THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE
Just before her marriage, on July 9, 1842, and her residence in the
Old Manse, Sophia wrote to Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem:--
July 5.
MY DEAR MARY,--You mistake much when you say you will not hear from me
after I have gone to my own home. I shall tell those who are dear to
me that I love them still. I feel to-day like a rising Phoenix.
Mr. Hawthorne has been here, looking like the angel of the Apocalypse,
so powerful and gentle. It seems as if I were realizing the dreams of
the poets in my own person. Just think of the felicity of showing him
my inscriptions with pencil and sculpturing-tool--and he so just and
severe a critic! He is far the best critic I ever had. The agent of
Heaven in this Concord plan was Elizabeth Hoar; a fit minister on such
an errand, for minister means angel of God. Her interest has been very
great in every detail. . . . Yours affectionately,
SOPHIA.
The following note is descriptive of the real happiness in the
marriage, which was felt and often uttered by friends:--
DEAR SOPHIA,--I am not much used to expressing to others what I feel
about them, but I will give way to the feeling which prompts me to
tell you how much I think about you now. An event like your marriage
with Mr. Hawthorne is, like the presence of a few persons in this
world, precious to me as an assurance of the good we all long for. I
do not know your husband personally, but I care for him so much that I
could well do the thought of him a passing reverence, like the young
man who, I was told, uncovered his head as he passed Mr. Hawthorne's
house. Perhaps you are too much absorbed to recognize now, even in
thought, the greeting of a friend; perhaps we shall meet very little
hereafter, as indeed we have hardly been intimate heretofore; but I
shall remember you with interest. Affectionately yours,
E. S. HOOPER.
Mrs. Hawthorne's letters and journals while at the Old Manse now
portray a beautiful existence:--
CONCORD, December 18, 1842.
MY DEAR MARY [Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem],--I hoped I should see you
again, before I came home to our Paradise. I intended to give you a
concise history of my elysian life. Soon after we returned, my dear
lord began to write in earnest; and then commenced my leisure,
because, till we meet at dinner, I do not see him. I have had to sew,
as I did not touch a needle all summer, and far into the autumn, Mr.
Hawthorne not letting me have a needle or a pen in my hand. We were
interrupted by no one, except a short call now and then from Elizabeth
Hoar, who can hardly be called an earthly inhabitant; and Mr. Emerson,
whose face pictured the promised land (which we were then enjoying),
and intruded no more than a sunset, or a rich warble from a bird.
One evening, two days after our arrival at the Old Manse, George
Hillard and Henry Cleveland appeared for fifteen minutes, on their way
to Niagara Falls, and were thrown into raptures by the embowering
flowers and the dear old house they adorned, and the pictures of Holy
Mothers mild on the walls, and Mr. Hawthorne's Study, and the noble
avenue. We forgave them for their appearance here, because they were
gone as soon as they had come, and we felt very hospitable. We
wandered down to our sweet, sleepy river, and it was so silent all
around us and so solitary, that we seemed the only persons living. We
sat beneath our stately trees, and felt as if we were the rightful
inheritors of the old abbey, which had descended to us from a long
line. The treetops waved a majestic welcome, and rustled their
thousand leaves like brooks over our heads. But the bloom and
fragrance of nature had become secondary to us, though we were lovers
of it. In my husband's face and eyes I saw a fairer world, of which
the other was a faint copy. I fast ceased to represent Lilias Fay,
under the influence of happiness, peace, and rest. We explored the
woods. Sarah the maid was very tasty, and we had beautiful order; and
when we ran races down the avenue, or I danced before my husband to
the measures of the great music-box, she declared it did her heart
good to see us as joyful as two children.
December 30. Sweet, dear Mary, nearly a fortnight has passed since I
wrote the above. I really believe I will finish my letter to-day,
though I do not promise. That magician upstairs is very potent! In the
afternoon and evening I sit in the Study with him. It is the
pleasantest niche in our temple. We watch the sun, together,
descending in purple and gold, in every variety of magnificence, over
the river. Lately, we go on the river, which is now frozen; my lord to
skate, and I to run and slide, during the dolphin-death of day. I
consider my husband a rare sight, gliding over the icy stream. For,
wrapped in his cloak, he looks very graceful; perpetually darting from
me in long, sweeping curves, and returning again--again to shoot away.
Our meadow at the bottom of the orchard is like a small frozen sea,
now; and that is the present scene of our heroic games. Sometimes, in
the splendor of the dying light, we seem sporting upon transparent
gold, so prismatic becomes the ice; and the snow takes opaline hues,
from the gems that float above as clouds. It is eminently the hour to
see objects, just after the sun has disappeared. Oh, such oxygen as we
inhale! Often other skaters appear,--young men and boys,--who
principally interest me as foils to my husband, who, in the presence
of nature, loses all shyness, and moves regally like a king. One
afternoon, Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau went with him down the river.
Henry Thoreau is an experienced skater, and was figuring dithyrambic
dances and Bacchic leaps on the ice--very remarkable, but very ugly,
methought. Next him followed Mr. Hawthorne who, wrapped in his cloak,
moved like a self-impelled Greek statue, stately and grave. Mr.
