny was a part of every destiny—even Christ's. This sympathy, which caused the choice he had made of his character-studies, and brought many confessions to his judgment from bewildered men and women, was with him so entire that it showed itself in the little things of existence, as a whole garden-path is noble with the nature of the rose that stands blooming there.
His aspect avoided, as did that of his art, which exactly reproduced his character, anything like self-conscious picturesqueness. It is pleasant to have the object of our regard unconscious of himself. He had a way of ignoring, while observing automatically, all accessories, which reminded us that his soul was ever awake, and waiting to be made free of earthly things and common ideas.
During our European life he frequently wore a soft brown felt hat and a brown talma of finest broadcloth, whose Greek-like folds and double-decked effect were artistic, but did not tempt him to pose or remember his material self. He was as forgetful of his appearance as an Irishman of the true quality, who may have heard something about his coat or his hair, but has let slip from his mind what it was, and cares not, so long as the song of his comrades is tender and the laughter generous. In some such downright way, I was convinced, my father regarded the beauty and stateliness which were his, and for which he had been praised all through his existence. He forgot himself in high aims, which are greater than things seen, no matter how fine soever.
We made a very happy family group as we gladly followed and looked upon him when he took ship to start for the Liverpool Consulate; and of this journey and the new experiences which ensued my mother writes to Dr. Peabody as follows:—
STEAMER NIAGARA, ATLANTIC OCEAN,
July 7, 1853.
MY DEAREST FATHER,—It is early morning. Wrapped in furs and blanket shawl, in the sun and close against the vast scarlet cylinder of scalding hot steam, I have seated myself to greet you from Halifax, where we shall arrive to-night. I was glad to leave the sight of you while you were talking with Mr. Fields, whose cheerful face (and words, no doubt) caused you to smile. I was so glad to leave you smiling happily. Then came the cannonade, which was very long. And why do you suppose it was so long? Mr. Ticknor says that always they give a salute of two guns; but that yesterday so many were thundered off because Mr. Hawthorne, the distinguished United States Consul and author, was leaving the shore, and honoring her Majesty's steamship with his presence. While they were stabbing me with their noise I was ignorant of this. Perhaps my wifely pride would have enabled me to bear it better if I had known that the steamer were trembling with honor rendered to my husband. After this we were quiet, enough, for we were moving magically over a sea like a vast pearl, almost white with peace. I never saw anything so fair and lovely as the whole aspect of the mighty ocean. Off on the horizon a celestial blue seemed to meet the sky. Julian sat absorbed. He did not turn his head, but gazed and gazed on this, to him, new and wondrous picture. Seeing a point of land running out, he said, "That, I suppose, is the end of America! I do not think America reaches very far!" I managed to change his beaver and plume for his great straw Fayal hat, but he would not turn his head for it. It was excessively hot. An awning was spread at the stern, and then it was very comfortable. I heard that the British minister was on board, and I searched round to find him out. I decided upon a fine-looking elderly gentleman who was asleep near the helm-house. Afterwards the mail-agent came to Mr. Hawthorne and said the minister wished to make his acquaintance; and behold, here was my minister, a stately, handsome person, with an air noble and of great simplicity and charm of manner. Mr. Hawthorne introduced me, but I had no conversation then. Later, I had a very delightful interview. . . . Near by stood a gentleman whom I supposed his attache; and with him I had a very long and interesting conversation. We had a nice talk about art and Rome, and America and England, and architecture. I do not yet know his name, but only that his brother was joint executor with Sir Robert Peel on the estate of Hadley, the artist. This unknown told me that the minister was an exquisite amateur artist, and his portfolio was full of the finest sketches. This accounted for the serene expression of his eyes, that rest contemplatively upon all objects. Mr. Silsbee looks so thin and pale that I fear for him; but I will take good care of him. At table, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have the seats of honor, on either hand of the captain. He is a very remarkable man. The minister told me that he sailed with him five years ago, when the captain was very young, and he was then astonished at his skill and power of command; that the captains of these great English steamers are picked men, trained in the navy, and eminent for ability and accomplishment, and that Captain Leitch is remarkable among the best. It was good to see his assured military air, as he walked back and forth while we moved out of the beautiful harbor. He made motions with his hand with such an air of majesty and conscious power. His smile is charming, and his voice fine. The enunciation of Mr. Crampton, the minister, is also wonderfully fine. Mr. Crampton says that these steamers have run for seventeen years, and that not one accident has happened, and not a man been lost, except that once a steamer was lost in a fog, but all the passengers and crew were safely got off. Una enjoys herself very much, and reads the "Tanglewood Tales," and walks and races on the upper deck with Julian, this fine cold morning. It is glorious, glorious,—this blue surrounding sea, and no land.
Your affectionate daughter,
SOPHIA.
WATERLOO HOUSE, LIVERPOOL, July 17, Sunday morning.
Here we are, dear father, in England; and I cannot realize it, because a moment ago we were in Boston Harbor, and how can I be three thousand miles afar? If we had had more difficulty, storms, and danger, I could realize it better; but it seems like a pleasure excursion on a lake. I sit in a parlor, with one great, broad window from ceiling to floor, a casement opening upon a balcony, which commands a handsome street. It does not look like Boston, and, Mr. Hawthorne says, not like New York, but—like Liverpool. People are going to church, and the bells are chiming in a pleasant jangle. Every gentleman has an umbrella under his arm; for it is bright sunshine one moment, and a merry little shower the next.
I spoke in my note from Halifax of Mr. Crampton, and a gentleman whom I thought his attached Mr. Crampton we lost at Halifax, but the supposed attache remained; and I was glad, for he was the most interesting person in the steamer. We in vain tried to discover his name, but at last found it to be Field Talfourd, brother of Sir Thomas Talfourd, author of "Ion." I had very charming conversations with him. He was a perfect gentleman, with an ease of manner so fascinating and rare, showing high breeding, and a voice rich and full. Whenever he spoke, his words came out clear from the surrounding babble and all the noise of the ship, so that I could always tell where he was. He is one of the primitive men, in contradistinction to the derivative (as Sarah Clarice once divided people). He seemed never at a loss on any subject soever; and when the passengers were trying feats of skill and physical prowess to pass the time, I saw Mr. Talfourd exhibit marvelous power as a gymnast in performing a feat which no one else would even attempt. His education was all-sided, body and mind, apparently; and, with all, this charm of gentlemanliness,—not very often met with in America. It seems to require more leisure and a deeper culture than we Americans have yet, to produce such a lovely flower. . . .
July 19. We all have colds now, except Mr. Hawthorne, with whom earth's maladies have nothing to do. Julian and Una are homesick for broad fields and hilltops. Julian, in this narrow, high room, is very much like an eagle crowded into a canary-bird's cage! They shall go to Prince's Park as soon as I can find' the way; and there they will see water and green grass and trees. They think of the dear Wayside with despair. As soon as possible we shall go into the country. Yesterday the waning consul, Mr. Crittendon, called. Mr. Hawthorne likes him much. Mr. Silsbee and Mr. Wight called. The latter talked a great deal of transcendental philosophy to me, on the Niagara; and I was sometimes tempted to fling him to the fishes, to baptize him in realities.
July 21. An Oxford graduate, who went to see Mr. Hawthorne in Concord, called to see him, and brought his father, a fine-looking gentleman. Their name is Bright. Mary Herne thought the son was Eustace Bright himself! To-day the father came to invite us all out to West Derby to tea on Saturday, and the son is coming for us. There the children will see swans and gardens and green grass, and they are in raptures. Young Henry Bright is a very enthusiastic young gentleman, full of life and emotion; and he very politely brought me from his gardens a radiant bouquet of flowers, among which the heliotrope and moss-roses and all other roses and mignonette make delicious fragrance. Yesterday Miss Lynch sent me a bunch of moss-rose buds—nine! Just think of seeing together nine moss-rose buds! Henry Bright brought the "Westminster Review" to Mr. Hawthorne, and said he should bring him all the new books. Mrs. Train called to see me before she went to town [London], and Mr. Hawthorne and I went back with her to the Adelphi, and walked on to see a very magnificent stone building, called St. George's Hall. It is not quite finished; and as far as the mist would allow me to see, it was sumptuous. . . . We have strawberries as large as small peaches, one being quite a feast, and fine raspberries. The head of the Waterloo House, Mr. Lynn, is a venerable-looking person, resembling one's idea of an ancient duke,—dressing with elaborate elegance, and with the finest ruffled bosoms. Out of peculiar respect to the Consul of the United States, he comes in at the serving of the soup, and holds each plate while I pour the soup, and then, with great state, presents it to the waiter to place before each person. After this ceremony he retires with a respectful obeisance. This homage diverts Mr. Hawthorne so much that I am afraid he will smile some day. The gravity of the servants is imperturbable. One, Mr. Hawthorne calls our Methodist preacher. The service is absolutely perfect. Your affectionate child,
SOPHIA.
The Brights, especially Henry Bright, appear frequently in the "Note-Books," and their names occur very often in my mother's letters. The young Oxford graduate I remember most distinctly. He was thin, and so tall that he waved like a reed, and so shining-eyed that his eyes seemed like icebergs; they were very prominent. His nose was one of your English masterpieces,—a mountainous range of aristocratic formation; and his far-sweeping eyebrows of delicate brown, his red, red lips and white doglike teeth, and his deeply cleft British chin were a source of fathomless study. In England a man can be extraordinarily ordinary and material; but the men of culture are, as a rule, remarkably forcible in unique and deep-cut characteristics, both of face and of mind, with a prevailing freedom from self-analysis—except privately, no doubt.
The strong features of Henry Bright, at any rate, made a total of ravishing refinement. He and my father would sit on opposite sides of the fire; Mr. Bright with a staring, frosty gaze directed unmeltingly at the sunny glow of the coals as he talked, his slender long fingers propping up his charming head (over which his delicately brown hair fell in close-gliding waves) as he leaned on the arm of his easy-chair. Sometimes he held a book of Tennyson's poetry to his near-sighted, prominent eyes, as closely as two materials could remain and not blend into one. He recited "The Brook" in a fine fury of appreciation, and with a sure movement that suggested well the down-tumbling of the frolicking element, with its under-current of sympathizing pathos, the life-blood of the stream. "For men may come, and men may go, but I go on for ever!" rang in my empty little head for years, and summed up, as I guessed, all of Egyptian wisdom and spiritual perpetuity in a single suggestive fact. Mr. Bright had a way of laughing that I could never cease to enjoy, even in the faint echo of retrospect. It always ended in a whispered snort from the great mountain range of his nose. He laughed often, at his own and my father's remarks, and at the close of the tumbling diction of "The Brook;" and he therefore frequently snorted in this sweeping-of-the-wind fashion. I listened, spellbound. He also very gently and breezily expressed his touched sensibility, after some recitation of his of rare lines from other poems, but in the same odd manner. My father stirred this beloved friend with judicious, thought-developing opposition of opinion concerning all sorts of polite subjects, but principally, when I overheard, concerning the respective worth of writers. The small volume of Tennyson which Mr. Bright held in his two hands caressingly, with that Anglo-literary filliping of the leaves which is so great a compliment to any book, contained for him a large share of Great Britain's greatness. His brave heart beat for Tennyson; I think my father's did not, though his head applauded. My mother, for her part, was entranced by the goldsmith's work of the noble poet, and by the gems enclasped in its perfection of formative art,—perfections within the pale of convention and fashion and romantic beauty which make lovely Tennyson's baronial domain. Henry Bright wrote verses, too; and he was beginning to be successful in a certain profound interest which customarily absorbs young men of genuine feeling who are not yet married; and therefore it was worth while to stir the young lover up, and hear what he could say for "The Princess" and "The Lord of Burleigh." My mother, in a letter written six months after we had reached England, and when he was established as a household friend, draws a graphic picture of his lively personality:—
ROCK PARK, December 8.
. . . We had a charming visit from Henry Bright a fortnight ago. He stayed all night, and he talks—I was going to say, like a storm; but it is more like a breeze, for he is very gentle. He is extremely interesting, sincere, earnest, independent, warm and generous hearted; not at all dogmatic; full of questions, and with ready answers. He is highly cultivated, and writes for the "Westminster." . . . Eustace Bright, as described in "The Wonder-Book," is so much like him in certain things that it is really curious: "Slender, pale, yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his shoes." He is also near-sighted, though he does not wear spectacles. His eyes are large, bright, and prominent, rather, indicating great facility of language, which he has. He is an Oxford scholar, and has decided literary tastes. He is delicately strung, and is as transparent-minded and pure-hearted as a child, with great enthusiasm and earnestness of character; and, though a Liberal, very loyal to his Queen and very admiring of the aristocracy. This comes partly by blood, as his mother has noble blood in her veins from various directions, even the Percys and Stanleys, and is therefore a native aristocrat. He enjoyed his visit to America extremely, and says Boston is the Mecca of English Unitarians, and Dr. Channing is their patron saint. I like to talk with him: he can really converse. He goes to the Consulate a good deal, for he evidently loves Mr. Hawthorne dearly. I wish my husband could always have visitors so agreeable. The other day a woman went to him about a case in Chancery. Mr. Hawthorne thought she was crazy; and I believe all people are who have a suit in Chancery.
A few weeks after the date of the last letters, a visit was paid to the Brights at their family home, and my mother thus writes of it:—
ROCK PARK, February 16, 1854.
I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandheys, the domain of Mr. Bright. He has been urging all winter that we should go and dine and stay all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. Bright wrote a cordial note and invited Mr. Hawthorne and Una and me to go and meet Mr. and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. It seemed not possible to refuse without being uncivil, though I did not like to leave Julian and baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended to stay but one night, and the next morning would come home and see Julian and Rose, and take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate with him; and we left King, that excellent butler, in the house. It was really safe enough; only, you know, mothers have, perhaps, unfounded alarms. We took a carriage at Pier-head (Una and I) and drove to the Consulate, where we took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Bright. . . . We arrived at about six o'clock, and Una and I had to dress for dinner after our arrival. It was a party of twelve. . . . Mrs. H. [aunt of Henry Bright] is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in season, and out of season at Norris Green. She was dressed in crimson velvet, with pearls and diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair and pretty.
She was resolved to tease Mr. Hawthorne into consenting to go to her ball. Just imagine him in the clutches of a lady of fashion! But he always behaves so superbly under the most trying circumstances, that I was exceedingly proud of him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she could not tell whether he would accept or not, and said she would leave the matter to me, with confidence that I would prevail. . . . Just after luncheon on Tuesday, Mrs. Bright's brother came to tell her that the Great Britain had come, and she would not believe it, because her husband had not telegraphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come back from Australia. . . . Mr. Martineau has a kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But the full dress of the gentlemen now requiring a white cravat and tie, they all looked ministerial to me, except the United States Consul, who will hold on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. He does not choose to do as the Romans do while in Rome. At least, he is not yet broken in. I suppose it is useless for me to say that he was by far the handsomest person present, and might have been taken for the king of them all. The chandelier that poured floods of light down on the heads beneath was very becoming to him; for the more light there is, the better he looks always. The dinner was exceedingly elegant, and the service as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and crystal could make it. And one of the attendants, the coachman, diverted me very much by the air with which he carried off his black satin breeches, white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with silver. Not the autocrat of all the Russias feels grander than these livery servants. The butler, who is really above the livery servants in position, looked meek in his black suit and white vest and cravat, though he had a right to look down on the varlet in small-clothes. This last, however, was much the most imposing, in figure, and fair round red cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear me, what is man! At the sound of a bell, when the dessert was put upon the table, the children came in. They never dine with mamma and papa, . . . and all troop in at dessert, looking so pretty, in full dress, . . . thin white muslin or tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long streaming sashes. I found the next day that it was just the same when there was no great party at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white vest and muslin cravat,—like a picture of the old regime. In the evening we had music, weaving itself into the conversation.
Mrs. Bright is . . . a person of delicate and fine taste; . . . she has eight children, but in her face one does not find wearing care. . . . It is a face of great sensibility. . . . Her smile breaks out like real sunshine, revealing a happy and satisfied spirit, a fresh and unworn nature. Her children seem to regard her as a precious treasure. Her husband, with a white head and perfectly Eastern face, is exceedingly pleasant; and when he comes home to dinner he goes to his wife and takes her hand, as if he had been gone many months, and asks her particularly how it is with her, in a tender and at the same time playful way, which causes a great deal of sunshine. Then he runs upstairs to dress, and comes back in an incredibly short time, as nice as a new pin, and overflowing with the kindest hospitality. It is such a pretty scene: the elegant drawing-room, the recess a bow window of great size, filled with such large and clear plate glass that it seems wide open, looking out upon the verdant lawn and rich green— evergreen—shrubbery; two superb cranes, with stately crests, walking about with proud steps, or with outspread wings half flying, and uttering a short, sharp cry; oval and circular plots of ground surrounded now with snowdrops, about twice as large as those we have in America. Everything is lovely outside. Inside, innumerable gems of art and mechanism cover the tables. . . . In the evening . . . the group of airily dressed children; the tender mother in her rich brocade and lace mantle; the happy father; the agreeable governess (Miss Cumberland is a remarkably accomplished person, and has been with the family fifteen years); the music, talk, and aesthetic tea,—it is a charming picture. . . . The grave butler brings in a tray with cups and saucers and an urn, and leaves the room. H. makes tea, pours it out, and takes it to each person, with a little morsel of spread bread. S. and A. look about for empty cups, and return them to the tray. There is no fuss; it is all enfamille; and the tray is borne off again by the butler, stepping with noiseless feet. There is no noise at any time anywhere in the house, except the angry squall of the cockatoo, who gets into a violent rage once in a while with some invisible foe, and tears his cage, and erects the long feathers on his head like so many swords drawn out of their scabbards. . . . The Brights treated me in the sweetest way, as if they had always known me, and I felt quite at home. H. is to go to her aunt's fancy ball as a mermaid; and on Tuesday I helped sprinkle her sea-green veil with pearls.
This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is the lady of ladies; her children are all clever (in an English sense), and one son a prodigy. . . . They are all good as well as clever; well educated, accomplished, and most entirely united. It is all peace and love and happiness there, and I cannot discover where the shadow is. Health, wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces and virtues—I cannot see the trail of the serpent anywhere in that Paradise.
. . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little talks. She told me elaborately how she admired and loved Mr. Hawthorne's books; how she had found expressed in them what she had found nowhere else; with what rapture one of her sisters read, re-read, and read again "The Wonder-Book;" . . . how Mrs. H. thought him peerless; and so on. There is not the least extravagance about Mrs. Bright, but remarkable sobriety; and so what she said had double force. We talked . . . while we sprinkled pearls over the mermaid's sea-green veil. On Wednesday the sun shone! If you lived here [in or near Liverpool] you would hardly credit such a phenomenon.
CHAPTER IX
ENGLISH DAYS: I
In order to give a full idea of Henry Bright and his home, I have anticipated dates somewhat, but at this point will go back a little to the summer of our arrival in England, since the atmosphere which surrounded Hawthorne and the aspect of typical personalities which he enjoyed are thus easily caught.
August 5, 1853.
. . . We have been so hospitably received that very little clear leisure has been left for my own private use. . . . The children have suffered very much from confinement within doors and bad air without, and almost "everduring" rain. We find it will not do to remain in the city any longer, and to-morrow we go across the Mersey to Rock-ferry, a fine watering-place, twenty minutes off by steam, where the air is pure and healthy.
We had a call from a certain Mrs. R. S. Ely and her mamma. She said she herself was an American. On the afternoon of the same day we received a formal invitation from this lady for a dinner-party. But Mr. Hawthorne was engaged for that day to dine with Mr. Crittendon. As she was a very fine lady, and resides in a very aristocratic street, I was glad to be obliged to refuse, because my brocade was not yet appointed, and I could wear nothing less in state. At the Waterloo we received a call from Mrs. William Rathbone and her daughter, Mrs. Thorn. It was a sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathbone, who wrote that exquisite book, "The Diary of Lady Willoughby." She resides in London. Mr. William Rathbone is a millionaire. His wife is a cordial and excellent lady, who seemed to take us right into her heart, just as the Brights did. . . . We have been to make our promised call at Sandheys. Before we drove there, Mr. Bright took us to Norris Green, the estate of his uncle. How can I convey to you an adequate idea of it? I do not know what we are to do with the regal paradises of England if I cannot cope with this. . . . Here in all directions spread out actual velvet lawns, upon which when I trod I seemed to sink into a downy enchantment; and these lawns were of such a tint, of the most delicate pea-green, with a lustre upon it! . . .
Evening. I have been interrupted all day, receiving and making calls. Mr. Hawthorne has made his maiden speech, and followed it by another to-day, when he received the Chamber of Commerce in Mrs. Blodget's great drawing-room.
Mrs. William Rathbone sent her carriage to take us to Green Bank. The floors of the halls are almost invariably pavements of stone, sometimes in colored mosaic. . . . By and by came Mr. Rathbone,—a very animated, upright, facetious old gentleman, who seems to enjoy life and his millions quite serenely. He is a person of great energy, and full of benevolence, and the fountain of many of the great charities of Liverpool. Then came his son, and then a pretty lady, Miss Stuart; remarkably pretty she was. We were summoned to tea by what I at first thought was a distant band of music; but I believe it was an East Indian gong, merely stirred into a delicate melody. Tea was at one end of the table, and coffee at the other; and old Mr. Rathbone presided at the coffee, and Mrs. Thorn at the tea. The house was hung with pictures from ceiling to floor, every room I entered. In walking all round the grounds before tea, we came upon a fine view of the Welsh mountains over the sunny slopes; for it proved the loveliest afternoon, though in the morning it rained straight down. Mrs. Thorn spoke to me with great fervor of "The Scarlet Letter." She said that no book ever produced so powerful an effect upon her. She was obliged to put it away when half through, to quiet the tumultuous excitement it caused in her. She said she felt as if each word in it was the only word that ought to be used, and the wholeness, the unity, the perfection of art amazed her. . . .
