eighty-five, Dr. Holmes was a prolific writer of notes, more often than
letters, to Mrs. Fields. The sympathy of tried and ripened friendship
runs through them all. In the Charles Street house the younger friends
might see from time to time this oldest friend of their hostess. When he
came no more, it was well for those of a later day that his memory was so
securely held in the retrospect and the record of Mrs. Fields.
IV
CONCORD AND CAMBRIDGE VISITORS
The volumes in which Mrs. Fields brought to light many passages from her
journals stand as red and black buoys marking the channel through which
the navigator of these pages must steer his course if he is to avoid the
rocks and shoals of the previously published. In her books it was but
natural that she should deal most freely with those august figures in
American letters who so towered above their contemporaries as to attach
the longer and more portentous adjective “Augustan” to the circle formed
by the joining of their hands. If it has become the fashion to look back
upon the American Augustans and the English Victorians with similarly
mingled feelings, in which tolerance stands in a growing proportion
to the admiration and respect which formerly ruled supreme, it is the
unaltered fact that the figures of the American group dominated both the
local and the national scene of letters in their day, and that their
historic significance is undiminished. But it is rather as human beings
than as literary figures that they reveal themselves in the sympathetic
records of Mrs. Fields—human beings who typified and embodied a state of
thought and society so remote in its characteristic qualities from the
prevailing conditions of this later day as to be approaching steadily
that “equal date with Andes and with Ararat” of which one of them wrote
in words quite unmistakably his own.
Perhaps no single member of the group is represented in Mrs. Fields’s
journals so often as Dr. Holmes by illuminating pages which she herself
left unprinted. For this reason, and because Concord and Cambridge
visitors to Charles Street were in fact so much a “group,” it has
seemed wise to assemble in this place passages that relate to one after
another of the “Augustan” friends in turn. Sometimes they appear as
separate subjects of record, sometimes in company with their fellows.
That majestic figure, Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose death in 1864 made the
earliest gap in the circle of figures most memorable, shall be first to
step forth, like one of his own personages of the Province House, from
the shadows in which indeed he lived.
[Illustration: HAWTHORNE IN 1857]
The long chapter on Hawthorne in “Yesterdays with Authors,” and that
small volume about him which Mrs. Fields contributed in 1899 to the
“Beacon Biographies,” constitute the more finished portraits of the man
as his host and hostess in Charles Street saw him. His letters to Fields
are quoted at length in “Yesterdays with Authors,” and contribute an
autobiographic element of much importance to any study of Hawthorne.
But there are illuminating passages that were left unpublished. In one
of them, for example, Hawthorne, in a letter of September 21, 1860,
after lamenting the state of his daughter’s health, exclaimed: “I am
continually reminded, nowadays, of a response which I once heard a
drunken sailor make to a pious gentleman who asked him how he felt:
‘Pretty d——d miserable, thank God!’ It very well expresses my thorough
discomfort and forced acquiescence.” In another, of July 14, 1861, after
the calamity that befell Longfellow in the tragic death of his wife
through burning, Hawthorne wrote to Fields:—
“How does Longfellow bear this terrible misfortune? How are his own
injuries? Do write and tell me all about him. I cannot at all reconcile
this calamity to my sense of fitness. One would think that there ought
to have been no deep sorrow in the life of a man like him; and now comes
this blackest of shadows, which no sunshine hereafter can ever penetrate!
I shall be afraid ever to meet him again; he cannot again be the man that
I have known.”
In the words, “I shall be afraid ever to meet him again,” the very
accent of Hawthorne is clearly heard. Still another manuscript letter,
preserved in the Charles Street cabinet, should now be printed to round
out the story of Hawthorne’s reluctant omission from his “Atlantic”
article—“Chiefly about War Matters”—that personal description of Abraham
Lincoln which Fields was unwilling to publish in his magazine in 1862,
but afterwards included in his “Yesterdays with Authors.”[7] In that
place, however, he used but a few words from the following letter.
