MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE
By
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
PREFACE
It will be seen that this volume is really written by Sophia
Hawthorne; whose letters from earliest girlhood are so expressed, and
so profound in thought and loveliness, that some will of sterner
quality than a daughter's must cast them aside. I have tried to weed
out those written records of hers (even from 1820) reaching to her
last year in 1871, that could give no especial pleasure to any
descendant who might come upon them; and I have been astonished to
find that there was scarcely one such page. This is the explanation of
my return, in the company of the friends of my father and mother, to
an old garden, a familiar discourse, and a circle of life that
embraced so much beauty.
ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP.
NEW YORK, February 20th, 1897.
CONTENTS
[online ed: page numbers omitted]
CHAPTER I
THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS
The Hawthornes summoned from their quietude by the Peabodys. Sophia
Peabody's mother and grandmother, the latter wife of General Palmer,
who was prominent in the Revolution. Characteristics of the Misses
Peabody. Letters to the Hawthornes from the Peabodys, though so close
at hand, because of the difficulty of seeing the former at any time.
The dignity of George Peabody's nature. Sophia's fondness for profound
books. The great affection of friends for her, who bring rare flowers
to the little studio where she is often imprisoned. Elizabeth
Hawthorne consents to walk with the Peabodys. Dr. Channing's regard
for Sophia's artistic talent and motive. Miss Burley's literary club,
to which Hawthorne liked to go with Sophia. The wooing not a moment
delayed. Visits from Emerson and Very. Elizabeth goes forth among the
most interesting people of Boston, and remains to teach their
daughters.
CHAPTER II
THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT
Hawthorne and Sophia become engaged, but defer the announcement for a
year. Sophia visits friends in Boston, and Hawthorne visits Boston
also. Washington Allston's deep approval of Sophia's talents.
Elizabeth visits the Emersons in Concord, and writes as if from
heaven. Mr. Bancroft remarked to Emerson that Hawthorne was
exceptionally thorough in business. Sophia draws and paints vigorously
in her happy security of the highest love. Letters from Hawthorne to
her. Fragment of a Scrap-Book kept by Hawthorne at the Boston Custom
House. Friends rejoice in the engagement when it is made known.
CHAPTER III
THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE
The beautiful marriage is appreciated by all. Letters to Mrs. Caleb
Foote and to Sophia's mother describe life at the Old Manse in
Concord. The birth of Una. Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne skate upon
the river near the Manse, with differing aspects. The radiance and
sublimity of a Massachusetts winter enrich the landscape. Evening
readings by Hawthorne to his wife from the classics begun and always
continued. Friends call somewhat frequently, at last, from the outside
world; Visits to relatives in Boston and Salem. Mary Peabody becomes
the wife of Horace Mann. Sophia describes Una's favorable impression
upon the circle of friends in Salem and Boston. Returning to the Old
Manse renews the enjoyment of nature and peace.
CHAPTER IV
LIFE IN SALEM
Salem becomes their home for the second time. Letter from George W.
Curtis while in Europe. Sophia expresses in a letter to Hawthorne her
entire satisfaction, though poor and in the midst of petty cares,
under his enchanting protection. Daniel Webster's oration in Salem.
Alcott's monologue. Thoreau's lecture. Letters about the attack of
certain mistaken people upon Hawthorne as a Democrat and official.
Hawthorne writes to Horace Mann upon the subject. The best citizens
are active to remedy the offense against Hawthorne. George Mullet's
letters describing Hawthorne as official and man.
CHAPTER V
FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE
The Hawthornes seek a home by the sea, but drift up to the mountains
of Berkshire, and are happy. Letter from Mrs. James R. Lowell, _nee_
White. The Sedgwicks are the kindest friends in the world. Herman
Melville is drawn to the life by Mrs. Hawthorne, in a letter to her
mother. A poem, by Mrs. Hawthorne, to her husband.
CHAPTER VI
LENOX
Letters and visits from friends are frequent in Lenox, where a
literary group begin to suggest flight to the Hawthornes, who have no
liking for a fussy succession of intercourse. Hawthorne reads the
"House of the Seven Gables" aloud to his wife as he writes it. He
sends a long letter to William B. Pike. Charming long letters come
from Herman Melville, though he is not far off.
CHAPTER VII
FROM LENOX TO CONCORD
Letter, full of amused astonishment, from Hawthorne to Mrs. Tappan.
Descriptions of the divine Lenox home life, by Mrs. Hawthorne. The
removal to West Newton, and finally to Concord, is made. Letter from
Maria L. Porter, a kindred nature. Mr. Alcott is lovingly analyzed by
Mrs. Hawthorne. Letters to her from Mr. Alcott. Letters to her, from
Emerson, of an earlier date. Letters from Margaret Fuller. Mrs.
Hawthorne describes The Wayside. General Solomon McNiel wields his
affable sword. The Emersons pervade the little town like reigning
powers.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE
The Wayside begins to be hospitable in earnest, and Mr. Miller, the
artist, talks unceasingly there. Mrs. Hawthorne describes her husband.