The Chamber of Commerce wished to pay their respects to Mr. Hawthorne; but Mr. Hawthorne could not receive a cloud of gentlemen at our parlor there, unless they had all "stood upon their dignity," as the witty Miss Lynch suggested that Mr. Hawthorne should. The President of the Chamber was a Mr. Barber, and, behold, when we came out to Rockferry he called again, and invited us to dine at Poulton Hall, his country-seat at Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he resides with his two maiden sisters. He came for us in his beautiful carriage,—a chariot it was, with a coachman as straight as a lightning-rod,—and off we bowled to Poulton Hall. [My mother's inexperience concerning splendid effects in luxurious life led her to look upon them in a naive, though perfectly composed manner. One is reminded of the New Adam and Eve, and one is glad that the patient objects of time-honored beauty had found surprise at last.] It is four hundred years old; and there we came upon unspoiled nature, as well as elaborate art. It is an enchanting spot, with a lawn shaded by ancient oaks and other forest trees; but green fields beyond and around that had never been trimmed and repressed into thick velvet. The Hall had belonged to the Greens, and the history of it is full of ghost stories and awful tragedies. We entered a hall, and by the ancient oaken staircase reposed upon the carpet a fox, in a fine attitude, with erect head and brilliant eyes,—really a splendid specimen of a creature. I was surprised at the quiet manner in which he reposed, undisturbed by our entrance; but I was much more astonished to find it was a dead fox stuffed. I could scarcely believe it after I was told. Mr. Barber is a lover of sport, and is going with his family to-morrow to Scotland to hunt grouse. He says that at this season the hills of Scotland are gorgeous with heath flowers, like a carpet of rich dyes. We were ushered into the drawing-room, which looked more like a brilliant apartment in Versailles than what I had expected to see. The panels were richly gilt, with mirrors in the centre, and hangings of gilded paper; and the broad windows were hung with golden-colored damask; the furniture was all of the same hue; with a carpet of superb flowers; and vases of living flowers standing everywhere; and a chandelier of diamonds (as to indefatigable and vivid shining), and candlesticks of the same,—not the long prisms, like those on Mary's astral, but a network of crystals diamond-cut. The two ladies were in embroidered white muslin dresses over rose-colored silk, and black velvet jackets, basque-shaped, with a dozen bracelets on their arms, which were bare, with flowing sleeves. They received us with that whole-hearted cordiality we meet everywhere. They told us some terrible stories about the haunted house, and about a lady who was imprisoned and tortured in one of the attic chambers on account of her faith, and how she resisted to the end, and was starved to death. The room bore the name of the "Martyr's Chamber." ["Dr. Grimshawe's Secret" refers to this mansion.] We went up there, and saw the window in the roof,—so high that the wretched lady could not look out; and the door of solid oak, which was ruthlessly barred. We saw the spot where one of the gentlemen of the former family cut his throat, and was found dead; and Miss Marianne said children had been murdered in the house, and uneasy spirits revisited the "glimpses of the moon." We went all over the house, in which are twenty-five sleeping apartments. One room contains a library in black letter, but that we could only peep at through a great keyhole, because it was barred and padlocked. I think Mr. Hawthorne would like to examine that. The ladies said that, if we wished to go to church, we could tell the beadle of the old Bebbington church to guide us to their pew. We passed this venerable church on our way. Its tower is very fine, and has ivy and golden flowers far up near its summit, and is built of reddish stone. Both ladies spoke of "The Scarlet Letter" with admiration and wonder. They said it had the loftiest moral of any book they had ever read. . . . On Friday, Mr. Hawthorne dined with his worship the Mayor, the Judges, the Grand Jury, the leading members of the bar, and some other gentlemen, at the Town Hall. Mr. Hawthorne said the room was the most stately and handsomest he ever saw. The city plate was superb, and the city livery of the footmen was very splendid, and the footmen themselves very handsome. His worship wore his robes of state, as did the worshipful Judges, with their wigs. Speeches were made, and Mr. Hawthorne made his third speech! Oh, how I wish I could have heard it! . . . This morning the ferry steamers brought over two or three thousand children—boys and girls of the Industrial School—to have a good time. I hope they are kindly treated; but it makes me shudder, and actually weep, to look upon the assemblage of young creatures, not one of them able to call upon a mother; each with a distinct character, each with a human heart. Poor little motherless children!
On Sunday afternoon we took a delightful walk. I think we made a circuit of five miles, if not more. We went over Dacre Hill, from which a sweet, tranquil landscape is seen; and onwards, down a lovely lane. These lanes are all bordered with hedges of hawthorn, ivy, and holly; and one of them abounded in lovely harebells, with stems so delicate that I found it very difficult to see and seize them, so as to pluck them. These hedges had not walls before them, and were not too high, so that we could look over into the fields. A well-worn path led from the harebell lane along the edge of a field; and very convenient stone steps led over the walls. When we got to the street, it seemed a very ancient place. This region was once the kingdom of Mercia. The road seemed hewn out of stone. I cannot tell you how much the cottages seemed like the first dwellings that ever were made. . . . When I called on Mrs. Squarey, we found her a pleasant lady, and Una thought she looked like Miss Maria Mitchell, and therefore Una liked her. Our call was extremely agreeable. Mr. Hawthorne insists upon calling her Mrs. Roundey. When Mr. Hawthorne came home this afternoon, he said he met on the other side the children of the Industrial School just landed. He saw them face to face, and he said their faces were uncomely to the last degree. He said he never imagined such faces,—so irredeemably stupid and homely. I do not think I have realized the sin of the Old World in any way so much as in a few faces I saw in Liverpool. It made me shiver and contract to look at them,—so haggard, so without hope or faith, or any sign of humanity. . . . Mr. Hawthorne had a letter from Kossuth to-day.
August 26.
MY DEAR FATHER,—I am just as stupid as an owl at noonday, but it is a shame that a steamer should go without a letter from me to you, and it shall not. Mr. Hawthorne wishes to escape from too constant invitations to dinner in Liverpool, and by living in Rockferry will always have a good excuse for refusing when there is really no reason or rhyme in accepting, for the last steamer leaves Liverpool at ten in the evening; and I shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all company which I do not very much covet. I have no particular fancy for Liverpool society, except the Rathbones' and Brights'.
Mr. Hawthorne was obliged the other day to bury an American captain who died at his boarding-house. He paid for the funeral out of his private purse, though I believe he expects some brother captains will subscribe a part of the amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral, and in one of those plumed carriages he followed the friendless captain. The children are delighted with the aspect of things, and with the house, which they think very stately and elegant. I have been racing round the lawn and shrubberies with them. The flowers rejoice. The scarlet geraniums, the crimson and rose-colored fuchsias, the deep garnet carnations, the roses, and the enormous variously colored pansies (pensees) look radiantly in the sun. There are many other kinds of flowers besides; and the beautiful light green, smooth-shaven lawn is a rest to the eyes.
There is a vast amount of latent force and energy here, but it takes a cannon to put it in action. Of course there are exceptions enough. Our friend Henry Bright is a slender, diaphanous young gentleman, of a nervous temperament, with no beer or roast beef apparent in his mind or person; and there are doubtless many like him. The English are unfortunate in noses. Their noses are unspiritual, thick at the end; and there is an expression about the mouth of enormous self-complacency. The specimens of this amount to superb sometimes, when the curves of the mouth are Apollo-like. Unfortunately there is too often a deep stain of wine in the cheeks, or a general suffusion; and unless the face is quite pale, one can find no other hue,—no healthy bloom either in man or woman.
A young American was found in a deranged state, and taken before a magistrate. There was one of two things to do,—either to put him in the workhouse, or pay his board at the insane hospital. Mr. Hawthorne, of course, chose the latter. It was just like him to choose it. The young man's mother had lately married a second time, and was in Naples. When Mrs. Blodget came to see me, a day or two since, she exclaimed that she knew his mother, and that she was a lady of fortune. . . .
September 30. Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Ticknor had a fine excursion to Old Chester, and were so occupied with it that no time was left for Eaton Hall. Julian has been parading round the garden this morning, blowing a trumpet which papa brought him from Chester, and dragging after him a portentous wooden cannon, which would not help to gain the smallest battle. It is actually a sunny day! . . . A very great joy it is to Rosebud to see the lovely little English robins come to pick up crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They have great faith in man, and come close to the window without fear. They have told the linnets and thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets actually come, though with dread and trembling; and they carry off the largest crumbs for their families and neighbors. The English robin is very dear. . . .
Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and says he is a noble old man and eloquent, and wins hearts in personal intercourse. His three daughters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very attractive and cultivated, and they are all most impatient to see Mr. Hawthorne. . . .
We are all going to Chester first on a Sunday, to attend the Cathedral service with the children. How very singular that this dream of mine, like so many other dreams, is coming true! For I always wished earnestly that the children might go to church first in a grand old cathedral, so that their impression of social worship might be commensurate with its real sublimity. And, behold, it will be so,—for they never yet have been to church. The echoes of those lofty vaults are scarcely ever silent, for an anthem is sung there every day. Afterwards we shall go on a week-day to examine the old town, said to be older than Rome itself!
October 5. On Saturday, the ist, Mr. Hawthorne went to dine at Mr. Aikens's with the two sons of Burns, Colonel and Major Burns. He says they were gentlemanly persons, and agreeable, but not resembling their father. After dinner, one of them sang one of Burns's songs, and again another in the drawing-room. . . . Mr. Fields says, "'Tanglewood' is going finely. Three thousand were sold at once on its appearance, and it is still moving rapidly. The notices have been glorious everywhere; and they ought to be, for the book is one of the most delightful which your pen has let slip."
October 21. We are going to dine out this evening, at Mr. and Mrs. Charles Holland's, Liscard Vale. These persons Mr. Hawthorne met a little while ago at the house of Mr. Aikens, where he saw the sons of Burns. For the benefit of cousin Mary Loring [the very beautiful and spirited Mrs. George B. Loring, nee Pickman], I will say now that my wreath is just from Paris, and consists of very exquisite flowers that grow in wreaths. Part of it is the blackberry-vine (strange to say), of such cunning workmanship that Julian says he knows the berries are good to eat. The blossoms, and the black and red and green fruit and leaves, are all equally perfect. Then there are little golden balls, to imitate a plant that grows in Ireland,—fretted gold. Small flowers are woven closely in, over the top of the head, and behind the ears the long, streaming vines hang in a cluster.
October 23. At sunset the clouds cleared off and the sun shone, so that our drive of six miles to Liscard Vale was much more pleasant than we expected. It was rather dreary; uncultivated moors and sea-nipped foliage. Finally we began to hasten, at a greatly accelerated pace, down, down, and then entered a gate. It was too dark to see distinctly; but, as far as I could discover, the land seemed formed of low hills and vales, with trees in thin groves; and the mouth of the Mersey, and Liverpool glittering with a thousand lights, were visible through the vistas. Mrs. Holland is ladylike, and therefore simple in her manners. Mr. Holland has the figure and air of an American gentleman, rather thin and pale. The drawing-room was beautiful. It was of very great size, and at one end was a window in semicircular form, larger than any but a church window. Depending from the lofty ceiling were several chains, in different parts of the room, holding vases filled with richly colored flowers with long vines streaming. Mr. Hawthorne as chief guest—there were twelve—took Mrs. Holland, and sat at her right hand. The table was very handsome; two enormous silver dish-covers, with the gleam of Damascus blades, putting out all the rest of the light. After the soup, these covers were removed, revealing a boiled turbot under one, and fried fish under the other. The fish was replaced by two other enormous dishes with shining covers; and then the whole table was immediately covered with silver dishes; and in the centre was a tall silver stand holding a silver bowl of celery. It would be useless to try to tell you all the various dishes. A boiled turkey was before Mrs. Holland, and a roasted goose before Mr. Holland; and in the intermediate spaces, cutlets, fricassees, ragouts, tongue, chicken-pies, and many things whose names I did not know, and on a side-table a boiled round of beef as large as the dome of St. Peter's. The pastry of the chicken-pie was of very elaborate sculpture. It was laid in a silver plate, an oak vine being precisely cut all round, and flowers and fruits moulded on the top. It really was a shame to spoil it. All these were then swept off in a very noiseless manner. Grouse and pheasants are always served with the sweets in England, and they appeared at either end of the table. There were napkins under the finger-bowls, upon each of which a castle or palace was traced in indelible ink, and its name written beneath. The wines were port, sherry, madeira, claret, hock, and champagne. I refused the five first, but the champagne was poured into my glass without any question. So now you have the material elements of the dinner-party. Perhaps I cannot give the spiritual so well. Mr. Littledale was a gentleman with a face in full bloom, a very white cravat coming out even with his chin; and within it he bridled with the unmistakable English sense of superiority to the rest of mankind. He is a specimen of the independent, rich country gentleman of England. His conservatories were the best in the world, . . . and so on through all things appertaining to him. One could see directly that any attempt to convince him to the contrary would be utterly futile. His ears were not made to admit any such remarks. . . . He declared that the weather of the last twelve months was unprecedented. I meekly suggested Bulwer's testimony, but he scoffed at it. . . . He discussed with Mrs. Holland the probable merits of a pudding before her, and concluded he would not try it. There was something peremptory, petulant, and whimsical about him. . . . He was precisely a character such as I have read about in English novels, and entertained me very much. He was evidently of the war party of Britain, and thought Kossuth's last letter to the people of Straffan "exceedingly clever." In speaking of contested elections, he referred to one which cost 100,000 pounds; and some one asked Mr. Hawthorne if an election ever cost so much as that in America. Upon this question, a young gentleman, a fair-haired Egbert, with an aristocratic face and head, observed that he supposed 100,000 pounds would purchase all America! Was not that impertinent? Mr. Hawthorne gravely replied that from the number of elections it was impossible that any such purchasing could be made. Opposite me sat a Mrs. Mann;—an old lady with an extraordinary cap, trimmed with pink ribbon, and a magnificent necklace of rubies round her neck, and bracelets of the same. She had a very intelligent face. There was a Mrs. Miller, who floated in fine, white, embroidered muslin, with a long scarlet sash, and a scarlet net upon the back of her head, confining her dark hair in a heavy clump, very low. She was a very romantic, graceful-looking person, slender and pale and elegant; and I had a good deal of conversation with her. She is one of Mr. Hawthorne's profound admirers. . . . She smiled very brightly; but a look of unspeakable sadness alternated with her smile that expressed great suffering of some kind. She spoke of having been ill once, when her friends called her the White Lady of Avenel; and that is just her picture now. Her dress made her fairness so apparent,—the gossamer tissue, the bright scarlet, and raven hair and dark eyes and lashes. The tones of her voice were very airy and distant, so that I could scarcely catch her words; and this I have observed in several English ladies. "Where could Zenobia have found her ever-fresh, rich flower?" asked Mrs. Holland. It is singular to observe how familiar and like a household word Mr. Hawthorne is to all cultivated English people. People who have not heard of Thackeray here, know Mr. Hawthorne. Is not that funny? We ladies had a very good time together in the drawing-room. Coffee was served in exquisite little china cups all flowers and gold. . . . Mr. Holland asked me whether Mr. Hawthorne was mobbed in "the States," and said that if he should go to London it would be hard work for him, for he would inevitably be mobbed. He then remarked that he did not like "Blithedale" so well as the other books. He spoke of Bulwer, and said that when he saw him he concluded it was better never to see an author, for he generally disappointed us; that Bulwer was an entirely made-up man in appearance, effeminate and finical,—flowing curls and curling mustachios, and elaborate and formal manners. I told him I should expect just such a looking person in Bulwer, from reading all his first novels, so very inferior to "The Caxtons" and "My Novel."
November 6.
MY DEAREST FATHER,—Last Sunday was a day that seemed to be dropped from heaven. I immediately thought that this was the Sunday for Chester. . . . So we sent to Mr. Squarey, who returned word that he would meet us at the depot at nine. We did not pick him out from all others for a companion to the Cathedral, but his wife first requested us to go with them, and so we were, in a certain way, bound not to go without, them. It was very affecting to me when I came suddenly upon the Cathedral. . . . Every "Amen" was slow, solemn, full music, which had a wonderful effect. It was like the melodious assent of all nature and mankind to the preceding prayer,—"So be it!" . . . Una and Julian, especially Julian, suffered much ennui during the sermon; and Una wrote the other day in one of her letters that "it was very tegeuse" (her first attempt at spelling "tedious") "for there was hardly anything in it." Julian inadvertently gaped aloud, which so startled Mr. Hawthorne that he exclaimed, "Good God!" thus making the matter much worse; but as even I, who sat next him, did not hear him, I presume that the same great spaces which took up the canon's voice disposed of Mr. Hawthorne's exclamation. I am sorry the children were obliged to stay through the sermon, as it rather spoiled the effect of the preceding service. It would have been far better to have had another of David's Psalms chanted. While listening to those of the morning lesson, I thought how marvelous it was that these Psalms, sung by the Jewish king and poet to his harp three thousand years ago, should now be a portion of the religious service of nearly all Christendom; so many organs grandly accompanying thousands of voices in praising God in his very words, as the worthiest which man has yet uttered. And they are indeed worthy; and in this stately old Cathedral with its manifold associations they sounded grander, more touching, more eloquent than ever, borne up from the points of the flaming pinnacles, on solemn organ-tones, to God. This united worship affected me very deeply, it is so long since I have been to church,—hardly once since Una was born! You know I always loved to go to church, always supplying by my imagination what I did not find. . . . I think that the English Church is the merest petrifaction now. It has not the fervor and unction of the Roman Catholic even (that is dead enough, and will be dead soon). The English Church is fat, lazy, cold, timid, and selfish. How natural that some strong souls, with warm hearts and the fire of genius in them, should go back to Romanism from its icy presence!
November 8. Yesterday afternoon was beautiful, and we (Una, Julian, and I) were quite rejoiced to find Mr. Hawthorne in the ferry-boat when we returned from Liverpool. It was beautiful,—up in the sky, I mean; for there never was anything so nasty as Liverpool. Thousands of footsteps had stirred up the wetness and earth into such a mud-slush as one can have no idea of in America. It was necessary to look aloft into the clean heavens to believe any longer that mud was not eternal, infinite, omnipresent. . . . I left you introduced into the Cathedral cloisters in Chester, but I suppose you do not wish to stay there any longer. We went upon the walls afterwards, as we had three hours upon our hands. I had a great desire to plant my foot in Wales, and so we crossed the river Dee. I stopped to look at the river Dee. It is a mere brook in comparison to our great rivers, though the Concord is no wider in some places. It was flowing peacefully along; and I remembered that Edgar the Peaceable was rowed in triumph by eight kings from his palace on the south bank to the monastery in 973. It was too late to walk far into the immense grounds of Eaton Hall, the seat of the Marquis of Westminster. He is a Norman noble. I told Mr. Squarey that my father was of Welsh descent, and he asked me why I did not fall down and kiss my fatherland.
November.
Mr. Hawthorne's speeches are never "reported," dear father, or I would send them to you. They remain only in the ear of him who hears them, happy man that he is.
Oh, these fogs! If you have read "Bleak House," you have read a description of a London fog; but still you could scarcely have a true image of it. Out of doors one feels hooded with fog, and cannot see his own hand. It is just as if one should jump into a great bag of cotton-wool,—not lamb's wool, for that is a little pervious. Our fogs here are impervious. Mr. Ogden (the large-hearted western gentleman whom Elizabeth knows) called at the Consulate upon Mr. Hawthorne, and Mr. Hawthorne invited him to make us a visit. He is overflowing with life, and seems to have the broad prairies in him. He entertained me very much with an account of the Lord Mayor's dinner in London, and other wonders he had seen. At the dinner he had a peculiarly pleasant, clever, and amiable group immediately around him of baronets. He told us about going with Miss Bacon to the old city of Verulam to see Lord Bacon's estate and his tomb. They went into the vault of the church where the family is buried, but they could not prevail upon the beadle to open the brick sepulchre where Lord Bacon himself is supposed to be interred. The ruins of the castle in which Lord Bacon lived show that it was very rich and sumptuous; and the very grove in which he used to walk and meditate and study stands unmolested,—a grand old grove of stately trees planted by man, for they are in regular rows. When Mr. Hawthorne came home the next evening, he brought me a superb bouquet of flowers, which he said was a parting gift to me from Mr. Ogden, who actually followed him to the boat with them. They are a bright and fragrant memory of that agreeable and excellent gentleman.
From the "Westminster Review" which lies on the table I will extract for you one passage: "Few have observed mankind closely enough to be able to trace through all its windings the tortuous course of a man who, having made one false step, finds himself thereby compelled to leave the path of truth and uprightness, and seldom regains it. We can, however, refer to at least one living author who has done so; and in 'The Scarlet Letter' by Hawthorne, the greatest of American novelists, Mr. [Wilkie] Collins might see the mode in which the moral lesson from examples of error and crime ought to be drawn. There is a tale of sin, and its inevitable consequences, from which the most pure need not turn away." In another paper in the same number the reviewer speaks of some one who "writes with the pure poetry of Nathaniel Hawthorne." As I have entered upon the subject of glorification, I will continue a little. From London an American traveler writes to Mr. Hawthorne: "A great day I spent with Sir William Hamilton, and two blessed evenings with De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey's house yours is the only portrait. They spoke of you with the greatest enthusiasm, and I was loved for even having seen you. Sir William Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says your 'House of the Seven Gables' is more powerful in description than 'The Scarlet Letter.'" Did I tell you once of an English lady who went to the Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and introduced herself as a literary sister, and who had never been in Liverpool before, and desired Mr. Hawthorne to show her the lions, and he actually escorted her about? An American lady, who knows this Englishwoman, sent the other day a bit of a note, torn off, to Mr. Hawthorne, and on this scrap the English lady says, "I admire Mr. Hawthorne, as a man and as an author, more than any other human being."
I have diligently taken cold these four months, and now have a hard cough. It is very noisy and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind fog, chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly well, and is the only Phoebus that shines in England.
I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin's urgent invitation to Mr. Hawthorne to go to his seat of Clandeboye, in Ireland, four or five hours from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then came another note. The first was quite formal, but this begins:—
"MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,—. . . Mrs. Norton [his aunt, the Honorable Mrs. Norton] hopes . . . that you will allow her to have the pleasure of receiving you at her house in Chesterfield Street; and I trust you will always remember that I shall esteem it an honor to be allowed to receive you here whenever you may be disposed to pay this country a visit. Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne,
"Yours very truly,
"DUFFERIN."
"CLANDEBOYE, HOLYWOOD."
Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage,—"flummery" Mr.
Hawthorne calls it?
To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. We are going to observe it in memory of the fatherland. Mr. Bright will dine with us by his own invitation, not knowing it was a festival day with us. He has long been projecting a visit, and finally proposed coming this week. He will remain all night, as Sandheys is on the other side of Liverpool, and his mamma does not wish him to cross the river [usually foggy] in the dark.
The English people, the ladies and gentlemen with whom we have become acquainted, are very lovely and affectionate and friendly. They seem lifelong acquaintances. I suppose there is no society in the world that can quite compare to this. It is all stereotyped, crystallized, with the repose and quiet in it of an immovable condition of caste. There is such a simplicity, such an ease, such an entire cordiality, such sweetness, that it is really beautiful to see. It is only when looking at the matter outside—or rather out of it—that one can see any disadvantage or unloveliness. It is a deep and great question,—this about rank. Birth and wealth often are causes of the superior cultivation and refinement that are found with them. In this old civilization there seems to be no jealousy, no effort to alter position. . . . Provided that the lowest orders could be redeemed from the brutal misery in which they are plunged, there could be a little more enjoyment in contemplating and mingling with the higher. But it seems as if everything must be turned upside down rather than for one moment more to tolerate such suffering, such bestiality. There have been one or two individual cases that went before the courts that really make it almost wicked ever to smile again. . . . As Mr. Hawthorne delays to go to London, London is beginning to come to him, for Mr. Holland says he must inevitably be mobbed in England. Two Londoners called lately,—one a Mr. William Jerdan, about seventy years old, a literary man, who for fifty years has been familiar with the best society in London, and knows everybody for whom one cares to ask. He is a perfect mine of rich memories. He pleased me mightily, and made me think of Dr. Johnson. Rose sat on his knee, and gazed with unwinking, earnest eyes into his face. He said he never saw anything like it except the gaze of Talleyrand (whom he knew very well). He said that Talleyrand undertook to look at a man and not allow a man to look into him,—he always fixed such a glance as that upon one. Imperturbably, baby continued to gaze, without any smile; and he kept dodging from her and making funny contortions, but she was not in the least moved. "Why," he exclaimed, "you would be an admirable judge, and I should not like to be the fellow who would take sentence from your Lordship when you get on your black cap!" At last she smiled confidingly at him. "There," he said, "now I have it! She loves me, she loves me!" At eight they left us for London, intending not to shoot through that night, but sleep at Birmingham, halfway. "Oh," said Mr. Jerdan, "I make nothing of going out to dine an hundred miles and returning!" The gentleman with him was Mr. Bennoch, a patron of poets and artists, and as pleasant, merry, and genial as possible. He told Julian that, if he would go to London with him, he should have a pony as low as the table and a dog as high as the pony; but Julian would not, even in prospect of possessing what his heart desireth most.
December 8.