CONCORD, _May 23, ’62_
DEAR FIELDS:—
I have looked over the article under the influence of a cigar
and through the medium (but don’t whisper it) of a glass of
arrack and water; and though I think you are wrong, I am going
to comply with your request. I am the most good-natured man,
and the most amenable to good advice (or bad advice either,
for that matter) that you ever knew—so have it your own way.
The whole description of the interview with Uncle Abe and his
personal appearance must be omitted, since I do not find it
possible to alter them, and in so doing, I really think you
omit the only part of the article really worth publishing. Upon
my honor, it seemed to me to have a historical value—but let it
go. I have altered and transferred one of the notes so as to
indicate to the unfortunate public that it here loses something
very nice. You must mark the omission with dashes, so—x x x x x
x x.
I have likewise modified the other passage you allude to; and I
cannot now conceive of any objection to it.
What a terrible thing it is to try to get off a little bit of
truth into this miserable humbug of a world! If I had sent you
the article as I first conceived it, I should not so much have
wondered.
I want you to send me a proof sheet of the article in its
present state before making any alterations; for if ever I
collect these sketches into a volume, I shall insert it in all
its original beauty.
With the best regards to Mrs. Fields,
Truly yours,
NATH’L HAWTHORNE
P. S. I shall probably come to Boston next week, to the
Saturday Club.
If these unpublished letters add something to the more formal portraits
of Hawthorne drawn by Fields and his wife, still other lines may be added
by means of the unconscious, fragmentary sketches on which the portraits
were based. In Mrs. Fields’s diaries the following glimpses of Hawthorne
in the final months of his life are found.
_December 4, 1863._—Hawthorne and Mr. and Mrs. Alden passed the
night with us; he came to town to attend the funeral of Mrs.
Franklin Pierce. He seemed ill and more nervous than usual. He
brought the first part of a story which he says he shall never
finish.[8] J. T. F. says it is very fine, yet sad. Hawthorne
says in it, “pleasure is only pain greatly exaggerated,” which
is queer to say the least, if not untrue. I think it must be
differently stated from this. He was as courteous and as grand
as ever, and as true. He does not lose that all-saddening
smile, either.
_Sunday, December 6, 1863._—Mr. Hawthorne returned to us. He
had found General Pierce overwhelmed with sadness at the death
of his wife and greatly needing his companionship, therefore
he accompanied him the whole distance to Concord, N. H. He
said he could not generally look at such things, but he was
obliged to look at the body of Mrs. Pierce. It was like a
carven image laid in its richly embossed enclosure and there
was a remote expression about it as if it had nothing to do
with things present. Harriet Prescott was there. He had some
talk with her and liked her. He was more deeply impressed than
ever with the exquisite courtesy of his friend. Even at the
grave, while overwhelmed with grief, Pierce drew up the collar
of Hawthorne’s coat to keep him from the cold.[9]
We went to walk in the morning and left Mr. Hawthorne to read
in the library. He found a book called “Dealings with the
Dead,” which he liked—indeed he said he liked no house to stay
in better than this. He thought the old edition of Boccaccio
which belonged to Leigh Hunt a poor translation. He has already
written the first chapter of a new romance, but he thought so
little of the work himself as to make it impossible for him to
continue until Mr. Fields had read it and expressed his sincere
admiration for the work. This has given him better heart to go
on with it. He talked of the magazine with Mr. F.; told him he
thought it was the most ably edited magazine in the world, and
was bound to be a success, with this exception: he said, “I
fear its politics—beware! What will you do when in a year or
two the politics of the country change?” “I will quietly wait
for that time to come,” said J. T. F.; “then I can tell you.”
As the sunset deepened Mr. Hawthorne talked of his early life.