Hawthorne visits the Isles of Shoals. Ex-President Pierce is insulted
and bears it well. Hawthorne visits Brunswick College, and is welcomed
back there. A talk on The Wayside hill. The Liverpool Consulate is
given to Hawthorne, who visits Washington before embarking for
England. Description of Hawthorne by his daughter Rose. The voyage is
described in a letter from Mrs. Hawthorne. Field Talfourd pleases her,
especially. Mr. Henry Bright shines upon the family. Rose describes
him. Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her father about him, his family at
their home, and of English ways.
CHAPTER IX
ENGLISH DAYS: I
Hospitable English strangers make the American strangers welcome. An
English mansion described by Mrs. Hawthorne. Liverpool organizations
honor Hawthorne by attentions. The Squareys of Dacre Hill. Hawthorne's
unstinted friendliness towards Americans in distress. The De Quincey
family greatly desire to see Hawthorne, Ticknor says. Hawthorne meets
the sons of Burns. Liscard Vale and its dinner-party described by Mrs.
Hawthorne, who is entertained by the magnificence and the characters
richly gathered there. Mrs. Hawthorne tells her father about a visit
to Chester on Sunday. The "Westminster Review" praises Hawthorne's
art. Distinguished English people seek Hawthorne out. Mr. Martineau
described by Mrs. Hawthorne. Mr. Bennoch's first call upon the family.
Miss Cushman visits the Hawthornes with her splendid geniality. Mrs.
Hawthorne described by her daughter Rose. Hawthorne is hunted to
gorgeous dinners against his better instincts. Henry Bright more
delightfully drives him to beautiful scenes. "The Scarlet Letter"
sells very largely in England, and is read. The Consulate is sighed
over by Mrs. Hawthorne.
CHAPTER X
ENGLISH DAYS: II
The Isle of Man is visited as if it were Fairyland. The Consulate is
again described by Mrs. Hawthorne. Hawthorne refuses to let two
hundred shipwrecked American soldiers die in destitution, and charters
a ship to send them home, at some risk of personal bankruptcy. The
death of Mrs. Hawthorne's father is communicated to her by her
husband. A letter from Una tells about the family and the scene of the
country-side, and refers to Lenox pastimes. Visit of the family to
Wales. Hawthorne goes to a dinner-party to meet Mr. Buchanan and Miss
Lane. Hawthorne and Mrs. Hawthorne described by Rose. Hawthorne still
reads aloud in the evenings. Letters from Hawthorne to Rose. His
playfulness and generous thought for his children noted. The home life
of the family depicted, and also Mrs. Hawthorne's energy of geniality.
A sketch of Mr. Bennoch, and a letter from him. Lord Houghton and
others try to bring Hawthorne to society by letter. The family go to
London for the ostensible purpose of enjoying society, but Hawthorne
is obliged to spend part of the time in Liverpool. Mrs. Hawthorne
writes to him of London and Henry Bright, who is there, and speaks of
Miss Bacon's genius.
CHAPTER XI
ENGLISH DAYS: III
Mrs. Hawthorne's letter to Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody describes
Wordsworth's country. The family visit Southport for the winter, for
Mrs. Hawthorne's health. A trip to Manchester, for the Exhibition,
includes a glimpse of Tennyson and his family. Mrs. Hawthorne
carefully describes them. She refers to slavery with contempt.
Hawthorne writes to Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody about her anti-slavery
essay with frankest honesty and distaste, being importuned for his
opinion. His estimate of Goodrich. A visit to Kenilworth by the family
is portrayed in a letter of Mrs. Hawthorne's. English days in
Leamington are quiet and economical, but always suggestive to
imagination. A visit to a genuinely palatial hotel in Bath described
by Mrs. Hawthorne. Redcar and Hawthorne's enjoyment of it reproduced
by descriptions and diaries. "The Marble Faun" worked out and finished
in this seaport town.
CHAPTER XII
ITALIAN DAYS: I
Rome has a superlative effect upon the family. Hawthorne's manner in
the midst of the richest scene in history. A host of friends happen to
congregate, at Carnival time. Miss Maria Mitchell, Miss Harriet
Hosmer, and Miss Elizabeth Hoar described. Una's illness proves the
true friendship of lifelong and new acquaintances. C. G. Thompson and
his studio sketched. Rome's lasting charm for a little girl
evident.
CHAPTER XIII
ITALIAN DAYS: II
Six months in Florence. Mrs. Hawthorne's letters continue to catch and
imprison the atmosphere of every scene. The castle of Montauto
fascinates the family. Catholicity penetrates the heart of both
husband and wife, in spite of much armor. Stella humbly and silently
expresses religious gentleness. Spiritualism introduces its clumsy
morbidness to Mrs. Hawthorne in the presence of the Brownings. Mr. and
Mrs. Browning described from the enthusiastic memory of a child.
Motley's letter about "Monte Beni" is given.
CHAPTER XIV
THE WAYSIDE
The Wayside welcomes the family to a life of simplicity, second-rate
enjoyment, and sacrifice. Interesting minds working for humanity are
the happy reward for a quiet life. Emerson, Alcott, Thoreau and
Channing described. Visits to the Fields's in Boston, where rare
people are met. The Wayside, quiet as it is, is not quite out of the
world, and friends and letters from abroad often follow Hawthorne
thither. One of Louisa Alcott's jolly little poems. General Hitchcock
is mentioned by Mrs. Hawthorne, who valued him among a group of finest
minds. Concord life portrayed in Mrs. Hawthorne's journals and
letters. Hawthorne's breaking health soon affects the family with
half-admitted dread. President Lincoln becomes a verified ideal.