Yesterday who should come to see me but Mr. James Martineau and his wife! I have the greatest admiration for him as a divine, and I do not know what I expected to see in the outward man. But I was well pleased with his aspect as I found it. He is not tall, and he is pale, though not thin, with the most perfectly simple manners and beautiful expression. It seemed as if he had always been my brother; as if I could find in him counselor, friend, saint, and sage; and I have no doubt it is so, so potent is the aroma of character, without a word or sign. How worse than folly it is to imagine that character can either be cried up or cried down! No veil can conceal, no blazonry exalt, either the good or the evil. A man has only to come in and sit down, and there he is, for better, for worse. I, at least, am always, as it were, hit by a person's sphere; and either the music of the spheres or the contrary supervenes, and sometimes also nothing at all, if there is not much strength of character. Mr. Martineau did not say much; but his voice was very pleasant and sympathetic, and he won regard merely by his manner of being. Mrs. Martineau sat with her back to the only dim light there was, and I could receive no impression from her face; but she seemed pleasant and friendly. Mrs. Martineau said she wished very much that we would go to her party on the 19th, which was their silver wedding day. She said we should meet Mrs. Gaskell, the author of "Mary Barton," "Ruth," and "Cranford," and several other friends. It is the greatest pity that we cannot go; but it would be madness to think of going out at night in these solid fogs with my cough. They live beyond Liverpool, in Prince's Park. Mrs. Martineau showed herself perfectly well-bred by not being importunate. It was a delightful call; and I feel as if I had friends indeed and in need just from that one interview. Mr. Martineau said Una would be homesick until she had some friends of her own age, and that he had a daughter a little older, who might do for one of them. They wished to see Mr. Hawthorne, and came pretty near it, for they could not have got out of the lodge gate before he came home! Was not that a shame?
I must tell you that there is a splendid show which Mr. Jerdan wants us to see at Lord Warremore de Tabley's; it is a vast salt mine of twenty acres, cut into a symmetrical columned gallery! He says it shall be lighted up, so that we shall walk in a diamond corridor. Mr. Jerdan said that salt used to be the medium of traffic in those districts; and I think Lord de Tabley [1] is a beauty for having his mines cut in the form of art, instead of hewed and hacked as a Vandal would have done. Mr. Jerdan said that on account of some circumstance he was called Lord de Tableau for a pseudonym, and in the sense I have heard people exclaim to a good child, "Oh, you picture!"
[1] Mr. Hawthorne's severe taste is annoyed by that expression, but I must let it go for the sake of what follows.
In the "North British Review" this week is a review of Mr. Hawthorne's three last romances. It gives very high praise.
December 18.
I went to Liverpool yesterday for a Christmas present for you, and got a silver pen in a pearl handle, which you will use for Una's sake. While I was gone, Mr. Martineau and Mrs. Gaskell called! I was very sorry to lose the visit. They left a note from the Misses Yates inviting us to dine to-day and stay all night, and go to Mrs. Martineau's evening party to-morrow! It would be a charming visitation, if it were possible. Mr. Bright cannot find language to express the Misses Yates' delightsomeness, and was wishing that we knew them.
By this steamer Mr. Ticknor has sent us a Christmas present of a barrel of apples. I wish you could see Rosebud with her bright cheeks and laughing eyes. A lady thought her four years old, the other day! Julian has to-day gone with his father to the Consulate. Una is in the drawing-room reading Miss Edgeworth. Rose is on the back of my chair.
On Christmas night the bells chimed in the dawn, beginning at twelve and continuing till daybreak. I wish you could hear this chiming of bells. It is the most joyful sound you can imagine,—the most hopeful, the most enlivening. I waked before light, and thought I heard some ineffable music. I thought of the song of the angels on that blessed morn; but while listening, through a sudden opening in the air, or breeze blowing towards us, I found it was not the angels, but the bells of Liverpool. One day when I was driving through Liverpool with Una and Julian, these bells suddenly broke forth on the occasion of a marriage, and I could scarcely keep the children in the carriage. They leaped up and down, and Una declared she would be married in England, if only to hear the chime of the bells. The mummers stood at our gate on Christmas morning and sang in the dawn, acting the part of the heavenly host. The Old Year was tolled out and the New Year chimed in also, and again the mummers sang at the gate.
Perhaps you have heard of Miss Charlotte Cushman, the actress? The summer before we left America, she sent a note to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting him to sit to a lady for his miniature, which she wished to take to England. Mr. Hawthorne could not refuse, though you can imagine his repugnance on every account. He went and did penance, and was then introduced to Miss Cushman. He liked her for a very sensible person with perfectly simple manners. The other day he met her in Liverpool, and she told him she had been intending to call on me ever since she had been at her sister's at Rose Hill Hall, Woolton, seven miles from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne wished me to invite her to dine and pass the night. I invited her to dine on the 29th of December. She accepted and came. I found her tall as her famous character, Meg Merrilies, with a face of peculiar, square form, most amiable in expression, and so very untheatrical in manner and bearing that I should never suspect her to be an actress. She has left the stage now two years, and retires upon the fortune she has made; for she was a very great favorite on the English stage, and retired in the height of her fame. The children liked her prodigiously, and Rose was never weary of the treasures attached to her watch-chain. I could not recount to you the gems clustered there,—such as a fairy tiny gold palette, with all the colors arranged; a tiny easel with a colored landscape, quarter of an inch wide; a tragic and comic mask, just big enough for a gnome; a cross of the Legion of Honor; a wallet, opening with a spring, and disclosing compartments just of a size for the Keeper of the Privy Purse of the Fairy Queen; a dagger for a pygmy; two minute daguerreotypes of friends, each as large as a small pea, in a gold case; an opera-glass; Faith, Hope, and Charity represented by a golden heart and anchor, and I forget what,—a little harp; I cannot remember any more. These were all, I think, memorials of friends. In the morning she sat down to 'Una's beautifully toned piano, and sang one of Lockhart's Spanish ballads, with eloquent expression, so as to make my blood tingle.
Hospitality was quite frequent now in our first English home, as many letters affirm. The delightful novelty to my small self of a peep at the glitter of little dinner-parties was as surprising to me as if I could have had a real consciousness of its contrast to all the former simplicity of my parents' life. Down the damask trooped the splendid silver covers, entrancingly catching a hundred reflections from candle-flame and cut-glass, and my own face as I hovered for a moment upon the scene while the butler was gliding hither and thither to complete his artistic arrangements. On my father's side of the family there had been a distinct trait of material elegance, appearing in such evidences as an exquisite tea-service, brought from China by my grandfather, with the intricate monogram and dainty shapes and decoration of a hundred years ago; and in a few chairs and tables that could not be surpassed for graceful design and finish; and so on. As for my mother's traits of inborn refinement, they were marked enough, but she writes of herself to her sister at this time, "You cannot think how I cannot be in the least tonish, such is my indomitable simplicity of style." Her opinion of herself was always humble; and I can testify to the distinguished figure she made as she wore the first ball-dress I ever detected her in. I was supposed to be fast asleep, and she had come to look at me before going out to some social function, as she has told me she never failed to do when leaving the house for a party. Her superb brocade, pale-tinted, low-necked, and short-sleeved, her happy, airy manner, her glowing though pale face, her dancing eyes, her ever-hovering smile of perfect kindness, all flashed upon me in the sudden light as I roused myself. I insisted upon gazing and admiring, yet I ended by indignantly weeping to find that my gentle little mother could be so splendid and wear so triumphant an expression. "She is frightened at my fine gown!" my mother exclaimed, with a changed look of self-forgetting concern; and I never lost the lesson of how much more beautiful her noble glance was than her triumphant one. A faded bill has been preserved, for the humor of it, from Salem days, in which it is recorded that for the year 1841 she ordered ten pairs of number two kid slippers,—which was not precisely economical for a young lady who needed to earn money by painting, and who denied herself a multitude of pleasures and comforts which were enjoyed by relatives and friends.
In our early experience of English society, my mother's suppressed fondness for the superb burst into fruition, and the remnants of such indulgence have turned up among severest humdrum for many years; but soon she refused to permit herself even momentary extravagances. To those who will remember duty, hosts of duties appeal, and it was not long before my father and mother began to save for their children's future the money which flowed in. Miss Cushman's vagary of an amusing watch-chain was exactly the sort of thing which they never imitated; they smiled at it as the saucy tyranny over a great character of great wealth. My father's rigid economy was perhaps more un broken than my mother's. Still, she has written, "I never knew what charity meant till I knew my husband." There are many records of his having heard clearly the teaching that home duties are not so necessary or loving as duty towards the homeless.
Julian came home from Liverpool with papa one afternoon with four masks, with which we made merry for several days. One was the face of a simpleton, and that was very funny upon papa,—such a transformation! A spectacled old beldame, looking exactly like a terrific auld wife at Lenox, was very diverting upon Julian, turning him into a gnome; and Una was irresistible beneath the mask of a meaningless young miss, resembling a silly-looking doll. Julian put on another with a portentous nose, and then danced the schottische with Una in her doll's mask. Hearing this morning that a gentleman had sent to some regiments 50 pounds worth of postage stamps, he said he thought it would be better to have an arrangement for all the soldiers' letters to go and come free. I do not know but he had better send this suggestion to the "London Times."
March 12.
Mr. Hawthorne dined at Aigbarth, one of the suburbs of Liverpool, with Mr. Bramley Moore, an M. P. Mr. Moore took an effectual way to secure Mr. Hawthorne, for he went one day himself to his office, and asked him for the very same evening, thus bearding the lion in his den and clutching him. And Mrs. H., the aunt of Henry Bright, would not be discouraged. She could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splendid fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and all the aristocracy of the county . . . but wrote him a note telling him that if he wished for her forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day when we would go and dine with her. Mr. Hawthorne delayed, and then she wrote me a note, appointing the 16th of March for us to go and meet the Martineaus and Brights and remain all night. There was no evading this, so he is going; but I refused. Her husband is a mighty banker, and she is sister of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, W. E. Gladstone, and they are nobly connected all round. . . . Mr. Hawthorne does not want to go, and especially curses the hour when white muslin cravats became the sine qua non of a gentleman's full dress. Just think how reverend he must look! I believe he would even rather wear a sword and cocked hat, for he declares a white muslin cravat the last abomination, the chief enormity of fashion, and that all the natural feelings of a man cry out against it; and that it is alike abhorrent to taste and to sentiment. To all this I reply that he looks a great deal handsomer with white about his throat than with a stiff old black satin stock, which always to me looks like the stocks, and that it is habit only which makes him prefer it. . . .
March 16.
Mr. Hawthorne has gone to West Derby to dine . . . and stay all night. He left me with a powerful anathema against all dinner-parties, declaring he did not believe anybody liked them, and therefore they were a malicious invention for destroying human comfort. Mr. Bramley Moore again seized Mr. Hawthorne in the Consulate, the other clay, and dragged him to Aigbarth to dine with Mr. Warren, the author of "Ten Thousand a Year" and "The Diary of a Physician." Mr. Hawthorne liked him very well. Mr. Warren commenced to say something very complimentary to Mr. Hawthorne in a low tone, across an intermediate gentleman, when Mr. Bramley Moore requested that the company might have the benefit of it, so Mr. Warren spoke aloud; and then Mr. Hawthorne had to make a speech in return! We expected Mr. Warren here to dine afterwards, but he has gone home to Hull.
Mrs. Sanders again sent a peremptory summons for us all to go to London and make her a visit. I wish Mr. Hawthorne could leave his affairs and go, for she lives in Portman Square, and Mr. Buchanan would get us admitted everywhere. Mr. Sanders has been rejected by the Senate; but I do not suppose he cares much, since he is worth a half million of dollars.
Sir Thomas Talfourd, the author of "Ion," suddenly died the other day, universally mourned. I believe his brother Field, who came to England with us, is again in America, now. I trust the rest of the notable men of England will live till I have seen them. This gentleman wished very much to meet Mr. Hawthorne.
March 30.
Mr. Hawthorne went to Norris Green and dined with the H——s, Martineaus, and Brights, and others, and stayed all night, as appointed. He declared that, when he looked in the glass before going down to dinner, he presented the appearance of a respectable butler, with his white cravat—and thought of hiring himself out. He liked Mr. H. . . . He gives away 7000 pounds a year in charity! Mrs. H. is good, too, for she goes herself and sees into the condition of a whole district in Liverpool, though a dainty lady of fashion. She showed Mr. Hawthorne a miniature of the famous Sir Kenelm Digby, who was her ancestor; and so through his family she is connected with the Percys and the Stanleys, Earls of Derby. Everything was in sumptuous fashion, served by gorgeous footmen. Mr. Hawthorne was chief guest. . . . Mrs. H. has sense, and is rather sentimental, too. She has no children, and had the assurance to tell Mr. Hawthorne she preferred chickens to children.
The next day Mr. Bright invited Mr. Hawthorne to drive. Mr. Bright wanted to call on his cousin, Sir Thomas Birch. And as he was the nearest neighbor of the Earl of Derby, he took them to Knowsley, Lord Derby's seat. At Sir Thomas's, Mr. Hawthorne saw a rookery for the first time; and a picture of Lady Birch, his mother, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, but not quite finished. It is said to be one of his best pictures. Mr. Hawthorne was disappointed in the house at Knowsley. It was lower than he had imagined, and of various eras, but so large as to be able to entertain an hundred guests.
April 14, Good Friday.
MY DEAR FATHER,—This is a day of great and solemn fast in England; when all business is suspended, and no work is done in house or street; when there is really a mighty pause in worldly affairs, and all people remind themselves that Christ was crucified, and died for us. From early morning till late evening, all churches are open and service is performed.
I wish you could be undeceived about the income of this Consulate. Mr. Hawthorne now knows actually everything about it. . . . He goes from us at nine, and we do not see him again till five!!! I only wish we could be pelted within an inch of our lives with a hailstorm of sovereigns, so as to satisfy every one's most gorgeous hopes; but I am afraid we shall have but a gentle shower, after all. . . . I am sorry I have had the expectation of so much, because I am rather disappointed to be so circumscribed. With my husband's present constant devotion to the duties of his office, he could no more write a syllable than he could build a cathedral. . . . He never writes by candle-light. . . . Mr. Crittendon tells Mr. Hawthorne that he thinks he may save $5000 a year by economy. He himself, living in a very quiet manner, not going into society, has spent $4000 a year. He thinks we must spend more. People will not let Mr. Hawthorne alone, as they have Mr. Crittendon, because they feel as if they had a right to him, and he cannot well forego their claim. "The Scarlet Letter" seems to have placed him on a pinnacle of fame and love here. . . . It will give you pleasure, I think, to hear that Mr. Cecil read a volume of "The Scarlet Letter" the other day which was one of the thirty-fifth thousand of one publisher. Is it not provoking that the author should not have even one penny a volume?
I have only room to put in the truest, warmest sympathy with all your efforts and trials, and the wish that I could lift you up out of all, and sorrow that I cannot. Mr. Hawthorne has relations and personal friends who look to him, I think, with great desires. I can demand nothing for mine.
Though the great Reform Bill of Lord John Russell was deferred by him the other night to another period on account of war, yet reforms on every point in social life are going on here, or moving to go on. Nothing seems to escape some eye that has suddenly opened. The Earl of Shaftesbury is one of God's Angels of Benefits. The hideous condition of the very poor and even of tradesmen is being demonstrated to the nation; a condition in which, a writer in the London "Athenaeum" says, "Virtue is impossible"! From this most crying and worst evil, up through all things, sounds the trumpet of reform.
Such abuse of the good President as there is, is sickening. I hope those who vilify him for doing what he considers his duty have a quarter of his conscience and uprightness. He is a brave man. . . . He wrote Mr. Hawthorne that he had no hope of being popular during the first part of his administration at least. He can be neither bribed, bought, nor tempted in his political course; he will do what he thinks constitutional and right, and find content in it. . . . I wish our Senators had as good manners as the noble lords of Parliament. But we are perfect savages in manners as yet, and have no self-control, nor reverence. The dignity and serenity of maturer age will, I trust, come at last to us. . . .
I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, because I am not handsome enough. But I will endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and Rosebud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks supremely handsome here; handsomer than anybody I see; every other face looks coarse, compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose he were an Englishman—till he speaks. This is a high compliment from the English. They look at him as much as they can, covertly; as much as they can without being uncivil and staring, as if they wanted to assure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does not observe this; but it is nuts to me, and / observe it. The lofty, sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought he was born for a palace, and he shows that he was.
We have had some delightful experiences, and have seen some interesting people, some literary celebrities, and beautiful English life within jealous stone walls, draped with ivy inside. We see why comfort is an essentially English word, and we understand Shakespeare and all the old poets properly now we are on the scene.
CHAPTER X
ENGLISH DAYS: II
DOUGLAS, MONA, July 18.
MY DEAR FATHER,—I little dreamed that I should next address you from the Isle of Man! Yet here we all are, with one grievous exception, to be sure; for Mr. Hawthorne, after fetching us one day, and staying the two next, went away to the tiresome old Consulate, so conscientious and devoted is he; for his clerk assured him he might stay a little. Yet I know that there are reasons of state why he should not; and therefore, though I am nothing less than infinitely desolate without him, and hate to look at anything new unless he is looking too, I cannot complain. But is it not wonderful that I am here in this remote and interesting and storied spot?—the last retreat of the little people called fairies, the lurking-place of giants and enchanters. . . . At Stonehenge we found a few rude stones for a temple. I could not gather into a small enough focus the wide glances of Julian's great brown, searching eyes to make him see even what there was; and when finally he comprehended that the circle of stones once marked out a temple, and that the Druids really once stood there, he curled his lip, scornfully exclaiming, "Is that all?" and bounded off to pluck flowers. I think that, having heard of Stonehenge and a Druid temple which was built of stones so large that it was considered almost miraculous that they were moved to their places, he expected to see a temple touching the sky, perhaps. . . . Mr. Hawthorne came back the next Friday, much to our joy, and on Saturday afternoon we walked to the Nunnery with him, which was founded by St. Bridget. A few ruins remain, overgrown with old ivy vines of such enormous size that I think they probably hold the walls together. . . . Julian and Una were enchanted with the clear stream, and Julian was wild for turtles; but there are no reptiles in the Isle of Man. . . . I kept thinking, "And this is the rugged, bare, rocky isle which I dreaded to come to,—this soft, rich, verdant paradise!" It really seems as if the giants had thrown aloft the bold, precipitous rocks and headlands round the edge of the island, to guard the sylvan solitudes for the fairies, whose stronghold was the Isle of Man. I should not have been surprised at any time to have seen those small people peeping out of the wild foxgloves, which are their favorite hiding-places. So poetical is the air of these regions that mermaids, fairies, and giants seem quite natural to it. In the morning of the day we went to the Nunnery Mr. Hawthorne took Julian and went to the Douglas market, which is held in the open air. . . . My husband said that living manners were so interesting and valuable that he would not miss the scene for even Peel Castle. One day, when Una and I went to shop in Douglas, we saw in the market square a second-hand bookstall. I had been trying in vain to get "Peveril of the Peak" at the library and bookstores, and hoped this sales-counter might have it. So I looked over the books, and what do you think I saw? A well-read and soiled copy of the handsome edition of Mr. Hawthorne's "Blithedale Romance"! Yes, even in Mona. We have heard of some families in England who keep in use two copies of "The Scarlet Letter;" but I never dreamed of finding either of these books here.
Sunday was the perfectest day in our remembrance. In the morning Mr. Hawthorne walked to Kirk Braddon, and the afternoon we spent on Douglas Head. It is quite impossible to put into words that afternoon. Such softness and splendor and freshness combined in the air; such a clearest sunshine; such a deep blue sea and cloudless blue heaven; such fragrance and such repose. We looked from our great height upon all the beauty and grandeur, and in Mr. Hawthorne's face was a reflection of the incredible loveliness and majesty of the scene. Una was a lily, and Julian a magnolia. I think that for once, at least, Mr. Hawthorne was satisfied with weather and circumstances. Towards sunset the mountains of Cumberland were visible, for the first time during our visit, on the horizon, which proved that even in England the air was clear that day. A pale purple outline of waving hills lay on the silvery sea, which, as it grew later, became opaline in hue. . . .
July 20.
. . . This morning, soon after ten, we summoned a boat, and were rowed to St. Mary's Rock, which has a good beach on one side, and spent two hours there. There was a delicious air and bright sunshine, and we found innumerable pretty pearl shells among the pebbles; and Julian bathed in the sea. Rosebud enjoyed it very much, and kept close to me all the time. I asked her why she kept so near mamma, and she replied, "Oh, dear mamma, I cannot help it." Once she put her little foot into a pool, and I had to take off her sock and shoe to dry them in the sun. Her snowy little foot and pink toes looked, on the rocks, like a new kind of shell, and I told her I was afraid a gentleman who was seeking shells on the other side of the island would come and take it for a conch shell, and put it in his pocket for his little children. She shouted at this; and then threw back her head, with a' silent laugh, like Leatherstocking, showing all her little pearly teeth,—so pretty with her rosy cheeks and streaming hair. I actually seem in a dream, and not here in bodily presence. I cannot imagine myself here; much less realize it. Through the mist Douglas looked like a vast leviathan asleep on the sea, as we approached. It is a pity that steam should come near such a place, for its bustle is not in harmony with the vast repose.
I suppose the world could scarcely furnish another such stately and salubrious spot as exactly this; for the climate of the Isle of Man is extremely mild and genial. From my parlor windows, in the Fort Anne Hotel, I look out on the beautiful crescent harbor from a good height. . . . Mountains rise above high hills on the horizon in soft, large, mellow lines, which I am never weary of gazing at. The hills are of precious emerald stone; the sea is an opal; the distant mountains are a pile of topazes; and the sky is turquoise and gold. But why attempt to put into ink such a magnificent setting as this? No jewels could be compared to it. God alone could mingle these colors and pencil these grand lines. . . .
ROCK PARK, August 2.
DEAR ELIZABETH,—We returned last Saturday, after a delightful visit to Mona of a fortnight. We had constantly splendid weather, and there was one day which Mr. Hawthorne and I concluded we had never seen equaled in any hemisphere. . . . I took Una and Julian to Glen Darragh to see the ruins of a Druidical temple. . . . We ascended Mount Murray . . . and a magnificent landscape was revealed to us; a fertile valley of immense extent. . . . But before we arrived at Glen Darragh we came to Kirk Braddon, an uncommonly lovely place. I knew that in the churchyard were two very old Runic monuments, so we alighted. . . . The family residence of the late Duke of Atholl is situated at the extremity of a flat meadow; and as far as I could see, it did not seem a very princely residence. But in this country I am often struck with the simplicity and freedom from show which those of real rank are contented with. They seem really to agree with Burns that "the man's the gawd." At Knowsley, the residence of the Earls of Derby, the inside of the mansion was very simple, and they are the proudest nobles of England.