His grandfather bought a township in Maine and at the early age
of eleven years he accompanied his mother and sister down there
to live upon the land. From that moment the happiest period of
his life began and lasted until he was thirteen, when he was
sent to school in Salem. While in Maine he lived like a bird
of the air, so perfect was the freedom he enjoyed. During the
moonlight nights of winter he would skate until midnight alone
upon the icy face of Sebago Lake, with all its ineffable beauty
stretched before him and the deep shadows of the hills on
either hand. When he was weary he could take refuge sometimes
in a log cabin (there were several in this region), where
half a tree would be burning on the broad hearth and he could
sit by that and see the stars up through the chimney. All the
long summer days he roamed at will, gun in hand, through the
woods, and there he learned a nearness to Nature and a love
for free life which has never left him and made all other
existence in a measure insupportable. His suffering began with
that Salem school and his knowledge of his relatives who were
all distasteful to him. He said, “How sad middle life looks
to people of erratic temperaments. Everything is beautiful in
youth—all things are allowed to it.” We gave him “Pet Marjorie”
to read in the evening—a little story by John Brown. He thought
it so beautiful that he read it carefully twice until every
word was grasped by his powerful memory....
Talking of England, Hawthorne said she was not a powerful
empire. The extent over which her dominions extended led her to
fancy herself powerful. She is much like a squash vine which
runs over a whole garden, but once cut at the root and it is
gone at once.
We talked and laughed about Boswell, whom he thinks one of
the most remarkable men who ever lived, and J. T. F. recalled
that story of Johnson who, upon being told of a man who had
committed some misdemeanor and was upon the verge of committing
suicide in consequence, said, “Why does not the man go
somewhere where he is not known, instead of to the devil where
he is known?”
Hawthorne was in the same class at college with Longfellow,
whom he says he could not appreciate at that time. He was
always finely dressed and was a tremendous student. Hawthorne
was careless in dress and no student, but always reading
desultorily right and left. Now they are deeply appreciative of
each other.[10]
Hawthorne says he wants the North to beat now; ’tis the only
way to save the country from destruction. He has been strangely
inert and remote upon the subject of the war; partly from his
deep hatred of everything sad. He seemed to feel as if he could
not live and face it.
He was intensely witty, but his wit is of so ethereal a texture
that the fine essence has vanished and I can remember nothing
now of his witty things!
It would be a pity to truncate the following passage by confining the
record of Fields’s day in Concord to his glimpse of Hawthorne, already
recorded, with emendations, in the “Biographical Notes.”
[Illustration: _From a letter of Hawthorne’s after a visit to Charles
Street_]
_Saturday, January 9, 1864._—J. T. F. passed yesterday in
Concord. He went first to see Hawthorne, who was sitting alone
gazing into the fire, his grey dressing-gown, which became him
like a Roman toga, wrapped around his figure. He said he had
done nothing for three weeks. Yet we feel his romance must be
maturing in his mind. General Barlow and Mrs. Howe had sent
word they were coming to call, so Mrs. Hawthorne had gone out
to walk (been thrown out on picket-duty, Mrs. Stowe said) and
had left word at home that Mr. Hawthorne was ill and could see
no one. After his visit there, full of affectionate kindness,
J. T. F. proceeded to dinner with the Emersons. Here too
the reception was most hearty, but he fancied there were no
servants to speak of at either house. Mrs. E. looked deadly
pale, but her wit coruscated marvellously; even Mr. Emerson
grew silent to listen. She said a committee of three, of
which she was one, had been formed to pronounce upon certain
essays (unpublished) of Mr. Emerson, which they thought should
be printed now. She thought some of them finer than any of
his published essays. He laughed a great deal at the fun she
_poked_ at the earlier efforts.
From there J. T. F. proceeded to see the Thoreaus. The mother
and sister live well, but lonely it should seem, there without
Henry. They produced 32 volumes of journal and a few letters.
The idea was to print the letters. We hope it may be done.
Their house was like a conservatory, it was so filled with
plants in beautiful condition. Henry liked to have the doors
thrown open that he might look at these during his illness. He
was an excellent son, and even when living in his retirement at
Walden Pond, would come home every day. He supported himself
too from a very early age.