CHAPTER XV
THE ARTIST AT WORK
Hawthorne's habits of work are described, and his attitude of mind is
guessed, by his daughter Rose. The "North British Review" quoted upon
Hawthorne's art. His efforts to continue at his work unflinchingly, by
means of exercise and hardihood.
CHAPTER XVI
THE LEAVE-TAKING
Emerson and Longfellow write of their desire to be with Hawthorne in
companionship. Dr. Holmes flashes joyfully yet longingly as he speaks
of Hawthorne's personality. Miss Elizabeth M. Hawthorne makes a visit
to The Wayside, and her niece Rose tries to study her. Una's lifelong
love and admiration for her. Hawthorne's devoted care for her, which
he bequeathed to his family. Mrs. Hawthorne expresses in a letter to
a friend some of her vigorous and sublime principles of thought and
action. Hawthorne's death comes while he is away from his wife, but
she is conscious of its presence.
MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE
CHAPTER I
THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS
To my lot have fallen sundry letters of my mother's, received in youth
by her sisters and friends, and by her husband and others in later
life. I have often read over these magic little pictures of old days,
and each time have felt less inclined to let them remain silently in
the family. The letters are full of sunshine, which is not even yet
in the least dimmed; and there is a pleasant chatter of persons of
whom we have heard widely in the most refined atmosphere this country
knows.
The scene surrounds a soul, my father's, whose excellence grows more
and more evident, and who enriches every incident and expression that
comes in contact with him. The tone of the life depicted is usually
glad; but even where discomfort and sorrow break it, Hawthorne's
unflinching endurance suggests unsoured activity and a brave glance.
I will preserve, as well as I can by selections, the effect produced
upon me by the many packages of letters which I opened some years ago.
What Hawthorne cared for is somewhat clearly shown by side-lights; and
there is also some explanation from my mother, as unintentionally
given as the rest, of why he cared.
It was a genial and vivid existence which enveloped her family always;
and it became an interesting problem to the Peabodys to entice the
reticent Hawthornes into it, from the adjacent Herbert Street,--by
gentle degrees, well-adjusted baits, and affectionate compliments.
Trout-fishing comes to mind,--and the trout were very skillful in
keeping aloof. Nevertheless, Hawthorne liked all he heard and saw at
the Peabodys' in Charter Street; and Sophia, his future wife, gleams
near him as the unwitting guide to the warm contact with his kind for
which he searched, though with delicacy of choice.
Sophia's mother had strong intellect and great refinement, as well as
a strength of character which gave her the will to teach school for
many years, while her own children were growing up. She was very well
connected in various directions; in other words, she had sprung from
cultivated intelligences.
Mrs. Peabody's mother was the wife of Judge Cranch, of Boston, whose
sister, the wife of General Palmer, wrote to her in Revolutionary days
the following letter, wherein very mild words stand for very strong
emotions:--
GERMANTOWN, February 12, 1775.
DEAR SISTER,--It is a long time since we have heard from you, except
by transient reports that your family was pretty well. I suppose you
are all anxious about publick affairs as well as other folks. 'T is a
dreadful dull time for writing; this suspense that we are in seems to
absorb every Faculty of the mind, especially in our situation where we
seldom see anybody from the busy world.
Mr. Palmer has been gone a fortnight to Congress, and we have never
heard a word from him. The folks are almost impatient to hear what
they are about.
Certainly we at this time want every motive of Religion to strengthen
our souls and bear up our spirits, that we may not faint in the evil
time. Why should not there be religious as well as Political
correspondencies? I believe much good might be done by such means, as
those who are sincerely good would be able to strengthen each
other--oh dear! I am so stupid! I wonder whether you feel so, too; but
you have little ones about you that will keep you rousing. My Love to
them all, together with my Brother.
Your affectionate sister, M. PALMER.
Literature, art, and intercourse were the three gracious deities of
the Peabody home, and many persons came to join the family in
worshiping them; so that the pages of all the letters and journals,
from which but a fragmentary gleaning has been made, blossom daily
with name after name of callers. Elizabeth was profoundly
interesting, Mary was brilliant, and Sophia was lovely in her studio,
to which everybody eagerly mounted. At about the time when I begin to
levy upon the letters, the efforts of these young ladies to establish
common ground of friendship with the Hawthornes peep forth in small
messages, bequeathed to me by my recluse aunt Ebie Hawthorne.