We finally arrived at Glen Darragh, and I gazed about in vain to see the ruins of a temple. . . . We came at last to some mounds of earth, with rough stones on their tops, but I could discover no design or order to them, and was quite cast down. But then I saw more, at a short distance, of better hope, and I ran to them, and found they were stones placed in a circular form, inclosing about fourteen yards diameter. These stones, however, were unhewn and of moderate size. And this was all. I broke off a crumb of one of the stones, and looked around me. It was quite desolate, for a large space. Not a tree or a shrub grew near, but grand mountains rose up on every side. Glen Darragh means the vale of oaks, but not an oak could be seen. The singular destruction of trees in this be-battled, be-conquered island is unaccountable. Why invaders should uproot such innocent adorners of the earth is a mystery. It is said that the Druids found a great many pine woods there, and that they up-rooted them and planted their favorite oaks. But pines, oaks, Druids, temples, and all are gone now, except these few stones. I wondered whether any terrible human sacrifices had been offered on the spot where I was standing. The mountains were the same, and the sky was the same; but all else had changed since those fearful days. . . . Of course Rome was here, for where did that proud queen not set her imperial foot? But the only sign of her left is at Castletown: it is an ancient altar. I looked out of the chamber window one night, and at twelve o'clock the golden flush of sunset still glowed in the west, and in the east was an enormous star. We often see Venus very large at home, but this was three times as large as we ever see it. I do not know what this star was. It must have been Venus, however. The star of beauty should surely rise over such a day as this had been. Once we rowed about the island, and it was truly superb—this circumnavigation. We were near enough to the shore to see every house and animal and tree, but far off from dangerous rocks. We passed St. Manghold's Head. The saint was an Irish prince, converted by St. Patrick, and became so eminent for sanctity that St. Bridget came from Ireland to receive the veil from him. It is the most eastern point of the island, and its summit is crested with rocks. Under one is a spring, called St. Manghold's Well, which is thought to have medicinal virtues; and if any one who drinks the waters sits at the same time in the saint's chair,—a rude stone seat near,—they will certainly prove beneficial. We landed at Ramsey, and walked through the town. Towns fade into utter insignificance in that island. Nature is so grand there that houses and streets seem impertinences, and make no account, unless some stately castle towers up. The towns look like barnacles clinging to a majestic ship's sides. . . . This evening Mr. Hawthorne brings me news of the death of L. Howes! We were thinking yesterday what a mournful change had come over that family since we used to go every Saturday evening and see them, in most charming family group, all those bright, intelligent, happy faces gathered round the centre-table or fireside, beaming with life, and mind, and heart. . . .
Julian enjoyed the rocks and beaches and sea-bathing at Mona greatly, and on his return here was homesick for it all for two days. Una grew so homesick for Rockferry that she could hardly be kept away till I was ready to come, though she also enjoyed the sea and the island very much. But I think she has inhabitiveness to a great degree. As to Rose, she was like a sunbeam from morning to night. . . . I have a slight journal of my visit to the Isle of Man, written at the earnest request of Mr. Hawthorne.
Rose is in no danger of forgetting you. We talk to her about you a great deal, and she is always referring to "When I was in 'Morica." Miss Martineau is about Liverpool, and while I was at the island Mr. Bright took Mr. Hawthorne to see her. She was extremely agreeable and brilliant. She has become quite infidel in her opinions. . . . It must be either a fool or a madman who says there is no GOD. . . . I had a delightful visit from the Cochrans, and went with them to Chester. Martha was deeply affected by the Cathedral, especially by the cloisters. Tears filled her eyes. After luncheon, we went to see a Roman bath and a Roman crypt, the last discovered within a few months. The bath is back of, and beneath, a crockery shop. We saw first a cold bath. It was merely an oblong stone basin, built round a perpetual spring. A high iron railing now guards it, and we looked into what seemed almost a well, where the Romans used to plunge. . . . The black water reflected the candle and glittered far below. It might be the eye of one of the twentieth legion. We then went into a shop and asked for the crypt. The men pointed to a door, which we opened, and nearly tumbled down some stone steps. By degrees our eyes became owlish, and we gradually saw, as if looming out of past ages, the beautiful arches of the roof, and the columns on each side. . . .
My mother gives a glimpse of the vicissitudes of the Consulate,—that precinct which I pictured as an ogre's lair, though the ogre was temporarily absent, while my father, like a prince bewitched, had been compelled by a rash vow to languish in the man-eater's place for a term of years:—
"In the evening Mr. Hawthorne told me that there were suddenly thrown upon his care two hundred soldiers who had been shipwrecked in the San Francisco, and that he must clothe and board them and send them home to the United States. They were picked up somewhere on the sea and brought to Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne has no official authority to take care of any but sailors in distress. He invited the lieutenant to come and stay here, and he must take care of the soldiers, even if the expense comes out of his own purse." [Later.] "Mr. Hawthorne sent to Mr. Buchanan (the Ambassador) about the soldiers, and he would share no responsibility, though it was much more a matter pertaining to his powers than to a consul. . . . Mr. Hawthorne has supplied them with clothes and lodgings, and has finally chartered for their passage home one of the Cunard steamers! Such are his official reverses."
"Last Friday I received a note from the wife of the U. S. Consul at London, inviting me and the children to go with Mr. Hawthorne to town, to see the Queen open Parliament. It was such a cordial invitation that it was nearly impossible to refuse; but we could not go, Mr. Hawthorne was so busy with these soldiers, and with trials in the police courts; so that he could not leave his post." [Still later.] "As to shipwrecked sailors, there seems no end to them; and for all Mr. Hawthorne's costs for them he is, of course, repaid. His hands are full all the time. But in the history of the world, it is said, there never were so many shipwrecks as there have been this last winter. The coasts of Great Britain seem to have been nothing but stumbling-blocks in the way of every ship. . . . I have seen, in an American paper, a passage in which the writer undertakes to defend my husband from some dirty aspersions. It seems that some one had told the absolute falsehood that he had shirked all responsibility about the shipwrecked soldiers, and his defender stated the case just as it was, and that Mr. Buchanan declined having anything to do with the matter. The government will make the chartering of the steamer good to Mr. Hawthorne. . . . He has been very busily occupied at the Consulate this winter and spring,—so many disasters at sea, and vagabonds asking for money. He has already lost more than a hundred pounds by these impostors. But he is very careful indeed, and those persons who have proved dishonest were gentlemen in their own esteem, and it was difficult to suspect them. But he is well on his guard now; and he says the moment he sees a coat-tail he knows whether the man it belongs to is going to beg! His life in the Consulate is not charming. He has to pay a great penalty for the result of his toil. Not that he has any drudgery, but he is imprisoned and in harness. He will not let me take a pen in my hand when he is at home, because at any rate I see him so little."
Such paragraphs as the one I add, from a little letter of my sister's, often appear; but in this instance it was the glad exclamation of release, just before we removed to Italy:—
"Papa will be with us on Monday, free from the terrors of the old Consulate. Perhaps you can imagine what infinitely joyful news that is to us; and to him, too, as much, if not more so; for he has had all the work, and we have only suffered from his absence."
The letters proceed:—
MY DEAR FATHER,—It was delightful to see your handwriting this week, written with the same firmness as ever. It gives me unspeakable satisfaction to know that the drafts Mr. Hawthorne sent contribute to your ease, and supply you with embellishments and luxuries, which in sickness are necessaries. I only wish I could put strength into your limbs, as well as provide you with a stuffed chair to repose them upon. Mr. Hawthorne has wished, you see, to prevent your having any anxiety about little wants. It will be all right for the present, and future too. . . . I suppose the War will affect everything in a disastrous manner, except the End, and that God will take into His own hands for good, no doubt, though not as either party proposes.
Here in England we are wholly occupied with the War. No one thinks or talks of anything else. Every face is grave with sorrow for the suffering and slaughter, and then triumphant with pride and joy at the incredible heroism of the troops. . . . In his sermon before the last, Mr. Channing brought out my dearest, inmost doctrines and faith; the sovereignty of good; the unfallen ideal in man; the impossibility of God's ever for one moment turning from man, or being averse to him; the essential transitoriness of evil. . . . I deeply regret that Una and Julian cannot hear the sermons for the little people, for I think it would do much towards saving their souls.
My mother's loss in the death of her father was a great grief, which fell upon her at this time. She wrote to my aunt:—
DEAR ELIZABETH,—If anything could have softened such a blow, it would have been the divine way in which my husband told me. If a seraph can look more radiant with love—a flaming love, veiled with most tender, sorrowing sympathy—than he did, I am sure I cannot conceive of it, and am quite contented not to. I saw and felt in a moment how beyond computation and desert I was still rich,—richest. Father's sincerity, his childlike guilelessness, his good sense and rectitude, his unaffected piety,—all and each of his qualities made him interesting to my husband. I really do not believe any one else ever listened to his stories and his conversation with as much love and interest. Whatever is real and simple and true attracts my husband both as a poet and as a man. Genuine nature he always springs to. Father was entirely unspoiled by the world—as pure of it as a dewdrop. This indeed made him a rare person. He seems to stand meekly in the presence of God. Where more arch-angelic intellect—divine genius—would tremble and faint, simple goodness will feel quite at home, with its one talent become two talents, and its faith and hope blossomed into reality. By and by I shall perhaps have a vivid sense of his presence, as I did of mother's, six weeks after her departure.
We have been out, for the first time, walking in the garden. The morning was beautiful. The budding shrubbery was on every side, and daisies and wallflowers and auriculas blooming even while a thin veil of snow lay in some places.
Una, in writing home to America, portrays the family peace, and the little landscapes of the quieter corners of our "Old Home:"—
"We have got to England at last. It does not seem as if we were in England, but in Boston or Salem. There is not so much noise here as there was in Boston.
"Mamma has told you about Mr. Rathbone's place, but I do not think she has told you about one place by the wall. The wall is run over with all sorts of vines, and there are summer-houses close up by the wall, and a little brook rippling in front, and a great many mighty trees in front, so that not a ray of the sun could peep through.
"On Sunday, the great Easter Sunday, we went to the Chapel of the Blind, and stayed through the Communion service. Mamma received the sacrament. The sermon was very tiresome. It was about the skins that Adam and Eve wore. . . . I was very much interested in Chester, and all the old things I saw there, especially the Cathedral. As we walked round the cloisters you could almost fancy you saw the monks pacing slowly round, and looking now and then on the beautiful dewy green grass which is in the middle of the cloisters. On Monday my dear godpapa [Mr. O'Sullivan] went to London. Mamma got up at half past four and set on the table some chicken-pie, some oranges, and what she thought to be stout, and some flowers which I had gathered in the morning, and gave all these to him.
"Rose is sitting on papa's knee, and through her golden hair I can see her little contented face. She has got down now, and is engaged in a lively discussion with Julian about her name. Julian has been dancing round with the heat, for he thought dancing round would keep him cool. Rose is sitting in mamma's lap now, and she looks so jolly. Her very rosy round face and her waving flowing hair make her look so pretty. She is very sharp, and she has a great deal of fun in her. She has learnt 'Hark, the lark,' 'The Cuckoo,' and 'Where the bee sucks, there suck I.' She says them very prettily, and she has a sweet, simple way of saying what she knows."
Thoughts of her own country recall the joys of Lenox:—
"I have been nutting a great many times in Berkshire. Papa and mamma, Julian and I, all took large baskets and went into the woods, and there we would stay sometimes all day, picking walnuts and chestnuts. Perhaps where we were there were mostly walnuts; but still there were a good many chestnuts. We had a very large oven in which we put as many of our nuts as we could, and the rest we put into large bags. We, and the rats and mice, had nice feasts on them every winter.
"Papa bought Julian a pop-gun to console him when we were going away to visit the Brights, for he had not been invited. He was very good about it indeed, and fired off his pop-gun in honor of mamma's going away.
"Papa gave Julian a new boat a little while ago, a yacht, and mamma has painted it beautifully in oils. I am going to make the sails for it.
"Please call me Primrose in your letters. Rose is called Periwinkle. Papa bought her an image of Uncle Tom and Eva, sitting on a bank, and Uncle Tom is reading the Bible. Eva has on a plaid apron, and has yellow cheeks, and is not very pretty. Uncle Tom is not either. Baby was very much pleased."
To return to my mother's records:—
RHYL, NORTH WALES.
Dr. Drysdale thought we needed another change of air, and so we came south this time. . . . The sun sinks just beside Great Orme's Head, after turning the sea into living gold, and the heights into heaps of amethyst. On the right is only sea, sea, sea. . . . I intended to go to the Queen's Hotel, and knew nothing about the manner of living in the lodging fashion. So we have to submit to German silver and the most ordinary table service. . . . Ever since our marriage we have always eaten off the finest French china, and had all things pretty and tasteful; because, you know, I would never have second-best services, considering my husband to be my most illustrious guest. But now! It is really laughable to think of the appointments of the table at which the Ambassador to Lisbon and the American Consul sat down last Saturday, when they honored me with their presence. And we did laugh, for it was of no consequence,—and the great bow window of our parlor looked out upon the sea. We did not come here to see French china and pure silver forks and spoons, but to walk on the beach, bathe in the ocean, and drive to magnificent old castles,—and get rid of whooping-cough. I had the enterprise to take all the children and Mary, and come without Mr. Hawthorne; for he was in a great hurry to get me off, fearing the good weather would not last. He followed on Saturday with Mr. O'Sullivan, who arrived from Lisbon just an hour before they both started for Rhyl. . . . Julian's worship of nature and natural objects meets with satisfaction here. . . .
The following was also written from Rhyl:—
"While the carriage stopped I heard the rapturous warble of the skylark, and finally discovered him, mounting higher still and higher, pressing upwards, and pouring out such rich, delicious music that I wanted to close my eyes and shut out the world, and listen to nothing but that. Not even Shelley's or Wordsworth's words can convey an adequate idea of this song. It seems as if its little throat were the outlet of all the joy that had been experienced on the earth since creation; and that with all its power it were besieging heaven with gratitude and love for the infinite bliss of life. Life, joy, love. The blessed, darling little bird, quivering, warbling, urging its way farther and farther; and finally swooning with excess of delight, and sinking back to earth! You see I am vainly trying to help you to an idea of it, but I cannot do it. I do not understand why the skylark should not rise from our meadows as well, and the nightingale sing to our roses."
Society and the sternness of life were, however, but a hair's-breadth away:—
"Monday evening Mr. Hawthorne went to Richmond Hill to meet Mr. Buchanan. The service was entirely silver, plates and all, and in a high state of sheen. The Queen's autograph letter was spoken of (which you will see in the 'Northern Times' that goes with this); and as it happens to be very clumsily expressed, Mr. Hawthorne was much perplexed by Mr. Buchanan's asking him, before the whole company at dinner, 'what he thought of the Queen's letter.' Mr. Hawthorne replied that it showed very kind feeling. 'No,' persisted the wicked Ambassador; 'but what do you think of the style?' Mr. Hawthorne was equal to him, or rather, conquered him, however, for he said, 'The Queen has a perfect right to do what she pleases with her own English.' Mr. Hawthorne thought Miss Lane, Mr. Buchanan's niece, a very elegant person, and far superior to any English lady present. The next evening Mr. Hawthorne went to another dinner at Everton; so that on Wednesday, when we again sat down together, I felt as if he had been gone a month. This second dinner was not remarkable in any way, except that when the ladies took leave they all went to him and requested to shake hands with him!
"No act of the British people in behalf of the soldiers has struck me as so noble and touching as that of the reformed criminals at an institution in London. They wished to contribute something to the Patriotic Fund. The only way they could do it was by fasting. So from Sunday night till Tuesday morning they ate nothing, and the money saved (three pounds and over) was sent to the Fund! Precious money is this."
In Rockferry, my first remembered home, the personality of my father was the most cheerful element, and the one which we all needed, as the sunshine is needed by an English scene to make its happiness apparent. If he was at all "morbid," my advice would be to adopt morbidness at once. Perhaps he would have been a sad man if he had been an ordinary one. Genius can make charming presences of characters that really are gloomy and savage, being so magical in its transmutation of dry fact. People were glad to be scolded by Carlyle, and shot down by Dr. Johnson. But I am persuaded by reason that those who called Hawthorne sad would have complained of the tears of Coriolanus or Othello; and, with Coriolanus, he could say, "It is no little thing to make mine eyes to sweat compassion." It was the presence of the sorrow of the world which made him silent. Who dares to sneer at that? When I think of my mother,—naturally hopeful, gently merry, ever smiling,—who, while my father lived, was so glad a woman that her sparkling glance was never dimmed, and when I have to acknowledge that even she did not fill us children with the zest of content which he brought into the room for us, I must conclude that genius and cheer together made him life-giving; and so he was enchanting to those who were intimate with him, and to many who saw him for but a moment. Dora Golden, my brother's old nurse, has said that when she first came to the family she feared my father was going to be severe, because he had a way of looking at strangers from under bent brows. But the moment he lifted his head his eyes flashed forth beautiful and kindly. She has told me that my mother and she used to think at dusk, when he entered the room before the lamps were lit, that the place was illuminated by his face; his eyes shone, his whole countenance gleamed, and my mother simply called him "our sunlight."
My sister's girlish letters are evidence of the enthusiasm of the family for my father's companionship, and of our stanch hatred for the Consulate because it took him away from us so much. He read aloud, as he always had done, in the easiest, clearest, most genial way, as if he had been born only to let his voice enunciate an endless procession of words. He read "The Lady of the Lake" aloud about this time, and Una wrote expressing our delight in his personality over and above that in his usefulness: "Papa has gone to dine in Liverpool, so we shall not hear 'Don Quixote' this evening, or have papa either." Little references to him show how he was always weaving golden threads into the woof of daily monotony. Julian, seven years old, writes to his grandfather, "Papa has taught Una and me to make paper boats, and the bureau in my room is covered with paper steamers and boats." I can see him folding them now, as if it were yesterday, and how intricate the newspapers became which he made into hulls, decks, and sails. At one time Una bursts out, in recognition of the unbroken peace and good will in the home, "It will certainly be my own fault if I am not pretty good when I grow up, for I have had both example and precept."
The nurse to whom I have just referred has said that when Julian was about four, sometimes he would annoy her while she was sewing; and if his father was in the room, she would tell Julian to go to him and ask him to read about Robbie, who was Robinson Crusoe. He would sit quietly all the time his father read to him, no matter for how long. But her master finally told Dora not to send Julian to him in this way to hear "Robinson Crusoe," because he was "tired of reading it to him." The nurse was a bit of a genius herself, in her way, and not to be easily suppressed, and when her charge became fidgety, and she was in a hurry, she made one more experiment with Robbie. Her master turned round in his chair, and for the first time in four years she saw an angry look on his face, and he commanded her "never to do it again." At three years of age Julian played pranks upon his father without trepidation. There was a "boudoir" in the house which had a large, pleasant window, and was therefore thought to be agreeable enough to be used as a prison-house for Una and Julian when they were naughty. Julian conveyed his father into the boudoir, and shut the door on him adroitly. It had no handle on the inner side, purposely, and the astonished parent was caged. "You cannot come out," said Julian, "until you have promised to be a good boy." Through the persistent dignity with which Hawthorne behaved, and with which he was always treated by the household, Julian had felt the down of playful love.
Here are letters written to me while I was in Portugal with my mother, in 1856:—
MY DEAR LITTLE ROSEBUD,—I have put a kiss for you in this nice, clean piece of paper. I shall fold it up carefully, and I hope it will not drop out before it gets to Lisbon. If you cannot find it, you must ask Mamma to look for it. Perhaps you will find it on her lips. Give my best regards to your Uncle John and Aunt Sue, and to all your kind friends, not forgetting your Nurse. Your affectionate father,
N. H.
MY DEAR LITTLE ROSEBUD,—It is a great while since I wrote to you; and I am afraid this letter will be a great while in reaching you. I hope you are a very good little girl; and I am sure you never get into a passion, and never scream, and never scratch and strike your dear Nurse or your dear sister Una. Oh no! my little Rosebud would never do such naughty things as those. It would grieve me very much if I were to hear of her doing such things. When you come back to England, I shall ask Mamma whether you have been a good little girl; and Mamma (I hope) will say: "Yes; our little Rosebud has been the best and sweetest little girl I ever knew in my life. She has never screamed nor uttered any but the softest and sweetest sounds. She has never struck Nurse nor Una nor dear Mamma with her little fist, nor scratched them with her sharp little nails; and if ever there was a little angel on earth, it is our dear little Rosebud!" And when Papa hears this, he will be very glad, and will take Rosebud up in his arms and kiss her over and over again. But if he were to hear that she had been naughty, Papa would feel it his duty to eat little Rosebud up! Would not that be very terrible?
Julian is quite well, and sends you his love. I have put a kiss for you in this letter; and if you do not find it, you may be sure that some naughty person has got it. Tell Nurse I want to see her very much. Kiss Una for me.
Your loving PAPA.
The next letter is of later date, having been written while the rest of the family were in Manchester:—
MY DEAR LITTLE PESSIMA,—I am very glad that Mamma is going to take you to see "Tom Thump;" and I think it is much better to call him Thump than Thumb, and I always mean to call him so from this time forward. It is a very nice name, is Tom Thump. I hope you will call him Tom Thump to his face when you see him, and thump him well if he finds fault with it. Do you still thump dear Mamma, and Fanny, and Una, and Julian, as you did when I saw you last? If you do, I shall call you little Rose Thump; and then people will think that you are Tom Thump's wife. And now I shall stop thumping on this subject.
Your friend little Frank Hallet is at Mrs. Blodget's. Do you remember how you used to play with him at Southport, and how he sometimes beat you? He seems to be a better little boy than he was then, but still he is not so good as he might be. This morning he had some very nice breakfast in his plate, but he would not eat it because his mamma refused to give him something that was not good for him; and so, all breakfast-time, this foolish little boy refused to eat a mouthful, though I could see that he was very hungry, and would have eaten it all up if he could have got it into his mouth without anybody seeing. Was not he a silly child? Little Pessima never behaved so,—oh no!
There are two or three very nice little girls at Mrs. Blodget's, and also a nice large dog, who is very kind and gentle, and never bites anybody; and also a tabby cat, who very often comes to me and mews for something to eat. So you see we have a very pleasant family; but, for all that, I would rather be at home.
And now I have written you such a long letter that my head is quite tired out; and so I shall leave off, and amuse myself with looking at some pages of figures.
Be a good little girl, and do not tease Mamma, nor trouble Fanny, nor quarrel with Una and Julian; and when I come home I shall call you little Pessima (because I am very sure you will deserve that name), and shall kiss you more than once. N. H.
If he said a few kind words to me, my father gave me a sense of having a strong ally among the great ones of life; and if I were ill, I was roused by his standing beside me to defy the illness. When I was seriously indisposed, at the age of three, he brought me a black doll, which I heard my mother say she thought would alarm me, as it was very ugly, and I had never seen a negro. I remember the much-knowing smile with which my father's face was indefinitely lighted up as he stood looking at me, while I, half unconscious to most of the things of this world, was nevertheless clutching his gift gladly to my heart. The hideous darky was soon converted by my nurse Fanny (my mother called her Fancy, because of her rare skill with the needle and her rich decorations of all sorts of things) into a beautifully dressed footman, who was a very large item in my existence for years. I thought my father an intensely clever man to have hit upon Pompey, and to have understood so well that he would make an angel. All his presents to us Old People, as he called us, were either unusual or of exquisite workmanship. The fairy quality was indispensable before he chose them. We children have clung to them even to our real old age. The fairies were always just round the corner of the point of sight, with me, and in recognition of my keen delight of confidence in the small fry my father gave me little objects that were adapted to them: delicate bureaus with tiny mirrors that had reflected fairy faces a moment before, and little tops that opened by unscrewing them in an unthought-of way and held minute silver spoons. Once he brought home to Julian a china donkey's head in a tall gray hat such as negroes and politicians elect to wear, and its brains were composed entirely of borrowed brilliancy in the shape of matches. We love the donkey still, and it always occupies a place of honor. He brought me a little Bacchus in Parian marble, wearing a wreath of grapes, and holding a mug on his knee, and greeting his jolly stomach with one outspread hand, as if he were inwardly smiling as he is outwardly. This is a vase for flowers, and the white smile of the god has gleamed through countless of my sweetest bouquets.