Here follows a passage also used by Fields in “Yesterdays with Authors,”
but in a rendering so moderated that the original entry in the journal is
quite another thing.
_Monday, March 28._—Mr. Hawthorne came down to take this as his
first station on his journey for health. He shocked us by his
invalid appearance. He has become quite deaf, too. His limbs
are shrunken but his great eyes still burn with their lambent
fire. He said, “Why does Nature treat us so like children! I
think we could bear it if we knew our fate. At least I think it
would not make much difference to me now what became of me.”
He talked with something of his old wit at times; said, “Why
has the good old custom of coming together to get drunk gone
out? Think of the delight of drinking in pleasant company and
then lying down to sleep a deep strong sleep.” Poor man! He
sleeps very little. We heard him walking in his room during
a long portion of the night, heavily moving, moving as if
indeed waiting, watching for his fate. At breakfast he gave
us a most singular account of an interview with Mr. Alcott.
He said: “Alcott was one of the most excellent of men. He
could never quarrel with anyone.” But the other day he came to
make Mr. H. a call, to ask him if there was any difficulty or
misunderstanding between the two families. Mr. Hawthorne said
no, that would be impossible; “but I proceeded,” he continued,
“to tell him it was not possible to live upon amicable terms
with Mrs. Alcott.... The old man acknowledged the truth of all
that I said (indeed who should know it better), but I comforted
him by saying in time of illness or necessity I did not doubt
we should be the best of helpers to each other. I clothed all
this in velvet phrases, that it might not seem too hard for him
to bear, but he took it all like a saint.”
_April, 1864._—When Mr. Hawthorne returned after watching at
the death-bed of Mr. Ticknor, his mind was in a healthier
condition, we thought, than when he left, but the experience
had been a terrible one. I can never forget the look of pallid
exhaustion he wore the night he returned to us. He said he had
scarcely eaten or slept since he left. “Mr. Childs watched
me so closely after poor Ticknor died, as if I had lost my
protector and friend, and so I had! But he stuck by as if he
were afraid to leave me alone. He stayed past the dinner hour,
and when I began to wonder if he never ate himself, he departed
and sent another man to watch me till he should return!”
Nevertheless he liked Mr. Childs and spoke repeatedly of his
unwearying kindness. “I never saw anything like it,” he said;
yet when he was abstractedly wondering where his slippers were,
I overheard him say to himself, “Oh! I remember, that cursed
Childs watched me so I forgot everything.”
He spoke of the coldness of somebody and said, “Well, I think
he would have felt something if he had been there!” He said he
did not think death would be so terrible if it were not for the
undertakers. It was dreadful to think of being handled by those
men.
He was often wholly overcome by the ludicrous view of something
presented to him in the midst of his grief. There was a black
servant sleeping in the room that last night, whose name was
Peter. Once he snored loudly, when the dying man raised himself
with an appreciation of fun still living in him and said, “Well
done, Peter!”
In every account of the last week of Hawthorne’s life, the shock he
received through the illness and death of his friend and traveling
companion, Ticknor, in Philadelphia, is an item of sombre moment. The two
men had left Boston together late in March—Hawthorne, sick and broken,
writing but once, in a tremulous hand, to his wife during the ill-starred
journey; Ticknor, giving himself unstintingly to the restoration of
Hawthorne’s health, and stricken unto death before a fortnight was gone.
The circumstances are suggested in the entry that has just been quoted
from Mrs. Fields’s journal. They stand still more clearly revealed in
the last letter written by Hawthorne to Fields, who refers to it in
“Yesterdays with Authors,” and adds that the news of Ticknor’s death
reached Boston on the very day after this letter was written, all too
evidently with a feeble hold upon the pen.
PHILADELPHIA, CONTINENTAL HOTEL
_Saturday morning_
DEAR FIELDS:—
I am sorry to say that our friend Ticknor is suffering under
a severe billious attack since yesterday morning. He had
previously seemed uncomfortable, but not to an alarming degree.