Elizabeth Peabody was the first and most frequent angler at the
brookside, and actually succeeded in establishing a sturdy friendship
with the young author, who was being sought for by the best people in
Salem. His mother and sisters, walks and books, were the principal
factors in his capture by the admiring enemy. Elizabeth had already a
high intercourse upon high themes with the best minds among manly
American thought. Her perfect simplicity of motive and abandonment of
selfish, vain effeminateness made her the delight of the great men she
met. She was a connoisseur in this field. To such a genial cultivator
of development it seemed folly for the women of the Hawthorne family
so to conceal their value; it was positively non-permissible for the
genius of the family to conceal _his_, and so this New World Walton
fished him forth. She sends a note to Herbert Street:--
MY DEAR MRS. HAWTHORNE,--I have taken the liberty to have your book
bound before I returned it to you, as it was somewhat abused at the
printing-office. And besides, I thought there should be some attempt
at harmony between the outside and the inside; and more than that, I
wanted in some slight degree to express my respect for it. How happy
you must be in reading these tales! For if the genius which produced
them is independent of all source but the divine bounty, the holiness
and virtue which breathe on every page may be fairly attributed to the
sacred influences of a pure New England home, in no small degree. But
to enter upon the satisfactions of a mother in such a case I feel to
be intruding upon consecrated ground. Yet you will easily pardon the
feeling that impels me.
With the greatest respect, yours,
ELIZABETH P. PEABODY.
My mother joins in the pursuit, though interested only in catching a
glimpse of the widow and the shy eldest daughter. It must have been
worth many experiments to gently succeed in putting their skill in
hiding to naught. She slaps a dainty fishing-line through the
leaves:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--I send you a volume of Carlyle, lately published.
It is well worth reading; and your mother--will she like to read it? I
shall charge Bridget to inquire how your mother's and Louisa's
headaches are. I should have gone myself to-day to ask, had not the
wind been east. Won't you come to walk to-morrow afternoon with my
mother, dear Elizabeth, and then I shall see you a few minutes? I want
very much to see you, and to show you a certain white vase filled with
brilliant flowers, which would charm your eye. I hope you enjoyed the
music last evening.
Truly yours and Louisa's,
S. A. PEABODY.
I can imagine nothing more curious to the Peabodys than people who
withdrew themselves from choice. My mother was often hidden, because
of great delicacy of health, which her ardent pursuance of art
constantly fatigued; but she saw so many people that there was
scarcely a whole day of isolation. At the Hawthornes', on the
contrary, quiet prevailed: caused partly by bereavement, partly by
proud poverty, and no doubt not a little by the witch-shadow of Judge
Hawthorne's unfortunate condemnation of Rebecca Nurse, whose dying
curse was never ignored; partly also by a sense of superiority, which,
I think, was the skeleton in every Hawthorne's body at that time.
For a year one of the brothers at the Peabodys', George, remained in
his room, slowly dying from the effects of over-exertion in athletic
sports. He was of large frame and of noble appearance, and was
referred to by my mother in after-life with the deepest admiration.
She writes:--
"It is difficult to realize how ill he is. He has none of the ways of
sick people. His voice is as cheerful as ever, with no whine in its
tones. He has no whims. He is always ready to smile, and reads
constantly. . . . Mary and I spent the evening with the beloved one.
He was pretty cheery, and told a comical anecdote of Dean Swift. He
stood up on Friday much more firmly than formerly. Elizabeth
Hawthorne sent him Miss Martineau's book, after tea, which was
certainly very kind and attentive in her. I am determined to go and
see her this week. I spent the morning upon my bed, reading Herodotus.
. . . I found that mother had taken James and gone to Paradise after a
_hawthorne_ bush. It is a bush for which she has had a longing for
several years, but never could get any kind friend to uproot it for
her."
The highest principles of thought and action are constantly danced
about and caressed by my mother in all her letters, as we imagine a
Greek maiden paying cheerful homage to beautiful statues of the gods.
For instance, in writing to the brother already mentioned, before his
illness, she says:--
"I do not like to have you say that you enjoy despising people,
George. It would be a little better to say you cannot help it
sometimes; and even that is a dangerous attitude of mind. It is
better to sorrow over than to despise. You know, Wordsworth says, 'He
that feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties which he has
never used.'"
A message from Mary Peabody shows how intimate Herbert and Charter
streets were growing:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--I am very sorry to have been prevented from
walking, but I hope to be able to go by Tuesday. George is fast
growing weaker, and we do not know what a day may bring forth. Still,
I feel it is necessary to take exercise when I can. We do not tell all
our fears to Sophia, whom we wish to keep cheerfully employed as long
as we can. Will you ask your brother to dine with us to-morrow?
Elizabeth [who was then teaching school in Boston] depends upon the
pleasure of seeing him when she comes. We dine as early as twelve on
Sunday. Yours very truly,
MARY T. PEABODY.
From this point, the letters and fragments of journals bring to view
what Hawthorne saw, and make real to us the woman he soon loved.
SALEM, October 22, 1832.
I have been in old native Salem for ten days. Betty and I returned by
seven o'clock to our minimum of a house, and upon entering I really
felt a slight want of breath to find the walls so near together and
the ceiling nearly upon my head. But there stood my beloved mother,
all in white, her face radiant with welcome and love, and in her arms
there was no want of room. In September or October I live _par
excellence_. I feel in the abstract just as an autumn leaf _looks_. I
step abroad from my clay house, and become a part of the splendor and
claritude and vigor around.
DEAR BETTY,--I forgot to tell you that mother's garden has been
arranged. She is quite happy in it. Father presided over a man as he
uprooted and planted. The man was quite an original. He came looking
very nice, very gentlemanly, in broadcloth and cambric cravat. But
after disappearing into the barn for several minutes, he came forth
transformed into a dirty workman, though still somewhat distinguished
by his figure and air. He expressed himself in very courtly phrase,
also, and was quite sentimental about the shrubbery round the tombs.