My father's enjoyment of frolicking fun was as hilarious as that accorded by some of us to wildest comic opera. He had a delicate way of throwing himself into the scrimmage of laughter, and I do not for an instant attempt to explain how he managed it. I can say that he lowered his eye-lids when he laughed hardest, and drew in his breath half a dozen times with dulcet sounds and a murmur of mirth between. Before and after this performance he would look at you straight from under his black brows, and his eyes seemed dazzling. I think the hilarity was revealed in them, although his cheeks rounded in ecstasy. I was a little roguish child, but he was the youngest and merriest person in the room when he was amused. Yet he was never far removed from his companion,—a sort of Virgil,—his knowledge of sin and tragedy at our very hearthstones. It was with such a memory in the centre of home joys that the Pilgrim Fathers turned towards the door, ever and anon, to guard it from creeping Indian forms.
On Sundays, at sundown, when the winter rain had very likely dulled everybody's sense of more moderate humor, the blue law of quietness was lifted from the atmosphere; and between five and six o'clock we spread butterfly wings again, and had blind man's buff. We ran around the large centre-table, and made this gambol most tempestuously merry. If anything had been left upon the table before we began, it was removed with rapidity before we finished. There was a distinct understanding that our blindfolded father must not be permitted to touch any of us, or else we should be reduced forthwith to our original dust. The pulsing grasp of his great hands and heavy fingers, soft and springing in their manipulation of one's shoulders as the touch of a wild thing, was amusingly harmless, considering the howls with which his onslaught was evaded as long as our flying legs were loyal to us. My father's gentle laughter and happy-looking lips were a revelation during these bouts. I remember with what awe I once tied the blinding handkerchief round his head, feeling the fine crispness of his silky hair, full of electricity, as some people's is only on frosty days; yet without any of that crinkly resistance of most hair that is full of energy. But there were times when I used to stand at a distance and gaze at his peaceful aspect, and wonder if he would ever open the floodgates of fun in a game of romp on any rainy Sunday of the future. If a traveler caught the Sphinx humming to herself, would he not be inclined to sit down and watch her till she did it again?
I have referred to his large hand. I shall never see a more reassuring one than his. It was broad, generous, supple. It had the little depressions and the smoothness to be noticed in the hands of truest charity; yet it had the ample outlines of the vigorously imaginative temperament, so different from the hard plumpness of coarseness or brutality. At the point where the fingers joined the back of the hand were the roundings-in that are reminiscent of childhood's simplicity, and are to be found in many philanthropic persons. His way of using his fingers was slow, well thought out, and gentle, though never lagging, that most unpleasant fault indicative of self-absorbed natures. When he did anything with his hands he seemed very active, because thoroughly in earnest. He delighted me by the way in which he took hold of any material thing, for it proved his self-mastery. Strength of will joined to self-restraint is a combination always enjoyable to the onlooker; but it is also evidence of discomfort and effort enough in the heroic character that has won the state which we contemplate with so much approval. I remember his standing once by the fire, leaning upon the mantelpiece, when a vase on the shelf toppled over in some way. It was a cheap, lodging-house article, and yet my father tried to save it from falling to the floor as earnestly as he did anything which he set out to do. His hand almost seized the vase, but it rebounded; and three times he half caught it. The fourth time he rescued it as it was near the floor, having become flushed and sparkling with the effort of will and deftness. For years that moment came back to me, because his determination had been so valiantly intense, and I was led to carry out determinations of all sorts from witnessing his self-respect and his success in so small a matter. People of power care all the time. It is their life-blood to succeed; they must encourage their precision of eye and thought by repeated triumphs, which so soothe and rejoice the nerves.
He was very kind in amusing me by aid of my slate. That sort of pastime suited my hours of silence, which became less and less broken by the talkative vein. His forefinger rubbed away defects in the aspect of faces or animals with a lion-like suppleness of sweep that seemed to me to wipe out the world. We also had a delicious game of a labyrinth of lines, which it was necessary to traverse with the pencil without touching the hedges, as I called the winding marks. We wandered in and around without a murmur, and I reveled in delight because he was near.
Walking was always a great resource in the family, and it was a half-hearted matter for us unless we were at his side. His gait was one of long, easy steps which were leisurely and not rapid, and he cast an occasional look around, stopping if anything more lovely than usual was to be seen in sky or landscape. It is the people who love their race even better than themselves who can take into their thought an outdoor scene. In England the outdoor life had many enchantments of velvet sward upon broad hills and flowers innumerable and fragrant. A little letter of Una's not long after we arrived in Rockferry alludes to this element in our happiness:—
"We went to take a walk to-day, and I do not think I ever had such a beautiful walk before in all my life. Julian and I got some very pretty flowers, such as do not grow wild in America. I found some exquisite harebells by the roadside, and some very delicate little pink flowers. And I got some wild holly, which is very pretty indeed; it has very glossy and prickery leaves. I have seen a great many hedges made of it since I have been here; for nothing can get over it or get through it, for it is almost as prickery as the Hawthorne [the bush and the family name were always the same thing to us children], of which almost all the hedges in Liverpool, and everywhere I have been, are made; and there it grows up into high trees, so that nothing in the world can look through it, or climb over it, or crawl through it; and I am afraid our poor hedge in Concord will never look so well, because the earth round it is so sandy and dry, and here it is so very moist and rich. It ought to be moist, at any rate, for it rains enough." But later she writes on "the eighteenth day of perfect weather," and where can the weather seem so perfect as in England?
After breakfast on Christmas we always went to the places, in that parlor where Christmas found us (nomads that we were), where our mother had set out our gifts. Sometimes they were on the large centre-table, sometimes on little separate tables, but invariably covered with draperies; so that we studied the structure of each mound in fascinated delay, in order to guess what the humps and hubbies might indicate as to the nature of the objects of our treasure-trove. The happy-faced mother, who could be radiant and calm at once,—small, but with a sphere that was not small, and blessed us grandly,— received gifts that had been arranged by Una and the nurse after all the other El Dorados were thoroughly veiled, and our hearts stood still to hear her musical cry of delight, when, having directed the rest of us to our presents, she at last uncovered her own. Our treasures always exceeded in number and charm our wildest hopes, although simplicity was the rule. Whatever my mother interested herself about, she accomplished with a finish and spirit that distinguished her performance as a title on a reputation distinguishes common clay. She threw over it the faithful ardor which is akin to miracle: the simplest twig in her hand budded; her dewdrops were filled with all the colors of the rainbow, because with her the sun always shone. She writes a description of our happy first Christmas in England, in which are these passages: "We had no St. Nicholas or Christmas-tree; and so, after all had gone to bed, I arranged the presents upon the centre-table in the drawing-room. . . . From a vase in the middle a banner floated with an inscription upon it: 'A Merry Christmas to all!' Una had given Rose a little watch for her footman Pompey; Mrs. O'Sullivan had sent her a porcelain rosary, which was put in a little box; and Mr. Bright had sent her an illuminated edition of 'This is the House that Jack Built.' Julian found a splendid flag from Nurse. This flag was a wonder. . . . The stripes were made of a rich red and white striped satin, which must have been manufactured for the express purpose of composing the American flag. The stars were embroidered in silver on a dark blue satin sky. On the reverse, a rich white satin lining bore Julian's cipher, surrounded with silver embroidery. . . . The children amused themselves with their presents all day. But first I took my new Milton and read aloud to them the Hymn of the Nativity, which I do every Christmas." "How easy it is," my mother writes of a Christmas-tree for poor children, "with a small thing to cause a great joy, if there is only the will to do it!" But most deeply did we delight in the presents given to our beloved parents, whom we considered to be absolutely perfect beings; and there was nothing which we ever perceived to make the supposition unreasonable. In one of Una's girlish letters she declares: "I will tell you what has given me almost—nay, quite as great pleasure as any I have had in England; that is, that Mamma has bought a gold watch-chain. She bought it yesterday at Douglas." We had such thorough lessons in generosity that they sometimes took effect in a genuine self-effacement, like this. A letter from my mother joyfully records of my brother:—
"Julian was asking Papa for a very expensive toy, and his father told him he was very poor this year, because the Consulate had not much business, and that it was impossible to buy him everything that struck his fancy. Julian said no more; and when he went to bed he expressed great condolence, and said he would not ask his father for anything if he were so poor, but that he would give him all his own money (amounting to five-pence halfpenny). When he lay down, his face shone with a splendor of joy that he was able thus to make his father's affairs assume a brighter aspect. This enormous sum of money which Julian had he intended, at Christmas-time, to devote to buying a toy for baby or for Una. He intended to give his all, and he could no more. In the morning, he took an opportunity when I was not looking to go behind his father, and silently handed him the fivepence halfpenny over his shoulder. My attention was first attracted by hearing Mr. Hawthorne say, 'No, I thank you, my boy; when I am starving, I will apply to you!' I turned round, and Julian's face was deep red, and his lips were quivering as he took back the money. I was sorry his father did not keep it, however. I have never allowed the children to hoard money. I think the flower of sentiment is bruised and crushed by a strong-box; and they never yet have had any idea of money except to use it for another's benefit or pleasure. Julian saw an advertisement in the street of the loss of a watch, and some guineas reward. 'Oh,' said he, 'how gladly would I find that watch, and present it to the gentleman, and say, No reward, thank you, sir!'" My sister, who was made quite delicate, at first, by the English climate, and acquired from this temporary check and the position of eldest child a pathetic nobility which struck the keynote of her character, writes from Rockferry: "This morning of the New Year was very pleasant. It was almost as good as any day in winter in America. I went out with Mamma and Sweet Fern [Julian]. The snow is about half a foot deep. Julian is out, now, playing. I packed him up very warmly indeed. I wish I could go out in the new snow very much. Julian is making a hollow house of snow by the rhododendron-tree." What not to do we learned occasionally from the birds. "The little robins and a thrush and some little sparrows have been here this morning; and the thrush was so large that she ate up the crumbs very fast, and the other poor little birds did not dare to come near her till she had done eating." My father used to treat the Old and the New Year with the deepest respect. I never knew the moments to be so immense as when, with pitying gentleness, we silently attended the Old Year across the ghostly threshold of midnight, and my father at last rose reverently from his chair to open the window, through which, at that breath, the first peals would float with new promise and remembering toll.
We children were expected to come into the presence of the grown people and enjoy the interesting guests whom we all loved. My father was skillful in choosing friends: they were rare, good men, and he and they really met; their loves and interests and his were stirred by the intercourse, as if unused muscles had been stretched. I could perceive that my father and his best cronies glowed with refreshment. Mr. Bennoch was a great favorite with us. He was short and fat, witty and jovial. He was so different in style and finish from the tall, pale, spiritual Henry Bright (whom my mother speaks of as "shining like a star" during an inspiring sermon) that I almost went to sleep in the unending effort to understand why God made so sharp a variety in types. Mr. Bennoch wrote more poetry than Mr. Bright did, even, and he took delight in breathing the same air with writers. But he himself had no capacity more perfected than that of chuckling like a whole brood of chickens at his own jokes as well as those of others. The point of his joke might be obscure to us, but the chuckle never failed to satisfy. He was a source of entire rest to the dark-browed, deep-eyed thinker who smiled before him. The only anecdote of Mr. Bennoch which I remember is of a Scotchman who, at an inn, was wandering disconsolately about the parlor while his dinner was being prepared. A distinguished traveler—Dickens, I think—was dashing off a letter at the centre-table, describing the weather and some of the odd fellows he had observed in his travels. "And," he wrote, "there is in the room at the present moment a long, lank, red-headed, empty-brained nincompoop, who looks as if he had not eaten a square meal for a month, and is stamping about for his dinner. Now he approaches me as I sit writing, and I hear his step pause behind my chair. The fool is actually looking over my shoulder, and reading these words"—A torrent of Scotch burst forth right here: "It's a lee, sir,—it's a lee! I never read a worrd that yer wrort!" Screams from us; while Mr. Bennoch's sudden aspect of dramatic rage was as suddenly dropped, and he blazed once more with broad smiles, chuckling. I will insert here a letter written by this dear friend in 1861:—
80 WOOD STREET, LONDON.
MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,—A few lines just received from Mr. Fields remind me of my too long silence. Rest assured that you and yours are never long out of our thoughts, and we only wish you were here in our peaceful country, far removed from the terrible anxieties caused by wicked and willful men on one side, and on the other permitted by the incompetents set over you. How little you thought, when you suggested to me the propriety of old soldiers only going into battle, that you should have been absolutely predicting the unhappy course of events! Do you remember adding that "a premium should be offered for men of fourscore, as, with one foot in the grave, they would be less likely to run away"? I observe that the "Herald" advises that "the guillotine should be used in cropping the heads of a lot of the officers, beginning at the city of Washington, and so make room for the young genius with which the whole republic palpitates." . . . Truly, my dear Hawthorne, it is a melancholy condition of things. Let us turn to a far more agreeable subject! It is pleasant to learn that, amid all the other troubles, your domestic anxieties have passed away so far as the health of your family is concerned. The sturdy youth will be almost a man, and Una quite a woman, while Rosebud will be opening day by day in knowledge and deep interest. I hear that your pen is busy, and that from your tower you are looking upon old England and estimating her influences and the character of her people. Recent experiences must modify your judgment in many ways. A romance laid in England, painted as you only can paint, must be a great success. I struggle on, and only wish I were worthy the respect my friends so foolishly exhibit.
With affectionate regards to all, ever yours truly, F. BENNOCH.
On November 17, 1854, my mother writes:—"Last evening a great package came from Mr. Milnes [Lord Houghton], and it proved to be all his own works, and a splendid edition of Keats with a memoir by Mr. Milnes. This elegant gift was only a return of favors, as Mr. Hawthorne had just sent him some American books. He expended three notes upon my husband's going to meet him at Crewe Hall, two of entreaty and one of regret; but he declares he will have him at Yorkshire. Mrs. Milnes is Lord Crewe's sister. The last note says: 'The books arrived safely, and alas! alone. When I get to Yorkshire, to my own home, I shall try again for you, as I may find you in a more ductile mood. For, seriously, it would be a great injustice—not to yourself, but to us—if you went home without seeing something of our domestic country life: it is really the most special thing about our social system, and something which no other country has or ever will have.'"
Another note from Lord Houghton is extant, saying:—
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,—Why did not you come to see us when you were in London? You promised to do so, but we sought you in vain. I wanted to see you, mainly for your own sake, and also to ask you about an American book which has fallen into my hands. It is called "Leaves of Grass," and the author calls himself Walt Whitman. Do you know anything about him? I will not call it poetry, because I am unwilling to apply that word to a work totally destitute of art; but, whatever we call it, it is a most notable and true book. It is not written virginibus puerisque; but as I am neither the one nor the other, I may express my admiration of its vigorous virility and bold natural truth. There are things in it that read like the old Greek plays. It is of the same family as those delightful books of Thoreau's which you introduced me to, and which are so little known and valued here. Patmore has just published a continuation of "The Angel in the House," which I recommend to your attention. I am quite annoyed at having been so long within the same four seas with you, and having seen you so little. Mrs. Milnes begs her best remembrances. I am yours very truly,
RICHD. MONCKTON MILNES.
16 UPPER BROOK STREET, June 30.
It is a perpetual marvel with some people why some others do not wish to be looked at and questioned. Dinner invitations were constantly coming in, and were very apt to be couched in tones of anxious surprise at the difficulty of securing my father. An illustration may be found in this little note from Mr. Procter (father of Adelaide Procter):—
32 WEYMOUTH STREET, Tuesday morning.
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,—It seems almost like an idle ceremony to ask you and Mrs. Hawthorne to dine here on Friday; but I cannot help it. I have only just returned from a circuit in the country, and heard this morning that you were likely to leave London in a few days. Yours always sincerely,
B. W. PROCTER.
It was desirable to meet such people as Mr. Procter, and I have heard enthusiastic descriptions, with which later my mother amused our quiet days in Concord, of the intellectual pleasures that such friendships brought, and of the sounding titles and their magnificent accessories, with human beings involved, against whom my parents were now sometimes thrust by the rapid tide of celebrity. But my father was never to be found in the track of admiring social gatherings except by the deepest scheming. In her first English letters my mother had written: "It is said that there is nothing in Liverpool but dinners. Alas for it!" The buzz of greeting was constant. It must have been delightful in certain respects. She sent home one odd letter as a specimen of hundreds of similar ones which came to my father from admirers. Yet very soon individuals make a crowd, and the person who attracts their attention is more nearly suffocated than the rest quite realize. His attempts at self-preservation are not more than half understood, and, if successful, are remembered with a dash of bitterness by the onlookers.
To her husband in Liverpool, Mrs. Hawthorne writes:—
LONDON, September 19.
MY DEAREST,—At half past three Mrs. Russell Sturgis came in her sumptuous barouche. We drove all through the fashionable squares and Streets and parks, and all through Kensington, even to the real Holland House. But Leigh Hunt's book went all out of my head when I tried to think what he said about it. Mrs. Sturgis knows him very well, and often visits him in his humble cottage. Oh, dear me! Such superb squares and terraces as I saw! Mrs. Sturgis told me where Sir E. B. Lytton, and many noted and noble persons, lived. We drove through Mayfair, but I did not see Miss Cushman's house, I Bolton Row. We certainly had a fine time. At five we got back, and I found the Ambassador's card, and Miss Lane's, inviting us there this evening.
September 20. I was just hurrying off with Mr. Bright when I wrote the two lines of post-script in my letter this morning, in answer to your note,—so like you; so tender and kind. Since I must go away, I ought not to have said a word; but you must ascribe what I said and say to infinite love only; for it is only because of this that I do not look forward with delight to a winter in Lisbon with the O'Sullivans. I could not be happy if you made any sacrifice for me; and as our interests are indissoluble, it would be my sacrifice, too. So I will be good, and not distress you with more regrets. I once thought that no power on earth should ever induce me to live without you, and especially thought that an ocean should never roll between us. But I am over-powered by necessity; and since my life is of importance to you, I will not dare to neglect any means of preserving it.
This morning baby was dressed in a beautiful embroidered white frock and blue sash, blue kid shoes, laced with blue ribbon, and blue silk sack fastened with a blue girdle, and a hat trimmed with blue and gray. Her long curls streamed out beneath: She was thus arrayed to visit Portland Place and the Sturgis children. Una looked very lovely in her summer cloud-muslin.
Mr. Bright came at twelve o'clock, bringing five or six superb photographs of Cologne; I never saw any so splendid. Then we started for the Crystal Palace. It has been one of the divinest days—one of our days, like that at Stratford-on-Avon.' When we got into the cab, however, Mr. Bright proposed to go to the Houses of Parliament first, and then at last concluded to give up the Crystal Palace, and see the sights of London instead. So we drove to the old St. James's Palace Yard. But a police-officer said we could only go in on Saturday, and then by a ticket from the Lord Chamberlain. I knew that, but supposed Mr. Bright had some other means of gaining admittance. He had not, nevertheless. He took us (Julian was with me) over Westminster Bridge. . . . We went into the Photographic Exhibition of persons and places at the Crimea, which was just like taking up groups of the army and putting them before one's eyes. It must be of wonderful interest to the relatives and friends of those who are there. The room was full of fine-looking, aristocratic people. From this we drove to Kensington Gardens; and I must say, my dear lord, that I never imagined any place so grand and majestic, so royal and superb, as those grounds. The trees—oh, the trees—every one of them kings, emperors, and Czars; so tall, so rich, and the lawn beneath them so sunny-velvet green, all made illustrious by the clearest warm sunshine, and a soft, sweet air. The magnificent groves of trees all round; and far off in the terminus, the towers and pinnacles of the Parliament Houses, and Westminster Abbey towers, rise into the clear sky over the blue waters of the Serpentine. A pretty yacht, with one white wing, slowly moved along. Large, princely lambs grazed on the sunny lawns. I think that thou wouldst have asked no more in the way of a park. We sat down on a felled tree and talked awhile. I would almost give a kingdom to sit on the tree again, with thee. Was not Mr. Bright good and lovely to devote his only whole day in London to me? He certainly is the most amiable and hospitable of mortals. THY DOVE.
My mother writes of Miss Bacon, who put Lord Bacon in that place in her heart where Shakespeare should have been:—
MY DEAREST,—I have been reading Miss Bacon's manuscript this afternoon, and it is marvelous. She reveals by her interpretation of Lord Bacon more fully to me what I already divined dimly of the power of Christ over nature; and it is the first word that I have found spoken or written which is commensurate with my actual idea. I felt as if I wanted to take this manuscript and all the others, and run off to some profound retreat, and study it all over, and reproduce it again with my own faculties. Oh, that I could read them with you! I almost begin to love the pain with which I delve after the thoughts presented in such a close and difficult handwriting.
To Miss Peabody:—
"Miss Bacon cannot speak out fairly [upon the subject of Bacon and Shakespeare], though there is neither the Tower, the scaffold, nor the pile of fagots to deter her. But she is a wonder and a benefactor,— and let us not criticise her style; or rather, it is no matter whether we did or not, so much remains for her. I did not see her. I was just going to take Una and call upon her, when she went to Stratford.
"I hope Mr. Plumly has not forgotten his project of beneficence [towards her]. It must be a foretaste of heaven to have money to give away."
CHAPTER XI
ENGLISH DAYS: III
Tourist letters describe Wordsworth's house and country at Rydal:—
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—I had a hope that when I left Rock Park I should be clothed with wings, and be able to write letters and journal and to draw. But I have been particularly wingless during the whole six weeks of our absence, and have clone literally nothing but use my eyes. At Windermere we left Una, Rose, and Nurse at a charming, homelike house, and Mr. Hawthorne, Julian, and I went farther north. We went first to Rydal and Grasmere, and at Grasmere Hotel, which is nearly opposite the grave of Wordsworth, I had set my heart upon writing you a long letter about those sacred places, especially sacred to you, the true lover of Wordsworth. On a most superb afternoon we took an open carriage at Lowood Hotel, where we had been staying for several days, and drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our luggage and then drove back to Rydal Water. We alighted just at the commencement of the lake, intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The lake surprised me by its extreme smallness,—in America we should never think of calling it a lake; but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and mountains that embosom it, and I thought it was irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to say he "could carry it all away in a porringer." It has several very small islands in it, and one rather larger, which is a heronry. The lake and all the parks and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le Fleming, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very ancient family in those regions. We presently came to a fine old crag by the shore, up which were some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure that Wordsworth had often gone up there and looked off upon his beloved Rydal from the summit. We went up and sat down where we knew he must have sat, and there I could have dreamed for many hours. The gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme were there, and I thought with an infinite joy how human beings have the power to consecrate the earth by genius, heroic deeds, and even homely virtues. The gorgeous richness of the vegetation, the fresh verdure, the living green of the lawns and woodlands, flooded and gilded by the sunshine, made me wonder whether the Delectable Mountain could be much more beautiful, and made me realize deeply the poetic rapture, the noble, sustained enthusiasm of Wordsworth in his descriptions of natural scenery. It is only for perhaps a week in June that we in America can obtain an idea of the magnificent richness and freshness of English scenery. How can I find language airy and delicate enough to picture to you the fields of harebells, tossing their lovely heads on their threadlike stems, and bringing heaven to earth in the hue of their petals! Then the pale golden cuckoo-buds, the yellow gorse, the stately foxglove, standing in rows, like prismatic candelabra, all along the roadside,—and ah me, alas!—the endless trees and vines of wild eglantine, with blossoms of every shade of pink, from carmine to the faintest blush, wreathing themselves about and throwing out into your face and hands long streamers of buds and blossoms, so rarely and exquisitely lovely! One wonders whether it can be true or whether one is dreaming on the Enchanted Plain. I loved Wordsworth as I never could have done if I had not been in the very place that knew him, and seen how and why he worshiped as he did, what really seems there the perpetual Morning of Creation.