He sent for a physician during the night, and fell into the
hands of an allopathist, who, of course, belabored with pills
and powders of various kinds, and then proceeded to cup, and
poultice, and blister, according to the ancient rule of that
tribe of savages. The consequence is that poor Ticknor is
already very much reduced, while the disorder flourishes as
luxuriantly as if that were the doctor’s sole object. He calls
it a billious colic (or bilious, I know not which) and says it
is one of the severest cases he ever knew. I think him a man of
skill and intelligence, in his way, and doubt not that he will
do everything that his views of scientific medicine will permit.
Since I began writing the above, Mr. Bennett of Boston tells
me the Doctor, after this morning’s visit, requested the
proprietor of the Continental to telegraph to Boston the
state of the case. I am glad of it, because it relieves me
of the responsibility of either disclosing bad intelligence
or withholding it. I will only add that Ticknor, under the
influence of a blister and some powders, seems more comfortable
than at any time since his attack, and that Mr. Bennett (who
is an apothecary, and therefore conversant with these accursed
matters) says that he is in a good state. But I can see that
it will be not a very few days that will set him upon his legs
again. As regards nursing, he shall have the best that can be
obtained; and my own room is next to his, so that I can step in
at any moment; but that will be of almost as much service as if
a hippopotamus were to do him the same kindness. Nevertheless,
I have blistered, and powdered, and pilled him and made my
observation on medical science and the sad and comic aspects of
human misery.
Excuse this illegible scrawl, for I am writing almost in the
dark. Remember me to Mrs. Fields. As regards myself, I almost
forgot to say that I am perfectly well. If you could find time
to write Mrs. Hawthorne and tell her so, it would be doing me
a great favor, for I doubt whether I can find an opportunity
just now to do it myself. You would be surprised to see how
stalwart I have become in this little time.
Your friend,
N. H.
Barely more than a month later, Hawthorne, traveling with another friend,
Franklin Pierce, died in New Hampshire. Through the years that followed,
the friendship of the Fieldses with his widow and children afforded many
occasions for brief affectionate record in the chronicles of Charles
Street.[11]
The two entries that follow touch, respectively, upon glimpses of
Hawthorne’s immediate family at Concord, in the summer of 1865, and of
his surviving sister in the summer of 1866.
_Sunday, July 9, 1865._—Passed Friday in Concord. Called at the
Emersons, but were disappointed to find them all in town, Jamie
particularly, who wished to tell him that his new essay on
Character is not suited to the magazine. Ordinary readers would
not understand him and would consider it blasphemous. He thinks
it would do more good if delivered simply to his own disciples
first, in a volume of new essays uniform with the others.
Dined with Sophia Hawthorne and the children, the first real
visit since that glorious presence has departed. What an
altered household! She feels very lonely and is like a reed.
I fear the children find small restraint from her. Poor
child! How tired she is! Will God spare her further trial, I
wonder, and take her to his rest?... Went to call on Sophia
Thoreau.[12] ... We saw a letter from Froude, the historian, to
H. T., as warmly appreciative as it was possible for a letter
to be; also “long good histories,” as his sister said, from his
admirer Cholmondely. His journal is in thirty-two volumes and
when J. T. F. spoke of wishing for an editor to condense these,
she said there was no hurry and she thought the man would come.
We spoke of Sanborn. She said, “He knows a great deal, but I
never associate him with my brother.”
She is a woman borne down with ill health. She seemed to
possess, as we saw her, something of the self-sustaining power
of her brother, the same repose and confidence in her fate, as
being always good. Dear S. H. says she has this when she thinks
of her brother, but often loses it when the surface of her
life becomes irritated and she is disabled for work. Her aged
mother, learning we were there, got up and dressed herself and
came down, to her daughter’s great surprise. She has an immense
care in that old lady evidently.