[A graveyard was close to the house.] I should much like to know the
history of his mind and career. . . . The clematis which climbs into
my window is all sprouting. My glorious tree--my hieroglyphic for the
everlasting forests--is also putting forth leaves, and the robins sing
among the branches.
Ellen Barstow came with an exquisite crimson rose, for me, which she
wished to present herself; and as I was lying down, she went away to
come again. So towards tea-time I saw her and Augusta running along.
Ellen discovered me at the window, and shouted and flew on. As they
were ascending the stairs I heard Ellen say, "Now hold your hand
behind you, Augusta!" They entered with hands concealed and gleaming
faces, and when they were within reach suddenly the concealed hands
were thrust towards my face, each adorned with a crimson rose. My
exclamation of delight seemed to fulfill their desires; and now I want
to know if it is not worth fifteen years of bodily pain and discomfort
to be the cause of such divine sentiment in the souls of so many
children as I am? I feel perfectly consecrated by it, and bound over
to be worthy of such pure emotions. Oh, _not_ mysterious Providence! How
even are thy golden scales--sweetest compensations poising exactly the
ills! It is not suffering which I think beautiful or desirable, but
what suffering brings along with it, and _causes_. My door was open,
and who should unexpectedly come out of Mary's room but Miss Elizabeth
Hawthorne, going to walk with Mary. I was very glad to see her, and
wanted her to come into my studio, but Mary was in haste to be
walking. Miss Hawthorne looked very interesting. They had a
delightful ramble, and she sent me a bunch of seaweed fastened to a
rock, which she stepped into the sea to get for me. It looks like a
drooping plume if it is held up, and I went into George's room to get
his admiration; but he persisted in declaring it hideous. I was
delighted by her thinking of sending it to me.
I happened to be up in the third story just as the children were going
home [Mary was teaching two or three little girls], and they went into
my studio with Mary. I was very much impressed with what I heard said
in tones of reverence. "_Look_ at that hammock! _Oh,_ that picture! And
there are the flowers! Oh, _I_ gave her those! Miss Peabody, is that a
_bed?_ _Oh,_ how beautifully everything looks! Is Sophia gone out?" I
cannot convey to you the intonations of affection and interest which
made these sentences so touching.
This morning Mary came in and threw at me a beautiful handful of
flowers, which I crowed over for a time, and then arose. I worked a
little while at my painting, and then Mary Channing came gliding in
upon me, like a dream, with more flowers, the Scotch rose and many
rare things among them. Mr. Doughty [the artist, who had consented to
give Sophia lessons] came, as bright as possible. The cool breezes,
the flowers, etc., put him into excellent humor. He said it was luxury
to sit and paint here. He created a glowing bank in broad sunshine.
Mr. Russell called, and came up into my studio. He thought such a
studio and such an occupation must cure the headache. Then I prepared
to make several calls, but on my way was arrested by Mr. George
Hillard, who was altogether too agreeable to leave. He is amazingly
entertaining, to be sure. He remarked what a torment of his life Mr.
Reed, the postmaster in Cambridge, was. He is an old man, about a
hundred and forty years old, who always made him think of the little
end of nothing sharpened off into a point. He had but one joke--to
tell people sometimes when they asked for a letter that they must pay
half a dollar for it; and then, if in their simplicity they gave it,
he would laugh, and say it was a joke. After Mr. Hillard went away,
Sally Gardiner came in with an armful of roses, which she poured upon
me, taken from Judge Jackson's garden. She had just returned from
Milton, and was overflowing with its grandeur and beauty.
Yours affectionately,
SOPHIE.
The somewhat invalided little artist was highly and widely admired;
and to illustrate the happy fact I quote this letter, written by her
spirited sister Mary:--
BOSTON, June 19, 1833.
MY DEAREST,--I went to Dr. Channing's yesterday afternoon and carried
him your drawings, with which he was so enchanted that I left them for
him to look at again. He gathered himself up in a little striped
cloak, and all radiant with that soul of his, said with his most
divine inflection, "This is a great and noble undertaking, and will do
much for us here." And then he rolled his orbs upon me in that
majestic way of his, which, when it melts into loveliness as it
sometimes does, so takes captivity captive. In short, he was quite in
an ecstasy with you and your notions. [Probably drawings illustrating
auxiliary verbs.] He inquired very particularly for you, and showed me
all the new books he had just received from England, which he thought
a great imposition, they being big books. Edward [his brother] came
in, and they greeted affectionately. After a long survey of the
Professor, he exclaimed, "Why, Edward, you look gross--take care of
the intellect!" Then he handed him one of the great books, just
arrived, which was an edition of Thomas Belsham's works, with a
likeness of the author. "There," said he, "is a man who had not quite
the dimensions of a hogshead; but he was the largest man I ever saw."
Edward looked rather uneasy. "William," he replied, "I don't think you
are any judge of large men. Last week I looked quite thin, but to-day
my head and face are very much swelled." The Doctor, in the simplicity
of his heart, never thinks of feelings, only of things, as Plato would
say. Your affectionate sister,
MARY.