At the right of the doorstep a superb fuchsia-tree stood, and I asked the man to pluck me one of the jewel blossoms. But he declined to approach so near, as he feared to disturb Mrs. Wordsworth. And he did not introduce us into her presence, because he said Lady le Fleming had told him never to disturb her with visitors, but only show them the outside of the house. He said Lady le Fleming built the house and it was hers, as well as everything else round about. But we might have gone in, we now find, and Mrs. Wordsworth likes very much to see people. So this intelligent man led us through the pretty gardens and grounds, up and up and up innumerable steps in successive short flights, through many wickets, till I began to think we could never reach our goal. Finally we came to a spot of constant shade where was a singularly shaped rock—a kind of slab—thrusting itself out from the wall, in which a brass plate was inserted with an inscription by Wordsworth, which we read. It expressed that he had pleaded for this rock as often as he had for other natural objects.
The gardener opened a wicket, after passing the deep, shady nook, and said, "This is Mr. Wordsworth's garden." I looked about and saw troops of flowers, and sought for the white fox-glove, which was a favorite of his, and found it; and the air was loaded with a fine perfume, which I discovered to be from large beds of mignonette. In those paths he walked and watched and tended his plants and shrubs. Presently, after so much mounting of steps, and threading of embowered paths and lanes of flowers, we were ushered into the grounds immediately around the actual house. And the man first took us upon that memorable terraced lawn, in great part made by Wordsworth's own hands. It is circular, and the turf, like thick-piled velvet, yielding to the feet and of delicious green—smooth and soft. Perhaps it is thirty feet in diameter, and double, with a very high step. Beneath it is a gravel walk, and then a hedge of thick shrubs. Julian flung himself at full length on the velvet sward, and Mr. Hawthorne and I sat down on the even tops of two stumps of trees, evidently intended for seats, as one meets them everywhere, arranged for that purpose. But how am I to tell you what I saw from them?
Wordsworth must have described it somewhere. It was his beloved view. Richer could not have been the Vale of Cashmere. The mountains take most picturesque forms, and after throwing against the sky bold and grand outlines, they so softly curve down into the lovely dells that they seemed doing homage to beauty, lordly and gentle. And far away at the end of the valley, Windermere, Queen of the Lakes, reposed, gleaming silvery blue. This fair, open eye completed the picture. In that was the soul revealed. I wished I had had my sketch-book to draw just the outlines, but was not too sorry, because I intended to go again, and then I would have it. Now I was content to gaze alone.
The attractions of London are fully admitted by Mrs. Hawthorne, in various letters, from which I gather these sentences:—
"At last I have found myself in London society. I suppose Ellen and Mary [her nieces] would like to know what I wore on one occasion. I had on a sky-blue glace silk, with three flounces, which were embroidered with white floss, making a very silvery shine. The dress had low neck and short sleeves; but I wore a jacket of starred blonde with flowing sleeves; and had round me also a shawl of Madeira lace, which, though very airy, fleecy, and cloud-looking, is warm and soft. My headdress was pearl, in the shape of bunches of grapes and leaves, mingled with blue ribbon, with a wreath of pearl-traced leaves round my hair, which was rolled in coronet fashion. Was not that a pretty dress?
"Mr. Hawthorne was invited to Monckton Millies' to a dejeuner, and met there Macaulay, Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Lord Stanley, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Goderich, etc. He enjoyed it very much; and the venerable old Marquis seemed bent on doing him honor and showing him respect. He insisted upon Mr. Hawthorne's taking precedence of himself on every occasion. It is an immense disappointment to me that we cannot spend some months within daily reach of London, because I want Mr. Hawthorne to take a very full draught of it. But I shall persuade him to go up to the grim, glorious old city by himself, if possible."
My mother had been so seriously attacked by bronchitis as to endanger her lungs, which led to a visit of six months to Lisbon and Madeira, my father remaining at the Consulate. While in exile, she writes to him:—
"I am all the time tumbling into fathomless reveries about going home.
"Dearest, I have an idea! Next winter, if you wish to remain in England, and my coughing continues, I will tell you how I might do, and be most happy and comfortable. I might remain in my chamber all winter, and keep it at an even temperature, and exercise by means of the portable gymnasium. I am sure the joy of your presence would be better than any tropic or equator without you. And I hate to be the means of your resigning from the Consulate."
We also went to Southport for my mother's health. Here she writes:—
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—The Doctor will not let me walk more than thirty minutes at a time. Here there are no carriages with horses, but with donkeys, sometimes two or three abreast. They will go out to the edge of the deep sea. The donkeys walk, unless they take it into their heads to run a little. One day I mounted Una and Julian on donkeys, while Rose and I were in the carriage. One little girl belabored the two saddled donkeys, and one guided my two. They were weather-beaten, rosy girls, one with a very sweet young face. The elder conversed with me awhile, and said the young gentleman's donkey was twenty years old and belonged to her brother, who would surely die if they bartered it, "because it is his, you know." She smiled reluctantly when I smiled at her, as if she had too much care to allow herself to smile often, but evidently she was a sound-hearted, healthy, contented child, ready to shine back when shone upon.
Mr. Hawthorne now knows what has been my danger, and he is watchful of every breath I draw; and I would not exchange his guardianship for that of any winged angel of the hosts. God has given him to me for my angel, only He makes him visible to my eye, as He does not every one's angel. It seems as if even / never knew what felicity was till now. As the years develop my soul and faculties, I am better conscious of the pure amber in which I find myself imbedded.
The Doctor shows me that it is my DUTY to be self-indulgent, and I can be so with a quiet conscience, and shall soon be all right in body, as I am all right in mind and heart. Mr. Hawthorne never has anything. I do not believe there is another spirit so little disturbed by its body as his.
. . . Mr. Hawthorne, you may be sure, will take care of me. I should think he would suppose you thought he had no interest in the matter; but he thinks of nothing else, and would give up the Consulate to-day if he saw it was best for me.
After so hard a beginning, I long for him to repose from anxiety for the future of our life. I only wish that for others as well as for ourselves the fables about this Consulate had been truths. Because what my husband would like would be to find always his right hand (unknown to his left) full of just what his fellow mortals might need, with no more end of means than there is of will to bestow. In him is the very poetry of beneficence, the pure, unalloyed fountain of bounty. It has been well tested here, where every kind of woe and want have besieged him.
That provoking Consular bill has been in force nearly two years, depriving us of our rights to the amount now of about $35,000, because ever since it became the law the times have been more prosperous. The year before that the business was miserable. I think it was unjust that the actual incumbents of the office should not have been allowed to fulfill their terms with the conditions upon which they commenced them. It was a bill hoisted in on the shoulders of the ministerial bill, which very strangely does not come in play till 1857.
December u.
Mr. Hawthorne is dining in the suburbs of Liverpool this evening, with a Mr. William Browne, M. P., to meet Baron Alderson. It is only the second dinner he has been obliged to sacrifice himself to since we have been in Southport. This Mr. Browne is a venerable gentleman, who takes the trouble to go to the Consulate, and bend his white head in entreaty, and he can no more be refused, all things considered, than two and two can refuse to be four. So, at the present moment, there sits my lord at the gorgeous board, shining like a galaxy with plate and crystal. There was lately a banquet in honor of Mr. Browne, which went off magnificently. All Liverpool and part of the county shared in it; and the town was hung with banners from end to end, and business was suspended. It was a superb day of bright sunshine and perfectly dry streets, and the procession of the selected guests, and then of subscribers, was immensely long. I believe fifteen hundred collated at St. George's Hall; and on an elevated dais the twenty invited guests sat. Mr. Hawthorne was one of these. He had received notice that Monckton Milnes was to give him a toast, and a speech would be expected. You may see by some papers that Mr. Milnes gave "The United States;" but this is a mistake. It was "Nathaniel Hawthorne." He was very cordial and complimentary; but he did not say, as the reporter of the "Post" wrote, "that the 'Scarlet Letter' stuck to the hearts of all who came in contact with it," as if it were a kind of adhesive plaster; but that it "struck to the hearts of all who read it." When Mr. Hawthorne rose there was such a thunder of applause and cheers that, after a while, he actually sat down till quiet was restored. Mr. Channing told me, day before yesterday, that his speech was admirable, and delighted all who knew him, and made the Americans proud of him. He sat beneath, but very near him. Was it not a burning shame that I was not there? Many ladies were present in the galleries, and one of them sent a footman to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting a flower or a leaf as a memento. The modest and generous Mr. Browne [who had just made a public bequest] was overwhelmed with the reverberations of gratitude on every side. Mr. Hawthorne said he liked Lord Stanley, though he was rather disappointed in his appearance. The latter had to respond to "The House of Stanley." Lord Derby was to come, but was unable. Before the banquet, the corner-stone was laid. What a wise way this is—for rich men to make bequests during life. I hope many will do likewise.
Yes, I have read about a thousand times over of Mr. Peabody's gift to Baltimore. We have a great many American papers, and the English papers repeat everything of importance. Mr. Browne has done the same thing in Liverpool.
December 18. Mr. Hawthorne had a stupid time enough at Mr. Browne's dinner at Richmond Hill. Mr. Browne himself is always stupid, and Mrs. Browne never says a word. The judges were dumb and lofty with their own grandeur, and communicated no ideas. Do you know how very grand the judges are when in acto? Do you know that they are then kings, and when the Queen is present they still have precedence? So Imperial is Law in this realm. In going down to dinner, therefore, at Mr. Browne's (whose dinner they kept waiting exactly an hour) they led the way, followed humbly by the High Sheriff of the county, who is always the first dignitary except where the judges lead. Then went the Mayor, attended by one of his magnificent footmen in the Town livery, which is so very splendid and imposing that "each one looks like twenty generals in full military costume," as Mr. Hawthorne says; with scarlet plush vests, innumerable cordons and tassels of gold, small-clothes, and white hose, and blue coats embroidered with gold flowers. No crowned emperor ever felt so blindingly superb, and how they ever condescend to put down their feet on the floor is a wonder. Mr. Hawthorne followed next to the Mayor. There being no conversation, there was ample time to look at the truly gorgeous appointments of the table, upon which no china appeared, but only massive plate. The epergne was Phoebus Apollo in his chariot of the sun, with four horses galloping perpetually along the table without moving. The dessert-plates were bordered with wreaths of flowers and fruits in high relief, all of silver. Perhaps Mr. Browne's wits have turned to silver, as Midas's surroundings into gold. Mr. Hawthorne has gone to another dinner this evening at the Mayor's. It is a state dinner to my lords the judges. Baron Alderson nearly expires with preeminence on these occasions, and perhaps he will cease to breathe to-night. These are heavy hours to Mr. Hawthorne. London society has put him even more out of patience than usual with Liverpool dinners, and I know he is wishing he were at home at this moment. Last evening he was reading to me the rare and beautiful "Espousals" of Coventry Patmore. Have you seen "The Angel in the House" yet? It takes a truly married husband and wife to appreciate its exquisite meaning and perfection; but with your miraculous power of sympathy and apprehension, I think you will enjoy it, next to us.
This evening, as I wrote, Prince Rose-red entered, holding aloft a clay head which he had been modeling. It was a great improvement upon the first attempts, and resembled Chevalier Daddi, Una's music-teacher in Lisbon. He put it upon the grate to bake, and then lay down on the rug, with his head on a footstool, to watch the process. But before it was finished I sent him to bed. It is after ten now, and the Chevalier has become thoroughly baked, with a crack across his left cheek. In all sorts of athletic exercises, in which a young Titan is required, Julian is eminent. Monsieur Huguenin, the gymnast, said that in all his years of teaching athletics, he had never met but once with his equal. Yet he moves in dancing in courtly measures and motions, and when he runs, he throws himself on the wind like a bird, and flits like a greyhound. Julian's great head is a delicately organized one. I am obliged to have all his hats made expressly for him, and my hatter, Mr. Nodder, says he never saw such a circumference in his life. I always look upon his head as one of the planets.
Our house has been robbed by two notorious thieves. They had much better have risked their lives in stealing the Hungarian Baron Alderson, whose full dress is incrusted with forty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds and emeralds. We have met with a greater loss than these robbers caused us. Mrs. Blodget has all our luggage at her house in Liverpool; and one of her servant-men opened two of my trunks, which were in the cellar, and stole almost every piece of plate we possess—all the forks and spoons, and so on. He has confessed, while ill in a hospital. But Mr. Hawthorne will not prosecute him.
Have you read Froude's history, just published, from the period of the fall of Wolsey to the death of Elizabeth? His style is wholly unlike that of the stately, but rather tiresome unchangeable canter of Macaulay's. Macaulay takes care of his style, but Froude is only interested in his theme. I do not suppose any one historian has yet climbed up to the pinnacle of perfect impartiality,—unless my darling Herodotus, who has the simplicity of a child, and no theories at all. But Macaulay's style tires me. He is so ferociously lucid that he confuses me, as with too much light. It is the regular refrain of his brilliant sentences that finally has the effect of a grand jangle of musical instruments.
The Manchester Exhibition framed a particularly rare spectacle:—
MANCHESTER.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—We are now at Old Trafford, close by the Palace of Art Treasures, which we have come here expressly to see. There is no confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, though there are thousands of the second-class people there every day. If you shut your eyes, you only hear the low thunder of movement. . . . Yesterday we were all there, and met—now, whom do you think? Even Tennyson. He is the most picturesque of men, very handsome and careless-looking, with a wide-awake hat, a black beard, round shoulders, and slouching gait; most romantic, poetic, and interesting. He was in the saloons of the ancient masters. Was not that rare luck for us? Is it not a wonder that we should meet? His voice is also deep and musical, his hair wild and stormy. He is clearly the "love of love and hate of hate," and "in a golden clime was born." He is the Morte d'Arthur, In Memoriam, and Maud. He is Mariana in the moated grange. He is the Lady Clara Vere de Vere and "rare, pale Margaret." There is a fine bust of him in the exhibition, and a beautiful one of Wordsworth. . . . Ary Scheffer's Magdalen, when Christ says, "Mary!" is the greatest picture of his I have ever seen. Ary Scheffer himself was at the exhibition the other day. . . .
Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the Palace all day. We went up into the gallery of engraving to listen to the music; and suddenly Una exclaimed, "Mamma! there is Tennyson!" He was sitting by the organ, listening to the orchestra. He had a child with him, a little boy, in whose emotions and impressions he evidently had great interest; and I presumed it was his son. I was soon convinced that I saw also his wife and another little son,—and all this proved true. It was charming to watch the group. Mrs. Tennyson had a sweet face, and the very sweetest smile I ever saw; and when she spoke to her husband or listened to him, her face showered a tender, happy rain of light. She was graceful, too, and gentle, but at the same time had a slightly peasant air. . . . The children were very pretty and picturesque, and Tennyson seemed to love them immensely. He devoted himself to them, and was absorbed in their interest. In him is a careless ease and a noble air which show him of the gentle blood he is. He is the most romantic-looking person. His complexion is brun, and he looks in ill health and has a hollow line in his cheeks. . . . Allingham, another English poet, told Mr. Hawthorne that his wife was an admirable one for him,—wise, tender, and of perfect temper; and she looks all this; and there is a kind of adoration in her expression when she addresses him. If he is moody and ill, I am sure she must be a blessed solace to him. When he moved to go, we also moved, and followed him and his family faithfully. By this means we saw him stop at his own photograph, to show it to his wife and children; and then I heard them exclaim in sweet voices, "That is papa!" Passing a table where catalogues were sold, . . . his youngest son stopped with the maid to buy one, while Tennyson and his wife went on and downstairs. So then I seized the youngest darling with gold hair, and kissed him to my heart's content; and he smiled and seemed well pleased. And I was well pleased to have had in my arms Tennyson's child. After my raid I went on. . . .
Of this glimpse of the great poet fortunately accorded to our family my father writes in the "Note-Books:" "Gazing at him with all my eyes, I liked him very well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other wonders of the exhibition." Again my mother refers to the interesting experience:—
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—My last letter I had not time to even double up myself, as Mr. Hawthorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool before I was aware, and everything was huddled up in a hasty manner. It was something about Tennyson's family that I was saying. I wanted you to know how happy and loving they all seemed together. As Tennyson is in very ill health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes thought his wife might look worn and sad. I was delighted, therefore, to see her serene and sweet face. I cannot say, however, that there was no solicitude in it, but it was a solicitude entirely penetrated with satisfied tenderness. . . .
I did not reply to your last long letter to me about slavery. . . . There is not a single person whom I know or ever talked with who advocates slavery. Your letters to me would be far more appropriate to a slaveholder. . . . I do not see how they apply to me at all. . . .
There has been the customary misinterpretation of calm justice in the case of my father's moderation during the wild ardor of abolition. This sort of ardor is very likely necessary in great upheavals, but it is not necessary that every individual should join the partisans (while they slash somewhat promiscuously) at the expense of his own merciful discretion. My mother writes in eloquent exposition of her husband's and her own loyalty to the highest views in regard to the relations of all members of the human family, but she never convinced the hot fidelity of the correspondents of her own household. I will add a letter and note, from Hawthorne to Miss Peabody, partly upon this subject:—
LIVERPOOL, August 13th, '57.
DEAR E.,—I return this manuscript pamphlet on the Abolition question, for I do not choose to bother Sophia with it; and yet should think it a pity to burn so much of your thought and feeling. You had better publish it. I speak trustingly, though not knowingly, of its merits; for to tell you the truth, I have read only the first line or two, not expecting much benefit even were I to get the whole by heart. No doubt it seems the truth of truth to you; but I do assure you that, like every other Abolitionist, you look at matters with an awful squint, which distorts everything within your line of vision; and it is queer, though natural, that you think everybody squints, except yourselves. Perhaps they do; but certainly you do.
As regards Goodrich's accounts of the relations between him and me, it is funny enough to see him taking the airs of a patron; but I do not mind it in the least, nor feel the slightest inclination to defend myself, or be defended. I should as soon think of controverting his statement about my personal appearance (of which he draws no very lovely picture) as about anything else that he says. So pray do not take up the cudgels on my behalf; especially as I perceive that your recollections are rather inaccurate. For instance, it was Park Benjamin, not Goodrich, who cut up the "Story-teller." As for Goodrich, I have rather a kindly feeling towards him, and he himself is a not unkindly man, in spite of his propensity to feed and fatten himself on better brains than his own. Only let him do that, and he will really sometimes put himself to some trouble to do a good-natured act. His quarrel with me was, that I broke away from him before he had quite finished his meal, and while a portion of my brain was left; and I have not the slightest doubt that he really felt himself wronged by my so doing. Really, I half think so too. He was born to do what he did, as maggots to feed on rich cheese.
Sophia has enjoyed herself much for some months past, and enjoyment seems to agree with her constitution, for her health and vigour have been very satisfactory. Neither did I ever have a better time in my life, than during our recent tours in England and Scotland. Between us, we might write an immense book of travels. I have six or seven volumes of journals, written during my residence in England; but unfortunately, it is written with so free and truth-telling a pen that I never shall dare to publish it. Perhaps parts of it shall be read to you, some winter evening, after we get home; but I entirely yield the palm to Sophia on the score of fullness and accuracy of description. [Considerably more of the letter is cut off, and the following fragment of another letter is pasted over a portion of the first.]
LIVERPOOL, October 8th, '57.
DEAR E.,—I read your manuscript Abolition pamphlet, supposing it to be a new production, and only discovered afterwards that it was the one I had sent back. Upon my word, it is not very good; not worthy of being sent three times across the ocean; not so good as I supposed you would always write, on a subject in which your mind and heart were interested. However, since you make a point of it, I will give it to Sophia, and will tell her all about its rejection and return.
Pictures of Leamington and its vicinity were sent home, as follows:—
No. 10 LANSDOWNE CIRCUS, LEAMINGTON, WARWICKSHIRE, September 9, 1857.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—Do not suppose that we are among horses, mountebanks, and clowns by my date. On the contrary, we are in a charming little paradise of gardens, with a park in the centre, towards which all these gardens converge. It is such a paradise as the English only know how to make out of any given flat bit of land. Fancy a circle of houses at the end of a street. They are white stucco houses, with balconies leading out of the drawing-rooms, in which to sit and enjoy the gardens, made up of sunny green lawns, bright rainbow flowers, and dark green shrubbery and trees. The park is full of lovely trees and evergreens, with lawns and gravel-walks. We are in profound quiet. Nothing but a bird's note ever breaks our stillness. The air is full of mignonette, roses, and wallflowers. It is autumn; but the grass and foliage are like those of early spring or summer.
In Manchester, which we have lately visited, I found that the foul air of the manufactories made me cough more, and the moment Mr. Hawthorne perceived it, he decided to come away. Nothing but the Palace of Art would ever have made us think of being one hour in such a nasty old ugly place. I could never be weary of looking at some of the masterpieces, to the end of my clays. I should think the Good Shepherd would convert the Jew, Baron L. R., to Christianity; for it is his. No words can possibly do justice to that, or to the Madonna in Glory. . . .
September 12. To-day we went to Kenilworth. There was not blue sky enough to encourage Mr. Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o'clock we set forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air. By a short turn out of our Circus we came into a street called Regent's Grove, on account of a lovely promenade between noble trees for a very long-distance, almost to the railroad station; and Una and I walked that way, leaving Mr. Hawthorne and Julian to follow, as we wished to saunter. They overtook us, having gone down the Parade, which is the principal street, containing hotels and shops; and it crosses at right angles Warwick Street, which reaches for several miles, until it arrives at Warwick Castle itself.
The bright greens of England seem to be lined with gold; and in the autumn, the leaves merely turn their golden linings.
The approach to the domain of Kenilworth is through roads with trees, winding along, and also across a narrow river, which we should call a brook, glimpses of the castle towers appearing at every turn.
The grass was very wet, and I had no india-rubbers, and Mr. Hawthorne went off with Una to buy me some, being resolved to make them, I believe, if he could not find any in the only shop not explored, for we had already tried for them. He returned with the only pair in Kenilworth that would fit me—and the last pair the shopman had left in his box. . . . The ivy, after climbing up the sides of the Castle in a diffusive embrace, reaches the crumbling battlements; and to conceal the gnawing teeth of time there, it rises into perfect trees, full and round, where it does not find it lovelier to trail over and hang in festoons and wreaths and tassels. Ivy and time contend for the mastery, and have a drawn battle of it. Enormous hawthorn-trees, large as our largest horse-chestnuts, also abound around the Castle, and are now made rich and brilliant with scarlet haws. Mr. Hawthorne and I were filled with amazement at their size. Instead of the rich silk hangings which graced the walls when Elizabeth entered the banqueting-room, now waved the long wreaths of ivy, and instead of gold borders, was sunshine, and for music and revel—SILENCE— profound, not even a breeze breaking it. For we had again one of those brooding, still days which we have so often been fortunate enough to have among ruined castles and abbeys. Bare stone seats are still left around Elizabeth's boudoir, upon which, when softly cushioned with gold, she sat, and saw a fair prospect. The park and chase extended twenty miles!