Sophia writes to Elizabeth in Boston, in 1838, of her daily life, as
follows:--
"I went to my hammock [in the studio] with Xenophon. Socrates was
divinest, after Jesus Christ, I think. He lived up to his thought. . . .
After dinner, Mary went out 'to take the fresh,' intending to
finish the afternoon by a walk with Miss Hawthorne, and I commissioned
her to bring home both her and her brother, if he should go, that I
might give him my fragrant violets. . . .
"Miss Hawthorne came to walk, and remarked to Mary how beautiful the
crocuses were which I had given to her brother. Mary told her that I
sent them _to her_. 'That is a pretty story,' she replied. 'He never
told me so.'
"Just after seven Mr. Hawthorne came. He looked very brilliant. . . .
His coming here is one sure way of keeping you in mind, and it must be
excessively tame for him after his experience of your society and
conversation; so that, I think, you will shine the more by contrast."
One evening, she says, she "showed him Sarah Clarke's picture of the
island, and that gorgeous flower in the Chinese book of which there is
a mighty tree in Cuba. And then I turned over the pictures of those
hideous birds, which diverted him exceedingly. One he thought deserved
study. . . .
"I was to go to see his sister Elizabeth that afternoon, and he had
heard about it. He asked if I could go, and said he should have waited
for me to come if he had not supposed the east wind would prevent me.
I said that it would. He wanted to know if I would come the next day.
I meant to call Mary, but he prevented me by saying he could not stay
long enough. . . . [He seldom stayed unless he found Sophia alone.]
"Last evening Mr. Hawthorne came for Mary to go with him to Miss
Burley's [to a club which met every week]. Mary could not go. It
seemed a shame to refuse him. I came down to catch a glimpse of him.
He has a celestial expression which I do not like to lose. . . .
"The children have just come in, and brought me a host of odorous
violets. I made George a visit in the afternoon, in the midst of my
battle with headache, and to my question of 'How dost?' he replied,
for the first time, 'Pretty fair,' instead of the unvarying
'Middling.' Skeptics surely cannot disbelieve in one thing that is
invisible, and that is Pain."
May, 1838.
After my siesta I went down to Herbert Street with the book I wished
to leave, and when I opened the gate [of the Hawthornes' house] the
old woman with her hood on [an aunt of the Hawthornes] was stooping
over a flower-bed, planting seeds. She lifted her smiling face, which
must have been very pretty in her youth, and said, "How do you do,
Miss Peabody?" Yet I never saw her in my life before. She begged me to
walk in, but I refused, and gave her my message of thanks for the
book.
Ever thine wholly,
SOPHIECHEN.
May 14, 1838.
To-day I was tempted to trot about the room and arrange all my vases,
and give an air to the various knickknacks. I am much more easily
tired than ever before. My walk to Castle Hill before February did not
make me feel so hopelessly tired as it now does to walk as far as the
Hawthornes'. Mr. Hawthorne had declined to come to dine with you on
your arrival, but was to be here directly after dinner. When he came I
happened to be the only one ready to go down. His first question was,
"Where is Elizabeth?" He was not at all inclined to bear the
disappointment of your not being here, after all. He thought it "too
bad," "insufferable," "not fair," and wondered what could be the
reason. I told him your excuse, and that there was a letter for him,
which Mary soon brought. He put it into his pocket without breaking
the seal. He looked very handsome, and was full of smiles. I assured
him the morning was the best time to do creative work. He said he
believed he would go and take a walk in South Salem. "Won't you go?"
he asked of me. But the wind was east.
MY DEAR LIZZIE,--I can think of nothing now but Charles Emerson. A
sudden gloom seems to overshadow me. I hope you will tell us to-morrow
whether he is dangerously ill. We had an exquisite visit from Waldo.
It was the warbling of the Attic bird. The gleam of his _diffused_
smile; the musical thunder of his voice; his repose, so full of the
essence of life; his simplicity--just think of all these, and of my
privilege in seeing and hearing him. He enjoyed everything we showed
him so much. He talked so divinely to Raphael's Madonna del Pesce. I
vainly imagined I was very quiet all the while, preserving a very
demure exterior, and supposed I was sharing his oceanic calm. But the
next day I was aware that I had been in a very intense state. I told
Mary, that night after he had gone, that I felt like a gem; that was
the only way I could express it. I don't know what Mary hoped to get
from him, but I was sure of drinking in that which would make me paint
Cuban skies better than even my recollections could have made me, were
they as vivid as the rays of the sun in that sunniest of climates. He
made me feel as Eliza Dwight did once, when she looked uncommonly
beautiful and animated. I felt as if her beauty was all about the
room, and that I was in it, and therefore beautiful too. It seemed
just so with Waldo's soul-beauty. Good-by,
SOPHY.
June 1, 1838.
One afternoon Elizabeth Hawthorne came to walk with Mary, and mother
went with her instead. She first came up into my chamber, and seemed
well pleased with it, but especially admired the elm-tree outside. She
looked very interesting. Mother took her to the cold spring, and they
did not return till just at dark, loaded with airy anemones and blue
violets and a few columbines. They had found Mr. John King and his
daughter at the spring, looking for wild-flowers, and mother
introduced Miss Hawthorne; but she hung her head and scarcely
answered, and did not open her lips again, though Mr. King accompanied
them all the way home. He gave mother some columbines, and after a
while said, "I must make your bunch like Mrs. Peabody's, my dear," and
so put some more into Miss Hawthorne's hand.
The day before Mr. Hawthorne had called at noon to see our ladyships,
and I never saw him look so brilliantly rayonnant. He said to me,
"Your story will be finished soon, Sophia--to-morrow or next day." I
was surprised to have the story so appropriated, and I do long to see
it. [Probably Edward Randolph's Portrait.] He proposed to Mary to go
to the beach the same day, and she consented. He said that he had not
spoken to his sister about it, but would do so as soon as he went
home. He wished to go early, and have a good walk. Only think what
progress! To come and propose a walk at mid-day!
He said he had a letter nearly written to you, but should not finish
it till you wrote. He seemed quite impatient to hear from you, and
remarked that he had not heard since you were here. Mary went to
Herbert Street to join Miss Hawthorne for the walk, but did not see
her. Her mother said Elizabeth did not want to go because it was
windy, and the sun was too hot, and clouds were in the south! (It was
the loveliest day in the world.) Was it not too bad to disappoint her
brother so? I could have whipped her. When Mary went the next day
with the tulips, Louisa told her that Elizabeth was very sorry
afterwards that she did not go.
A successful visit, almost accidental, upon Ebie Hawthorne pleased
Sophia very much, and she writes:--
"She was very agreeable, and took the trouble to go and get some
engravings of heads to show me, Wordsworth among the number, which I
had never seen before.
"Elizabeth also inquired particularly for George, and gave me more
books for him. She asked if we did not miss you exceedingly. I should
like to have stayed for two or three hours. She came downstairs with
me, and out of the door, and talked about the front yard, where her
aunt is going to make a garden."
Elizabeth Peabody's letters are always delight-, fully direct, and
varied in quality of emotion, being equally urgent over philosophy or
daily bread, as the ensuing one will show in part:--
53 MYRTLE STREET, BOSTON, 1838.
MY DEAR SOPHIA,--Your beautiful letters require an answer, but I
cannot possibly answer them in kind. This evening, notwithstanding
the storm, George and Susan Hillard have gone to a singing-school, and
left me to amuse myself. I hoped Mr. Hawthorne would come in. I have
not seen him yet. Last night I took tea with Sally Gardiner and Miss
Jackson, who are still enjoying your Flaxman drawings. Why do not you
Salem folks have a hencoop and keep hens! five or six hens would
overwhelm you with eggs all the year round. I like to hear the little
items about Hawthorne. I had a nice talk with Mr. Capen about him
to-day. He has him in his mind, and I hope it will come to some good
purpose for the public.
Yours truly and ever, E. P. P.
Sophia writes:--
July 23, 1838.
William White arrived on Saturday. Why did not you send Stuart's
Athens by him? He said that he had heard it remarked that Mr. Emerson
expected another Messiah. Your slight account of Mr. E.'s "Address" is
enough to wake the dead, and I do not know what the original utterance
must have done. I told Mary I thought Mr. Emerson was the Word again.
She exclaimed, "You blasphemer!" "Do you really think it blasphemy?"
said I. "Oh no," she replied. "It is the gospel according to you." Was
not that a happy saying? While the maid was at Miss Hurley's on an
errand, she saw Mr. Hawthorne enter, probably for a take-leave call.
He was here also, looking radiant. He said he took up my Journal
[written in Cuba] to bring it back, but my "works were so voluminous
that he concluded to send them!"
Elizabeth Peabody makes, upon her return to 'Salem for the winter, an
heroic move towards gaining a still more affectionate advantage over
the solitaries in Herbert Street. A little smile must have given her
face its most piquant expression as she wrote:--
Saturday, November 10, 1838.
DEAR LOUISA,--You know I want to knit those little stockings and
shoes,--I think I will do it in the course of time at your house,--and
would thank you to buy the materials for me, and I will pay you what
they cost, when I know what it is. I suppose the four or five evenings
which I shall anticipate spending with you (in the course of the
winter!) will complete the articles.
When Elizabeth wakes, please give her this note and rose and book; and
when Nathaniel comes to dinner please give him the note I wrote to
him. He said he was going to write to-day, and therefore I should
prefer that he should not be interrupted on purpose to read it. We
will not interrupt the bird in his song. I wonder what sort of a
preparation he finds an evening of whist, for the company of the Muse!
Yours ever truly,
E. P. PEABODY.
It is delightful to picture the commotion in the fernlike seclusion
which enveloped the women of the Hawthorne household when this note
was opened and read. Squirrels aroused, owls awakened, foxes startled,
would have sympathized. Louisa, the only really active member of the
trio, wonderfully deft in finest sewing and embroidery, generously
willing to labor for all the relatives when illness required, may not
have felt faint or fierce. But Mrs. Hawthorne, even in the covert of
her chamber, where she chiefly resided, no doubt drew back; and
Elizabeth's beautiful eyes must have shone superbly. However, to prove
that the trio among the ferns (guarding, as testimony proves,
Hawthorne himself with unasked care) could serve the needs of others
on occasion,
I will insert a little letter of a much earlier date, from Louisa.
TO MISS MARY MANNING, RAYMOND, MAINE, CARE OF RICHARD MANNING, ESQ.