Nothing but music can ever equal or surpass architecture in variety of utterance. Music is poetry to the ear, architecture to the eye, and poetry is music and architecture to the soul, for it can reproduce both. Music, however, seems to be freer from all shackles than any other art; and I remember that in one of my essays for Margaret Fuller, I made it out to my own satisfaction to be the apex of expression. The old Glasgow verger of whom I wrote you had not got so far as to see that it needed the "Kist of Whistles," as he called the organ, to make his beloved Cathedral soar and glow with life and praise to its utmost capacity. But I cannot say that it does not sing, even without a sound, in its immortal curves, as Ruskin calls those curves that return in no conceivable time or space. Cathedrals sing, and they also pray, with pointed arches for folded hands. Julian liked these ruins better than any he had seen, he said; and he climbed up on the dismantled turret of Leicester's buildings, and settled himself among the ivy like some rare bird with wonderful eyes. His hair had grown very long, and clustered round his head in hyacinthine fashion, and I think my lord would have been glad to call him his princely boy. [Such things he never allowed himself to say.] All the princeliness that lies in clustering curls Julian has lost to-day, for a hair-dresser has cropped him like a Puritan.
As for myself, fine weather, flower-filled lanes, sturdy walks, and the zest of environs that aroused the rest of the family through association as well as loveliness, seemed to awaken in my mind a vivid era that was exciting if laborious. I had night-vigils which were delightfully entertained by a faculty for hearing quite splendid music,—music that my imagination composed with a full orchestra of admirable brilliancy; and I was also able to see in perfect distinctness a splendid bazaar, filled with any quantity of toys, which I could summon at will. But this pastime required a great deal of will-power, a peculiar subtlety of condition, and could only be kept up for a few moments at a time; and in the course of several months the charming capacity was modified to that of being able to evoke most clearly scenes where imaginary characters, more real than actual companions, leaped into being, and talked and moved to any extent. I suppose numbers of people have this faculty, and it is a sovereign protection against ennui; or would be, if remedies could always be relied upon. I mention these matters to prove that I moderately possessed artistic perception. I can see, nevertheless, quite well, that I must have been a very stupid child most of the time, and that the befogged state of my mind was certainly a pity and perhaps a shame. Yet there was a sort of advantage in it: fogs choose with much good sense what they will emphasize; and the intellect bereft of fussy clearness may have a startling grasp that reminds one of occult methods. My observations could not pretend to so much, but they caught truths not very often stared into capture by a little girl; and my father interested me more, and was more frequently the subject of my meditations, than any one else.
In Leamington there seemed to be some opportunity for quiet pursuits. In the first place, there were great preparations for Christmas; which means, that my sister Una made a few little hand-worked presents in complete secrecy, and there was a breathless spending of a few sixpences. If a good deal of money was used by my parents, it was never distributed with freedom, but for those luxuries which would gather the least rust; and not a little was exchanged for heavenly treasure itself, in charity that answered appeals too pathetic to disregard. And we children learned—though we did not learn to save money, because our parents could not—to go without the luxuries money oftenest brings; a lesson that comes to happy fruition in maturer life, if there is need of it. I say happy, because we look back with joy to the hours spent in toughening the sinews of endurance. I remember that long and Penelope-like were my own Christmas preparations; but what they evolved is a matter as lost to thought as a breeze on the desert, in spite of the clearness with which I remember the gifts from my sister and our genteel Nurse, Fanny, who was with us again, and shone more sweetly than ever in Leamington. The handsomest objects we had were given us by Fanfan, or Fancy, as my mother called her. My mother writes, "Our Twelfth Cake was a superb little illuminated Book of Ruth, which never can be eaten up, and will be a joy forever to all our posterity after us, and to our contemporaries."
I will insert here an account of how perfect the smoothness of English mechanism may be:—
13 CHARLES STREET, BATH.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—We asked the porter at the depot to tell us of a good hotel, and he sent us to York House. After being deposited in it, with our stones round our necks (as I call our luggage), we found it was not only the first hotel in Bath, but one famous throughout the land. A terrible fear came over me that a year's income would scarcely defray our expenses even for one day and night; but as we did not arrive till five, we could not leave till the next day. So we had nothing to do but to take it grandly. We were put in possession of a lordly sitting-room, hung with crimson. There was nothing gaudy, but a solid richness. Papa and Mamma were the Duke and Duchess of Maine [in remembrance of a lordly claim at Raymond], Julian was Lord Waldo, and Una, Lady Raymond. The finest cut crystal, and knives and forks with solid silver handles, and spoons too heavy to lift easily, delicate rose and gold china, and an entire service of silver dishes, came upon the table. Our attendants were the Sublime and the Pensive, in the form of two men. The Sublime had a bosom full of linen lilies in peculiarly wide bloom; while the Pensive was adorned rather with snowdrops. Their footfalls were descending snowflakes, their manners devout, solemn, and stately. It was really quite delicious, just for a short time; and it was impossible not to be convinced that we at least came over with William the Conqueror; or we might be descended in a straight line from Prince Bladud, who flourished in Bath eight hundred years before the Christian era. At all events, we were the noblest in the land, and received the salaams of the Sublime and the Pensive as obviously due to our exalted rank. As I looked at my husband, so kingly in aspect by nature, of such high courtesy in manner; and at Una, princesslike, with her sweet dignity, I did not at all wonder at the stolen glances of our waiters; that looking without looking for which a thorough-bred English waiter is so remarkable. Lord Waldo also "bore it well;" and as to the Lady Rose, she might have bloomed in a royal conservatory. Sumptuous wax candles, in richly chased silver candlesticks, lighted us up in the evening. Whenever I left the sitting-room for my chamber, the Sublime was suddenly at the door to open and shut it for me, bowing down with all his lilies. Ah, me! But how can I describe the York House table! Such Apician food, so delicately touched with fire! And who can ever sing adequately the graceful curves in which the Pensive swept off the covers, at the sound of some inaudible music—inaudible except to his ear—as soon as we were all seated! I felt so grand that I was ready to shout with laughter—having gone full circle from the sublime to the ridiculous several times. I felt the ducal coronet on my brow, flashing fine flames from diamonds and emeralds. His Grace's diadem put my eyes out (as it often does, even when not in York House, and we not all in full dress). The weather was dull and cold, and a glorious fire blazed in the large grate, fed and tended by a third noiseless apparition, the Soft, in the shape of a boy, who gently deposited black boulders of coal without raising any dust, and with a brush delicately invited away the ashes from the bars and the hearth, and poked as one would kiss a sleeping babe. The eyes of the Soft did not wander; they were kept snug beneath their lids with well-trained reverence; and this genius of the fire always appeared as soon as the glow began to fade, as if by inspiration. In my large chamber, draped with white muslin over rose color and drab damask, a superb fire glowed. I must make an end of this nonsense.
The next day I drove about Bath to get apartments,—the first hour in vain; and everybody said the city was full, and we should not succeed. The children cried out to stay in York House, enjoying the luxury. But again I took a Bath chair, and with Fanny the nurse at my side to talk for me, and Rosebud to look out for signs of "To Let," we tried again, and found this modest house; where, such is the simplicity of my nature, I am ten times as comfortable and at home as at even York House, with its shaded grandeur. Yet I am very fond of splendor, I have to confess; and, moreover, our surprise was great when, upon demanding the account, the Sublime brought on a silver salver charges actually more moderate than those of many inferior hotels all about England.
I will proceed here with our visit to Redcar, though that occurred in 1859, when we had returned from Rome.
Redcar is in the midst of a stately region, grand with an outline of hard-bosomed, endless beach and vast sky, of sea and sand-hills, where my father stands forth very distinctly in my memory. When he went out at fixed hours of the day, between the hours for writing, he walked over the long, long beach, and very often with my brother and myself; stopping now and then in his firm, regal tread to look at what nature could do in far-stretching color and beckoning horizon line. Along the sand-hills, frolicking in the breeze or faithfully clinging in the strong wind to their native thimbleful of earth, hung the cerulean harebells, to which I ardently clambered, listening for their chimes. In the preface to "Monte Beni," the compliment paid to Redcar is well hidden. My father speaks of reproducing the book (sketched out among the dreamy interests of Florence) "on the broad and dreary sands of Redcar, with the gray German Ocean tumbling in upon me, and the northern blast always howling in my ears." Nothing could have pleased him better as an atmosphere for his work; all that the atmosphere included he did not mean to admit, just then. And London was not so very far away.
On September 9, 1859, my mother says in her diary, "My husband gave me his manuscript to read." There are no other entries on that clay or the next, except, "Reading manuscript." On the 11th she says, "Reading manuscript for the second time." The diary refers to reading the manuscript on the third day, but on the two following days, in which she was to finish as much of the romance as was ready, there are wholly blank spaces. These mean more than words to me, who know so well how she never set aside daily rules, and how unbrokenly her little diaries flow on. She writes home:—
"Mr. Hawthorne has about finished his book. More than four hundred pages of manuscripts are now in the hands of the publishers. I have read as much as that, but do not yet know the denouement. He is very well, and in very good spirits, despite all his hard toil of so many months. As usual, he thinks the book good for nothing, and based upon a very foolish idea which nobody will like or accept. But I am used to such opinions, and understand why he feels oppressed with disgust of what has so long occupied him. The true judgment of the work was his first idea of it, when it seemed to him worth the doing. He has regularly despised each one of his books immediately upon finishing it. My enthusiasm is too much his own music, as it were. It needs the reverberation of the impartial mind to reassure him that he has not been guilty of a betise.
"Mr. Hawthorne had no idea of portraying me in Hilda. Whatever resemblance one sees is accidental."
On November 8 (we were then in Leamington once more) she records in very large script, "My husband to-day finished his book, 'The Romance of Monte Beni.'"
My mother was especially fortunate in finding the smallest rose-tinted and most gleaming among the shells which we came across upon the sands, and of these a few superlative but almost invisible specimens were long the cherished possession of her English work-box. She often went with me to the sands, spending much time there; her diary saying: "Superb, calm day. I went on sands with Rosebud to gather shells. Stayed three hours." Or: "Most superb day possible. I went on the sands with Rose, and sat all the morning in a sand-chair, reading, while Rose played. It was a divine day; the air like rose petals, the sky cerulean, the sea sapphire. I felt so serene and quiet;—a great calm." Then comes the inevitable contrast: "Tremendous sea. Rose and I went on the sands to gather shells." These shells, which we could none of us find in so perfect a state as my mother could, were object-lessons to me in the refinements of art, as the harebells were in the refinements of nature; for were not the dancing flowers alive, and the stirless shells the passive work of thought?
Sometimes she read Disraeli's "Sibyl," while I built a sand fortress round her; or she read "Venetia," "Oliver Twist," "The Life of Mary II.," "Romany Rye," and "The Lives of the Last Four Popes." She remembered Pio Nono with unflagging interest, and mentions his serious illness, and then his recovery. She read "a queer biography of Wordsworth by Hood," and she regarded Carlyle's diction in the "French Revolution" as "rubbishy."
Besides the pilgrimages in search of shells, another pursuit was inaugurated by my mother, in her breathlessly calm way, which was the finding of multitudinous seaweeds of every eccentricity of style. The Yankee elm, the English oak, the kitchen-garden herb, or Italian stone-pine, the fern, and tresses, as they seemed, of women's fair or dusky hair, were all so cleverly imitated by the seaweeds that one might have supposed them to be the schoolbooks of the sea; or the latest news there, regarding the nature of the dry world. Many spare moments were given to mounting these pretty living pictures of growths. My lack of success in producing a single very neat specimen was, I grieve to admit, hardly bettered by any of us; my father joining in the scientific excess only so far as to turn his luminous eyes upon our enthusiasm, with his genial "h'm-m" of permission.
Excursions were made to Whitby, Wilton Castle, and other places; and I made an excursion on my own account, which kept me lame for some time. "Rose fell and hurt her knees and elbow, following a monkey." But my most considerate mother would never have let me perceive the humorous and possibly unintelligent aspect of my adventurous spirit; and the next day she tenderly inscribes the historical fact, "Poor baby lame."
Here are a few words of testimony, from my sister, to the charm of this shore:—
REDCAR, October 4, 1859.
Our last day in Redcar, dearest aunt Lizzie; and a most lovely one it is. The sea seems to reproach us for leaving it. But I am glad we are going, for I feel so homesick that I want constant change to divert my thoughts. How troublesome feelings and affections are! When one ought to forget, they are strongest.
Your loving niece,
U. H.
I thought that the petty lodging in which we were established was an odd nook for my father to be in. I liked to get out with him upon the martial plain of sand and tremendous waves, where folly was not, by law of wind and light of Titan power, and where the most insignificant ornament was far from insignificant: the whorl of an exquisite shell, beautiful and still, as if just dead; or the seaweeds, that are so like pictures of other growths. I felt that this scene was a worthy one for the kind but never familiar man who walked and reflected there. We enjoyed a constant outdoor life. But in those uninspired hours when there was no father in sight, and my mother was resting in seclusion, I played at grocer's shop on the sands with a little girl called Hannah, whom I then despised for her name, her homely neat clothes, her sweetness and silence, and in retrospect learned to love. As we pounded brick, secured sugary-looking sands of different tints, and heaped up minute pebbles, a darkly clad, tastefully picturesque form would approach,—a form to which I bowed down in spirit as, fortunately for me, my father. He would look askance at my utterly useless, time-frittering amusement, which I already knew was withering my brain and soul. In his tacit reproach my small intellect delighted, and loftier thoughts than those of the counter would refresh me for the rest of the day; and I thankfully returned to the heights and lengths of wide nature, full of color and roaring waves.
CHAPTER XII
ITALIAN DAYS: I
My first frequent companionship with my father began in Italy, when I was seven years old. We entered Rome after a long, wet, cold carriage journey that would have disillusionized a Dore. As we jolted along, my mother held me in her arms, while I slept as much as I could; and when I could not, I blessed the patient, weary bosom upon which I lay exhausted. It was a solemn-faced load of Americans which shook and shivered into the city of memories that night. In "Monte Beni," as he preferred to call "The Marble Faun," my father speaks of Rome with mingled contempt for its discomforts and delighted heartiness for its outshining fascinations. "The desolation of her ruin" does not prevent her from being "more intimately our home than even the spot where we were born." A ruin or a picture could not satisfy his heart, which accepted no yoke less strong than spiritual power. Rome supplies the most telling evidence of human failure, because she is the theatre of the greatest human effort, both in the ranks of Satan and of God; and she visibly mourns her sins of mistake at the feet of spiritual victory, Saints Peter and Paul. (As a Catholic, I could hardly win the respect of the gentle reader if I were so un-American as to fear to stand by my belief.) And while the observer in Rome may well feel sad in the midst of reminders of the enormous sins of the past, there is an uplifting, for the soul eager to perceive the truth, in all her assurances of that mercy which is the cause of religion. If the Holy See was established in Rome because it was the city where the worst wickedness upon earth, because the most intelligent, was to be found, we may conclude that the old emperors, stormy and grotesque, are responsible for its melancholy "atmosphere of sin," to which Hilda alludes as a condition of the whole planet; and not the popes who have prayed in Rome, nor the people who believe there. In printed remarks about Italy both my parents say that she most reminds them of what is highest.
But, whether chilly or warm, the Eternal City did not at once make a conquest of my father's allegiance, though before he bade it farewell, it had painted itself upon his mind as sometimes the sunniest and most splendid habitation for a populace, that he knew. In the spring my sister wrote:—
"We are having perfectly splendid weather now,—unclouded Italian skies, blazing sun, everything warm and glorious. But the sky is too blue, the sun is too blazing, everything is too vivid. Often I long for the more cloudy skies and peace of that dear, beautiful England. Rome makes us all languid. We have to pay a fearful price for the supreme enjoyment there is in standing on the very spots made interesting by poetry or by prose, imagination, or (which is still more absorbing) truth. Sometimes I wish there had never been anything done or written in the world! My father and I seem to feel in this way more than the rest. We agree about Rome as we did about England."
In the course of the winter my mother had written of our chilly reception thus:—
NO. 37 VIA PORTA PINCIANA, 2D PLANO,
PALAZZO LAIIAZANI, ROME.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—I could not have believed I could be in Rome a day without announcing it to you in words and expressions which would have the effect at least of the bell of St. Peter's or the cannon of St. Angelo. . . . But my soul has been iced over, as well as the hitherto flowing fountains of the Piazza, di San Pietro. I have not been able to expand like corn and melons under a summer sun. Nipped have been all my blossoming hopes and enthusiasms, and my hands have been too numb to hold a pen. Added to this, Mr. Hawthorne has had the severest cold he ever had, because bright, keen cold he cannot bear so well as damp; and .Rosebud has not been well since she entered the city. It is colder than for twenty years before. We find it enormously expensive to live in Rome; our apartment is twelve hundred a year.
But I am in Rome, Rome, Rome! I have stood in the Forum and beneath the Arch of Titus, at the end of the Sacra Via. I have wandered about the Coliseum, the stupendous grandeur of which equals my dream and hope. I have seen the sun kindling the open courts of the Temple of Peace, where Sarah Clarke said, years ago, that my children would some time play. (It is now called Constantine's Basilica.) I have climbed the Capitoline and stood before the Capitol, by the side of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius,—the finest in the world [my father calls it "the most majestic representation of kingly character that ever the world has seen ">[,—once in front' of the Arch of Septimius Severus. I have been into the Pantheon, whose sublime portico quietly rises out of the region of criticism into its own sphere,—a fit entrance to the temple of all the gods. How wise was the wise and tact-gifted Augustus to reject the homage of Agrippa, who built it for his apotheosis, and to dedicate it to the immortal gods! It is now dedicated to the Immortal God.
And I have been to St. Peter's! There alone in Rome is perpetual summer. You have heard of the wonderful atmosphere of this world of a basilica. It would seem to be warmed by the ardent soul of Peter, or by the breath of prayer from innumerable saints. One drops the hermetical seal of a curtain behind, upon entering, and behold, with the world is also shut out the bitter cold, and one is folded, as it were, in a soft mantle of down, as if angels wrapped their wings about us. I expanded at once under the invisible sun. There have been moments when I have felt the spell of Rome, but every one says here that it dawns gradually upon the mind. It would not have been so with me, I am convinced, if I had been warm. Who ever heard of an icicle glowing with emotion? What is Rome to a frozen clod? . . .
We were not able to seize upon the choicest luxuries of living, as our accommodations, even such as they were, proved to be expensive enough to hamper us. We had all expected to be blissful in Italy, and so the inartistic and inhuman accessories of life were harder to bear there than elsewhere. I remember a perpetual rice pudding (sent in the tin ten-story edifices which caterers supply laden with food), of which the almost daily sight maddened us, and threw us into a Burton's melancholy of silence, for nothing could prevent it from appearing. We all know what such simple despairs can do, and, by concerted movement, they can make Rome tame. If we had sustained ourselves on milk, like Romulus and Remus, and dressed in Russian furs, we might have had fewer vicissitudes in the midst of the classic wonders on all sides. But spring was faithful, and at its return we began to enjoy the scenes of most note within and beyond the walls: the gleaming ruins, and fresh, uncontaminated daisies that trustfully throve beside some of them; the little fountains, with their one-legged or flat-nosed statues strutting ineffectually above them,—fountains either dry as dead revelers or tinkling a pathetic sob into a stone trough; the open views where the colors of sunlit marble and the motions of dancing light surrounded the peasants who sprang up from the ground like belated actors in a drama we only keep with us out of childish delight.
My father had never looked so serious as he did now, and he was more slim than in England. He impressed me as permeated by an atmosphere of perception. A magnetic current of sympathy with the city rendered him contemplative and absorbent as a cloud. He was everywhere, but only looked in silence, so far as I was aware. "The Marble Faun" shows what he thought in sentences that reveal, like mineral specimens, strata of ideas stretching far beyond the confines of the novel. While he observed Rome, as he frequently mentions, he felt the sadness of the problems of the race which there were brought to a focus. Yet it is a singular fact that, notwithstanding this regret for her human pathos, perhaps the best book he ever wrote was created among the suggestive qualities of this haven of faith,—the book which inculcates the most sterling hope of any of his works. I saw in my walks with him how much he enjoyed the salable treasures and humble diversions of the thoroughfare, as his readers have always perceived. Ingenuous simplicity, freedom from self-consciousness and whitewash, frank selfishness on a plane so humble that it can do little harm,—all this is amusing and restful after long hours with transcendental folk. In regard to the tenets of these, my mother writes to her sister:—
"I am just on the point of declaring that I hate transcendentalism, because it is full of immoderate dicta which would disorganize society, and should never be uttered, in my opinion, except behind the veil, among priests. As to displaying before the great, innocent eyes of a girl like Una all the horror of a slave-auction—a convent is better than such untimely revelations. Now, you must not think I am a Catholic. I know the Lord withholds the pure from seeing what they should not—blessed be the Lord!—but I will not be the one to put what should not be seen before the eyes of the pure."
My father looked in good spirits as we moved along. When he trafficked with an Italian fruit-vender, and put a few big hot chestnuts into his pocket, with a smile for me, I (who found his smile the greatest joy in the world) was persuaded that really fine things were being done. The slender copper piece which was all-sufficient for the transaction not only thrilled the huckster with delight, but became precious to me as my father's supple, broad fingers held it, dark, thin, small, in a respectful manner. He caressed it for a moment with his large thumb,—he who was liberal as nature in June,—and when the fruit-vender was wrought up to the proper point of ecstasy he was allowed to receive the money, which he did with a smile of Italian gracefulness and sparkle, while my father looked conscious of the mirthfulness of the situation with as lofty a manner as you please. As for the peasant women we met, under their little light-stands of head-drapery, they were easily comprehensible, and expressed without a shadow of reserve their vanity and tiger blood by an openly proud smile and a swing of the brilliantly striped skirt. The handsomest men and women possible, elaborately dressed, shone beside tiers of the sweetest bunches of pale violets, or a solitary boy, so beautiful that his human splendor scintillated, small as he was, sat in the pose and apparel that the world knows through pictures, and which pigment can never well render any more than it can catch the power of a sunset or an American autumn. The marble-shops were very pleasant places. A whirring sound lulled the senses into dreamy receptiveness, as the stone wheel heavily turned with soft swiftness, giving the impression that here hard matter was controlled to a nicety by airy forces; and a fragrance floated from the wet marble lather, while the polishing of our newly picked up mementos from the ruins went on, which was as subtle as that of flowers. A man or two, hoary with marble-dust and ennobled by the "bloom" of it, stood tall and sad about the wheel, and we handed to these refined creatures our treasures of giallo-antico and porphyry and other marbles picked up "for remembrance" (and no doubt once pressed by a Caesar's foot or met by a Caesar's glance), in order to observe the fresh color leap to the surface,—yellow, red, black, or green.
Far more were we thrilled at finding scraps of iridescent glass lachrymals, containing all the glories of Persian magnificence, while pathetically hinting of the tears of a Roman woman (precious only to herself, whatever her flatterers might aver) two thousand years ago.
The heart of Rome was acknowledged to be St. Peter's, and its pulse the Pope. The most striking effect the Holy Father produced upon me, standing at gaze before him with my parents, was when he appeared, in Holy Week, high up in the balcony before the mountainous dome, looking off over the great multitude of people gathered to receive his blessing. Those eyes of his carried expression a long way, and he looked most kingly, though unlike other kings. He was clothed in white not whiter than his wonderful pallor. My father implies in a remark that Pio Nono impressed him by a becoming sincerity of countenance, and this was so entirely my infantile opinion that I became eloquent about the Pope, and was rewarded by a gift from my mother of a little medallion of him and a gold scudo with an excellent likeness thereon, both always tenderly reverenced by me.