SALEM, March 3, 1831.
MY DEAR AUNT,--Uncle Sammie has returned from Boston, and has taken up
his abode for the present at uncle Robert's [his brother, who
befriended Hawthorne in his early youth], and is much better than we
expected to see him. We should have been glad to have him with us,
and would have done everything in our power to make him happy. We are
so near that he can at any time command our services and our company.
Nathaniel goes in to see him, and I am there a great part of the time.
Mother has kept about all winter. There have been worse storms than I
ever remember; the roads were absolutely impassable, and the
snow-banks almost as high as the house. I would write more, but my
time is much taken up now. I remain yours, With much affection,
M. L. HATHORNE.
That the reluctance to be genial with very genial folk was bravely
overcome (to some extent) the ensuing notes prove:--
DEAR ELIZABETH,--As you were out on Saturday evening, I hope you will
be able to come and spend to-morrow evening with us--will you not? I
should be extremely happy to see Mary, though I despair of it; and
though I cannot venture to ask Sophia, perhaps you can for me. Pray
tell me particularly how your father is; we are all anxious to hear;
and whether George is as he was when we heard last.
I am, in haste, E, M. H.
DEAR ELIZABETH,--Shall we go to the beach? If so, I propose that we
set off instanter. I think a sea-breeze would be most refreshing this
afternoon. Truly yours,
M. T. P.
Don't forget to ask your brother.
MY DEAR E.,--I am afraid I shall not be able to go and spend an
evening with you while the girls are gone. To-morrow, you know, is the
eclipse. I wish you would come here in the afternoon. The graveyard
is an open place to see it from, and I should be very glad of your
company. Yesterday I heard of Nathaniel. A gentleman was shut up with
him on a rainy day in a tavern in Berkshire, and was perfectly charmed
with his luck. In haste, yours,
E. P. P.
By and by Elizabeth Peabody returns to Boston, and Sophia goes on with
letters:--
I do not think I am subject to my imagination; I can let an idea go to
the grave that I see is false. When I am altogether true to the light
I have, I shall be in the heaven where the angelic Very now is. I went
to see dear Miss Burley, who sent for me to go to her room. She
insisted upon accompanying me all the way downstairs, limping
painfully, and would open the outer door for me, and bow me out with
as much deference as if I had been Victoria, or Hawthorne himself! So
much for the Word uttering itself through my fingers in the face of
Ilbrahim. [She had just finished illustrating "The Gentle Boy" by a
drawing which was greatly praised.]
Jones Very came to tea that afternoon. He was troubled at first, but
we comforted him with sympathy. His conversation with George was
divine, and such level rays of celestial light as beamed from his face
upon George, every time he looked up at him, were lovely to behold. We
told him of our enjoyment of his sonnets. He smiled, and said that,
unless we thought them beautiful because we also heard the Voice in
reading them, they would be of no avail. "Since I have shown you my
sonnets," said he to me, "I think you should show me your paintings,"
Mary brought my drawing-book and "AEschylus" [wonderfully perfect
drawings from Flaxman's illustrations]. He deeply enjoyed all. I told
him of my Ilbrahim. He said he delighted in the "Twice-Told Tales."
Yesterday Mr. Hawthorne came in, and said, "I am going to Miss
Hurley's, but you must not go. It is too cold. You certainly must not
go." I assured him I should go, and was sorry I was not wanted. He
laughed, and said I was not. But I persisted. He knew I should be made
sick; that it was too cold. Meanwhile I put on an incalculable
quantity of clothes. Father kept remonstrating, but not violently, and
I gently imploring. When I was ready, Mr. Hawthorne said he was glad I
was going. Mary was packed up safely, also. I was very animated, and
felt much better than on either of the previous club nights. Mr.
Hawthorne declared it must be the spirit of contradiction that made me
so; and I told him it was nothing but fact. We walked quite fast, for
I seemed stepping on air. It was partly because I had not got tired
during the day. It was splendid moonlight. I was not in the least
cold, except my thumb and phiz. Mr. H. said he should have done
admirably were it not for his nose. He did not believe but that it
would moderate, "For God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and when
you go out we may expect mild weather!" Was not that sweet? Mr. II.
and I went into the parlor together, and Miss Burley looked delighted.
He was exquisitely agreeable, and talked a great deal, and looked
serene and happy and exceedingly beautiful. Miss Burley showed Mary
and me some botanical specimens, and he came to the table and added
much to the lights. But oh, we missed you so much; Miss Burley said
so, and I felt it. They do not understand Very, there. When we were
taking leave, Mr. Howes said to Mr. Hawthorne that he hoped nothing
would prevent his coming next Saturday.
"Oh no," replied he. "It is so much a custom, now, that I cannot do
without it." Was not that delightful for Miss Burley's ears? I was so
glad he said it. When we came out it was much more moderate, and we
got home very comfortably. Mr. H. said he thought of coming for me to
walk on Friday, but was afraid the walking was not good enough. I told
him how we were all disappointed at his vanishing that night, and he
laughed greatly. He said he should not be able to come this evening to
meet Very, because he had something to read, for he was engaged Monday
and Tuesday evening and could not read then. I am so sorry.
Yours affectionately, SOPHIE.