Going to the Pincian Hill on Sunday afternoons, when my father quite regularly made me his companion, was the event of my week which entertained me best of all. To play a simple game of stones on one of the gray benches in the late afternoon sunshine, with him for courteous opponent, was to feel my eyes, lips, hands, all my being, glow with the fullest human happiness. When he threw down a pebble upon one of the squares which he had marked with chalk, I was enchanted. When one game was finished, I trembled lest he would not go on with another. He was never fatigued or annoyed—outwardly. He had as much control over the man we saw in him as a sentinel on duty. Therefore he proceeded with the tossing of pebbles, genially though quietly, not exhibiting the least reluctance, and uttering a few amused sounds, like mellow wood-notes. Between the buxom groups of luxuriant foliage the great stream of fashion rolled by in carriages, the music of the well-trained band pealing forth upon the breeze; and in the tinted distance, beyond the wall of the high-perched garden which surrounded us, the sunset shook out its pennons. Through the glinting bustle of the crowd and the richness of nature my father peacefully breathed, in half-withdrawn brooding, either pursuing our pebble warfare with kindest stateliness, or strolling beside lovely plots of shadowed grass, fragrant from lofty trees of box. An element by no means slight in the rejoicing of my mind, when I was with him of a Sunday afternoon, was his cigar, which he puffed at very deliberately, as if smoking were a rite. The aroma was wonderful. The classicism which followed my parents about in everything of course connected itself with my father's chief luxury, in the form of a bronze match-box, given him in Rome by my sister, upon which an autumn scene of harvest figures was modeled with Greek elegance, and to this we turned our eyes admiringly during the lighting of the cigar. There was a hunter returning to a home draped with the grape, bringing still more of that fruit, and a rabbit and bird, hung upon a pole, while his wife and child were ever so comfortably disposed upon the threshold, and the hunting-dog affectionately lapped the young matron's hand. An autumn was also depicted on the reverse, presumably a year earlier than the one just described, where two lovers stood among sheaves of wheat, their sickles in hand, and the youth held up a bunch of grapes which the maiden, down-looking, gently raised her arm to receive. At last it would grow too late to play another game, and my father's darkly clothed form would be drawn up, and his strongly beautiful face lifted ominously. Before leaving the hill we went to look over the parapet to the west, where stood, according to "Monte Beni," "the grandest edifice ever built by man, painted against God's loveliest sky." Quoit-players were no doubt rolling their disks upon the road below us; and on the very first glance it almost always happened that a springing, vaporous-looking quoit would appear without one's seeing the man whose hand had sent it on its way. It was a refined pastime, immortalized by the Discobolus, which, however, cannot give the charm of the whirling quoit.
The entries in my mother's diary so abound in names and persons met day by day, names both unknown to the world and familiar to it, that it is hard to understand how there was time for sightseeing or illness, or the reading which was kept up. The wife of a distinguished sculptor in Rorffe afterwards said in a letter that this year of 1859 was remarkably for its crowd of tourists, and added that 1860 proved very quiet. It does not sound quiet to hear that she had just enjoyed a horseback ride with Mr. Browning; but Americans and English certainly did have rich enjoyment in Italy in those days, and grew exacting. The jottings of the diary stir the imagination quite pleasantly, beginning January 16, 1859: "Mr. Browning called to visit us. Delightful visit. I read Charlotte Bronte for the second time.—Mrs. Story sent a note to my husband to invite him to tea [my mother being housed with my sick sister] with Mr. Browning.—Mr. Horatio Bridge spent the evening.—Read 'Frederick the Great.'—Mr. Motley called, and brought 'Paradise Lost' for Una.—I went to the sunny Corso with my husband, who is far from well. Mrs. Story asks us to dine with Mr. de Vere, Lady William Russell, Mr. Alison, Mr. Browning, and other interesting people.—Lovely turquoise day. I prepared Julian's Carnival dress. Went to the Hoars' balcony, and the Conservatori passed in gorgeous array. The George Joneses took Una to drive in the Corso, and the Prince of Wales threw her a bouquet from his balcony. I read the 'Howadji in Syria' as I sat at the Hoars' window.—I had a delightful visit from E. Hoar. She saw the Pope yesterday, and he blessed her. Mrs. Story looked very pretty in a carriage at the Carnival, with a hat trimmed with a wreath of violets. —Mr. and Mrs. Story called for us to go to the Doria Villa. We had a glorious excursion, finding rainbow anemones and seeing wonderful views. Mr. Christopher Cranch joined us.—I went to the Vatican for the first time this year, with E. Hoar. We met there Mr. Hawthorne escorting Mrs. Pierce and Miss Vandervoort. We went through all the miles of sculpture.—Una and I called on Mrs. Pierce, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Pickman, Mrs. Hoar, and met Mrs. Motley. In the afternoon I went with E. Hoar to Mr. Story's studio. Mrs. Pickman called on me.—Mr. Hawthorne and I and Julian went to call on Miss Cushman, and to Mr. Page's studio. Mr. Motley had made a long call early in the day, and teased Mr. Hawthorne to dine with him, to meet Lord Spencer's son.—Mrs. Story brought Una the first lilies-of-the-valley that have bloomed in Rome this year. I went with Rose to Trinita dei Monti to hear the nuns sing vespers. Coming out, I met' Miss Harriet Hosmer.—Superb day. I went with my husband to call at Miss Hosmer's studio, and met the Hon. Mr. Cowper, who stopped to talk. Mr. Browning darted upon us across the Piazza., glowing with cordiality. Miss Hosmer could not admit us, because she was modeling Lady Mordaunt's nose.—Governor Seymour called.—I took Rose to a window in the Carnival. It was a mad, merry time. A gentleman tossed me a beautiful bouquet and a bonbon.—Julian and I went to the Albani Villa with Mrs. Ward and Mr. Charles Sumner. A charming time.—In the twilight I went with Mr. Hawthorne to the Coliseum and the Forum. It grew to lovely moonlight.—After dinner I went to the Pincian gardens with Mr. Hawthorne and Julian. It was moonlight.—Mr. Sumner made a long call."
Among the friends much with us was the astronomer, Miss Maria Mitchell, whom we had long known intimately. She smiled blissfully in Rome, as if really visiting a constellation; flashing her eyes with silent laughter, and curling her soft, full, splendid lips with fascinating expressions of satisfaction. I loved her for this, but principally because, while with us in Paris, it was she who had with delicious comradeship introduced me to that perfection of all infantile taste—French gingerbread, warm (on an outdoor counter) with the sunshine of the skies! She had the long list of churches and ruins and pictures catalogued upon her efficient tongue, and she and my mother ran together like sisters to see the sights of beauty and reminiscence; neither of them ever tired, and never disappointed. Her voice was richly mellow, like my father's, and her wit was the merry spray of deep waves of thought. The sculptor, Miss Harriet Hosmer, it was easy to note, charmed the romancer. She was cheerfulness itself, touched off with a jaunty cap. Her smile I remember as one of those very precious gleams that make us forget everything but the present moment. She could be wittily gay; but there was plenty of brain power behind the clever mot, as immensities are at the source of the sun-ray. There was a blessing in the presence of Miss Elizabeth Hoar, once engaged to that beloved brother of Mr. Emerson whom death had taken. She seemed to me (I plead guilty to fancifulness) like a tall, speaking monument, composed of diamonds and pearls. She talked a great deal, gently, with a penetrating sweetness of voice, and looking somewhat down, as those do who have just received the news of a bitter sorrow. She knew everything that was fine in history and poetry and art; and to be near her, and to catch at moments the clear unfaltering challenge of her sad but brave eyes, was to live a little nobler one's self.
I will give here two letters from this friend, showing her strength of sympathy and tenderness:—
FLORENCE, May.
DEAR SOPHIA,—We are here after a journey entirely prosperous in every respect, driving through a country as lovely as it could be. Such wreaths of hawthorn, such hanging tassels of laburnum, such masses of delicate purple flowers draping the rocks and carpeting every broken ground,—golden broom on every hillside, scarlet poppies illuminating every field of grain, and the richest crimson clover, like endless fields of strawberries,—I never saw before. We have had just clouds enough to make beautiful shadows on the mountains. How I wish you and Una could be floated on a cloud over the charming region. I thought of the dear child at every new flower, but not without a pang; for my only disappointment in leaving Rome (no, the other was that I had not seen Mr. Browning) was that I could not send Una some flowers the morning of our departure. I had set my heart upon it, but could not find any pretty enough. Every fresh spray of hawthorn on our journey renewed the prick of my disappointment. We should have liked to take Julian along with us as our traveling artist, to lay up the flowers for us in imperishable colors [he already painted flowers remarkably]; we were reminded of him very often. I saw dear little Rose's patron, St. Rosa, in the Staffa Gallery at Perugia,—very beautiful. I have much to thank you for, dear Sophia, in all sorts of aid and sympathy. Very charming is the recollection of every meeting with you, from the first lovely Sunday at the Villa Doria; and then the day when we visited the willful Queen of Egypt as she sat waiting to be made again immortal in marble [in Story's studio]. Those days in Rome were made brighter to me by the sunshine of kindness and a hearty sympathy, beginning with the day which will be an exhilarating thought to me as long as I live, when you showed me St. Peter's Piazza under the blue sky; and then we passed the wall of the Capitol, and looked down upon ancient Rome. It was a wonderful day, Sophia, and I shall never forget that you received me in that city. I hope you will have many joyous days before you leave Europe, so that you may all forget the many anxieties of the last three months. I wish to send my love to Mrs. Story. I enjoy the thought of her, and Mr. Story, very much. I have always loved them for their thorough kindness to Margaret [Fuller d'Ossoli], and now I have seen them I love them for themselves. Love and constant remembrance to Una and dear little Rose. You don't know how hard it is not to know about you, day by day. [Later.] I had your other letter in Genoa, and was rejoiced to get it. I had driven with Lizzie and Mr. May the very day before from Villeneuve to Montreux to call upon you, the people at Hotel Byron assuring us you were to spend a month at Montreux. However, the news from Una was precious, for it was the first intelligence we had had since we left the dear child in bed in Rome, with that trickish fever playing about her. I did not receive the note from Mr. Hawthorne. I am almost glad you are not going to take her back into the low ground at Concord this autumn. . . .
Many friends were in Rome, both as residents and as tourists, and in all my after-life our two winters there were the richest of memories, in regard both to personalities and exquisite objects, and to scenes of artistic charm. Yet, as I have said elsewhere, if the tall, slender figure of my father were not at hand, even my mother's constantly cheering presence and a talkative group of people could not warm the imagination quite enough. He says, in speaking of the Carnival, "For my part, though I pretended to take no interest in the matter, I could have bandied confetti and nosegays as readily and riotously as any urchin there." These few words explain his magnetism. The decorous pretense of his observant calm could not make us forget the bursts of mirth and vigorous abandon which now and then revealed the flame of unstinted life in his heart. And I, watching constantly as I did, saw a riotous throw of the confetti, a mirthful smile of Carnival spirits, when my father was radiant for a few moments with a youth's, a faun's merriment.
Having quoted a letter of my sister's which expresses his opinion and her own of the irksomeness of sight-seeing, however heroic the spot, I will add this little paragraph from the next winter's correspondence, when, though only fifteen, she wrote very well of Europe and America, concluding: "It shows you have not lived in Europe, dear aunt, and do not know what it is to breathe day after day the atmosphere of art, that you can think of our being satisfied. We have seen satisfactorily, but the longer we stay, the higher and deeper is our enjoyment, and the more are our minds fitted to understand and admire, and the nearer do our souls approach in thought and imagination to that fount of glory and beauty, from which the old artists drew so freely."
In art, Catholicity was utterly bowed down to by my relatives and their friends, because without it this great art would not have been. For, as scientists and dreamers have proved that gold cannot be made until we know as much as the earth, so uninspired artists have proved that religious art can only grow under conditions known solely to the heart that is Catholic. Every religious school of art which has departed from imitation of the Old Masters has forfeited holiness in depicting the Holy Family.
My mother's letters describing my sister's illness with Roman fever recall the many persons of interest whom we saw. She writes: "Carriages were constantly driving to the door with inquiries. People were always coming. Even dear Mrs. Browning, who almost never goes upstairs, came the moment she heard. She was like an angel. I saw her but a moment, but the clasp of her hand was electric, and her voice penetrated my heart. Mrs. Ward, also usually unable to go upstairs, came every day for five days. One day there seemed a cloud of good spirits in the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Story, and so on, all standing and waiting. Magnificent flowers were always coming, baskets and bouquets, which were presented with tearful eyes. The American minister constantly called. Mr. Aubrey de Vere came. Every one who had seen Una in society or anywhere came to ask. Mrs. Story came three times in one day to talk about a consultation. The doctor wished all the food prepared exactly after his prescription, and would accept no one's dishes. 'Whose broth is this?' 'This is Mrs. Browning's.' 'Then tell Mrs. Browning to write her poesies, and not to meddle with my broths for my patient!' 'Whose jelly is this?' 'Mrs. Story's.' 'I wish Mrs. Story would help her husband to model his statues, and not try to feed Miss Una!' General Pierce came three times a day. I think I owe to him, almost, my husband's life. He was divinely tender, sweet, sympathizing, and helpful." She adds: "No one shared my nursing, because Una wanted my touch and voice; and she was not obliged to tell me what she wanted. For days, she only opened her eyes long enough to see if I were there. For thirty days and nights I did not go to bed; or sleep, except in the morning in a chair, while Miss Shepard watched for an hour or so. Una had intervals of brightness and perfect consciousness. In one of these, she tied up a bouquet of flowers with hands that almost shook the flowers to pieces with their trembling, to send them to a friend who was ill. She raised herself upon her elbow, and wrote with a pencil a graceful note, quoting her father's 'Wonder-Book' in reference to the bouquet."
I went with my father and mother to several painters' and sculptors' studios (besides innumerable visits to churches and galleries), all filling my mind with unfailing riches of memory. I hope I shall be pardoned for giving the general effect of this companionship and sight-seeing upon many years of reflection in a strain that is autobiographical. The studio which I best remember was Mr. Thompson's, he who had painted the portrait of my father used in the editions of "Twice-Told Tales." The room was very large, but not very high, and it had a great deal of shadow in it. I did not think he painted as well as Raphael; but I delighted in the smell of his pigments, which were intensely fragrant. I thought his still moist canvas upon the easel, of a little Peter and a well-groomed angel, infinitely amusing. It was history scrubbed, and rather reduced in size. I was half appalled, half fascinated, by my temerity in having such frivolous private opinions of a picture that my mother and father felt the excellence of with reverence and praise. A minute portrait of me was painted by Mr. Thompson; one for which I did not find it at all amusing to sit, as I had to occupy a stiff chair (I think it was even a high stool) without any of the family to keep me in heart, although I had almost never been left with friends in that way, and although I was by that time a perfect recluse in disposition. So I was under the impression that I was being punished by the invisible powers, which I was conscious of eminently deserving. The small painting shows this idea of Purgatorial arrest by a clever touch here and there, without depicting a frown or positive gloom. The patronizing demeanor of an artist at work upon a portrait, which we all know so well,—the inevitable effect of his faith in himself, the very breath of artistic endeavor, without which he would lounge through life asking, "Of what use is it to attempt?"—made me furious, in my naughty, secret mind. I was not accustomed to being patronized; my mother herself had never given me a command. Besides, I was out of temper to think that my quietly observant father had stood in admiration before that picture of the liberating of St. Peter, of which I wearied, liking it so cordially that he had uttered his conclusive, deeply sympathetic "Yes," when my mother gave voice to her praise; whereas I had not had the grace to glow, but voted all the pictures bores in a lump. Mr. Thompson, below the average size, and harmlessly handsome, always wore the prevailing gleam of a smile that showed chiefly at the eyes, offset by a nimbus of gray and black hair.
I wondered, even at seven years of age, how sculptors in the flesh could come and carve original conceptions among the unspeakably successful attempts of those who were already thinnest dust, yet whose names have so much personality in them that a sovereign presence fills the place where they are spoken,—sculptors whose statues step as it were unexpectedly (themselves surprised) into sight, with none of the avoirdupois of later stone-work; that heaviness which, in some of the finest of these modern figures, causes them to pause involuntarily, as if snowed upon. The high degree of smoothness of the old statues, as well as their mellowed whiteness, may give life; added to that wonderful deep cutting in all crevices and detail of nature, such as gives, in literature, the life to Balzac's endlessly studied facts of situation. The sugary porousness of much of the inferior marble of to-day arrests the eye, and troubles it. Story's Cleopatra is smooth, close-fibred as glass, and the snowstorm has not been allowed to drift upon the folds of her robe, the interstices of her modeling. She, with a few others of still later date, comes near to the old art, which has as much possibility for our imaginative survey as the plot of "The Marble Faun," so marvelously, so intricately, so unslavishly finished. In looking at the Dying Gladiator, we wonder whether he has already passed on from mastering the thought of his approaching death to the remembrance of his wife and children; or whether upon the agony of the physical pang and the insult to courage, which his wound has brought him to endure, is yet to break the pathos of a hero's regret for the relinquished sweetness of love and home.
The Marble Faun suggests the problem as to whether he has for an instant stopped laughing, or will not immediately laugh; and what has a little while ago, or will suddenly cause, the animal fury of gladness to turn this jocund athlete into a dancing, bewilderingly enticing companion, chiming with guffaws and songs. Cleopatra's watchful melancholy partook also of classic momentariness, and I hoped she would spring to her feet. I liked very much to go to Mr. Story's studio, and I thought that for so slight a figure he was remarkably fearless.
The arches of triumph, which my mother studied reverently, seemed to me too premeditated and unnecessary; although an architect could no doubt have explained why, even to the present day, the little door for the little cat should supplement the big door of all space, which one would at first take to be a hero's best environment. Not thus unnecessary appeared the Coliseum; haunted by wild beasts, especially lions, leaping (I imagined) in hobgoblin array from the cavernous entrances which were pointed out to me as connected in the days of triumphant tyranny with their donjons. Many tender thoughts filled my reflections as I saw pilgrims visiting, and kneeling before, the black cross in the centre, and the altars around the walls. I delighted to muse within the circular ruin, upon whose upper rim, jagged but sunlit, delicate vegetation found a repentant welcome. The circular form of the ruin is full of eloquence, as one approaches from the Forum. What would be grace in a smaller structure is tragedy in so immense a sweep, which melts into vagueness, or comes mountainously upon you, or swirls before you in a retreating curve that figures the never-changing change of eternity.
The tomb of Cecilia Metella, and other successive tombs of the Appian Way beyond the walls, gave me my first impression of death that really was death. There could be, I reflected, looking at the sepulchres of these old Romans, no pretty story about the poor folk having gone to heaven comfortably from their apparent bodies. Here were the ashes of them, after a thousand years, in contemptible little urns; and they were expected to enjoy, in that much impaired state, sundry rusty bric-a-brac, dolls, and tear-vials of spookish iridescence, until, in the vast lapse of time, even a ghost must have got tired. Unaided by the right comment, I was dragged down considerably by those pagan tombs; and as an antidote, the unexplained catacombs were not sufficiently elevating. I did not read the signs of the subterranean churches aright, any more than the uncultivated Yankee reads aright an Egyptian portraiture. Monkish skulls and other unburied bones, seen by the light of moccoletti, were to me nothing but forms of folly. The abounding life of Catholicity was hardly understood by our party, which for some reason seemed inclined to impute the most death to the faith which has the most form. We did not gather how this abounding life can afford, though making more of our little fleshly sojourn than any other patron, to compare a skull with the life of the spirit, and relegate it to ornamentation and symbol.
Through the streets of Rome trotted in brown garb and great unloveliness a frequent monk, brave and true; and each of these, I was led by the feminine members of the family, to regard as a probable demon, eager for my intellectual blood. A fairer sight were the Penitents, in neat buff clothes of monastic outline, their faces covered with their hoods, whose points rose overhead like church steeples, two holes permitting the eyes to peep with beetle glistenings upon you. They went hurryingly along, called from their worldly affairs; and my mother imparted to me her belief that they were somewhat free of superstition because undoubtedly clean. Sometimes processions of them, chanting, came slowly through the city, bearing the dead to burial. I did not know, then, that the chanting was the voicing of good, honest, Bible-derived prayers; I thought it was child's play, useless and fascinating. In the churches the chanting monks and boys impressed me differently. Who does not feel, without a word to reveal the fact, the wondrous virtue of Catholic religious observance in the churches? The holiness of these regions sent through me waves of peace. I stepped softly past the old men and women who knelt upon the pavements, and gazed longingly upon their simpler spiritual plane; I drew back reluctantly from the only garden where the Cross is planted in visible, reverential substance. For the year ensuing this life in Rome, I entertained the family with dramatic imitations of religious chants, grumbling out at sundown the low, ominous echoings of the priests, answered by the treble, rapid and trustful, of the little choristers, gladly picturing to myself as I did so the winding processions in St. Peter's.
In the square beneath our windows, during Lent, booths were set, and countless flat pancake-looking pieces of dough were caught up by a white-capped and aproned cook, with a long-handled spoon, and fried in olive oil placed in a caldron at the booth's door, to be served to passers in the twinkling of an eye. I watched this process until I grew to regard Lent as a tiresome custom. Having tested the cakes, I found them to be indistinct in taste, for all their pretty buff tint, and the dexterous twist of the cook's wrist as he dumped them and picked them up. If they had been appetizing I should have been sharply interested in the idea of becoming a Catholic, but their entire absence of relish convinced me that the Italians lacked mental grasp and salvation at a single swoop: and this in spite of the fact that one of my mother's most valued friends, Mrs. Ward, had lately joined the Church. It was her husband who said of her, "Whatever church has Anna, has St. Anna!" Perhaps the most exquisite speech ever uttered by a husband.
Before this serious season of pancakes, which was all Lent was to me at the time of which I speak, the Carnival had rushed upon my sight, carrying all our friends through its whirlpool. Every gay cloth, shawl, and mat that could be brought into service I had rejoiced to see displayed upon the balconies. A narrow, winding street the Corso seemed, being so full, and the houses so high; and a merry blue strip of heaven far away overhead, glancing along the housetops, assured us space still existed. Sudden descents of flowers upon one's shoulders and lap in the carriage, from a window or a passer, or a kindly feeling stranger in another carriage, made one start in mirthful response. Sudden meetings with dear friends, or friends who seemed almost dear in the cheerful hurly-burly, became part of the funny scrimmage. At each side-street sat on a stony standing horse a beautifully proportioned and equipped guard, in gleaming helmet and calm demeanor.
To stand or sit at the windows beside the show was an experience full of pleasure; and if the window was on a level with the heads of the huddling passers, one could be in all the merriment yet not jostled; one could easily pick out a pretty woman or a handsome man to whom to throw a bouquet; and one could see energetic revelers, already well supplied with flowers, reaching high windows with bouquets by means of those wooden contrivances which can be extended or contracted at will, and look like impracticable ladders. The fair recipient at the lattice never failed to respond with an ecstatic smile if this Jacob's ladder had been sufficiently long to reach her welcoming hand. Meantime, many bunches of flowers, some large and elegant, some small and merely gay of color, were being thrown aloft or flung downward, making fountains and cataracts of flowers. Sometimes these bouquets fell into the street dejectedly, upon whose pavement little ragamuffins were always ready to pounce for them, and sell them again as fast as possible to passers who had exhausted their supply, had become mad with the Carnival, and caught sight, in that very moment, of some cherished comrade to whom they wished to throw a greeting. There was an intoxicating enjoyment in being singled out as the recipient of fragrant flowers, sent with a laugh of the eyes; or of a handful of sugared almonds, tossed with a gay shout of compliment. If the passer who thus honored us was a complete stranger, meeting us for this one moment in racial kindness, we felt the untrammeled bonhomie which, God knows, we were expected to feel as a matter of course not for a moment only, but for life.
Upon all these things I delighted to think and afterwards to ponder, because I realized that they were of vital interest to the intelligence which was to me greatest and dearest.
CHAPTER XIII