Emerson closed the line, evidently too weary to hold himself erect,
pitching headforemost, half lying on the air. He came in to rest
himself, and said to me that Hawthorne was a tiger, a bear, a
lion,--in short, a satyr, and there was no tiring him out; and he
might be the death of a man like himself. And then, turning upon me
that kindling smile for which he is so memorable, he added, "Mr.
Hawthorne is such an Ajax, who can cope with him!"
After the first snowstorm, before it was so deep, we walked in the
woods, very beautiful in winter, and found slides in Sleepy Hollow,
where we became children, and enjoyed ourselves as of old,--only more,
a great deal. Sometimes it is before breakfast that Mr. Hawthorne goes
to skate upon the meadow. Yesterday, before he went out, he said it
was very cloudy and gloomy, and he thought it would storm. In half an
hour, oh, wonder! what a scene! Instead of black sky, the rising sun,
not yet above the hill, had changed the firmament into a vast rose! On
every side, east, west, north, and south,--every point blushed roses.
I ran to the Study, and the meadow sea also was a rose, the reflection
of that above. And there was my husband, careering about, glorified by
the light. Such is Paradise.
In the evening we are gathered together beneath our luminous star, in
the Study, for we have a large hanging astral lamp, which beautifully
illumines the room, with its walls of pale yellow paper, its Holy
Mother over the fireplace, and pleasant books, and its pretty bronze
vase, on one of the secretaries, filled with ferns. Except once Mr.
Emerson, no one hunts us out in the evening. Then Mr. Hawthorne reads
to me. At present we can only get along with the old English writers,
and we find that they are the hive from which all modern honey is
stolen. They are thick-set with thought, instead of one thought
serving for a whole book. Shakespeare is preeminent; Spenser is music.
We dare to dislike Milton when he goes to heaven. We do not recognize
God in his picture of Him. There is something so penetrating and clear
in Mr. Hawthorne's intellect, that now I am acquainted with it, merely
thinking of him as I read winnows the chaff from the wheat at once.
And when he reads to me, it is the acutest criticism. Such a voice,
too,--such sweet thunder! Whatever is not worth much shows sadly,
coming through such a medium, fit only for noblest ideas. From reading
his books you can have some idea of what it is to dwell with Mr.
Hawthorne. But only a shadow of him is found in his books. The half is
not told there. Your true friend,
SOPHIA A. HAWTHORNE.
P. S. Mr. Hawthorne sends his love to your husband.
CONCORD, April 6, 1843.
MY DEAREST MARY,--I received your letter of April 2 late last evening.
It is one, I am sure, which might call a response out of a heart of
adamant; and mine, being of a tenderer substance, it answers with all
its chords. Dear, sweet, tender, loving Mary, you are more like
Herder's Swan than anything else I can think of. The spirits of your
translated babes bring you airs from heaven. What a lovely trinity of
souls; what a fair star they form, according to Swedenborg's beautiful
idea. I doubt not there is a path of descent, like that of Jacob's
ladder, from their Father's bosom to your heart, and they ascend and
descend, like those angels of his dream.
Dear Mary, just imagine my husband in reality, as faintly shadowed in
his productions. Fresh as a young fountain, with childlike,
transparent emotions; vivid as the flash of a sword in the sun with
sharp wit and penetration; of such an unworn, unworldly observance of
all that is enacted and thought under the sun; as free from prejudice
and party or sectarian bias as the birds, and therefore wise with a
large wisdom that is as impartial as God's winds and sunbeams. His
frolic is like the sport of Milton's "unarmed youth of heaven." But I
will not pretend to describe his intellect; and I have by no means yet
searched it out. I repose in it as upon some elemental force, which
always seems just created, though we cannot tell when it began to be.
Of his beautiful, genial, tender, and great nature I can still less
adequately discourse. His magnanimity, strength, and sweetness
alternately, and together, charm me. He fascinates, wins, and
commands.
We have passed the winter delightfully, reading to each other, and
lately studying German. I knew a little, just enough to empower me to
hold the rod, and be somewhat impertinent, and I have entire
preeminence in the way of pronunciation. But ever and anon I am made
quite humble by being helped out of thick forests by my knight,
instead of guiding him. So we teach each other in the most charming
manner, and I call it the royal road to knowledge, finally discovered
by us. Mr. Hawthorne writes all the morning. Do you see "The
Democratic Review"? In the March number is "The Procession of Life."
Mr. Jonathan Phillips told Elizabeth he thought it a great production,
and immediately undertook to read all else my husband had written.
"The Celestial Railroad," for the April number, is unique, and of deep
significance. It is a rare privilege to hear him read his manuscript
aloud with the true expression.
Elizabeth Hoar has taken tea with us only once this winter, and I have
seen her very rarely. The walking is so bad in the country in winter
that only tall boots can cope with it. Unawares one foot sinks down to
the Celestial Empire, and the other anchors in the moon. I have had to
confine myself principally to the avenue, through which our
Flibbertigibbet [or Imp] made a clear path for me. Mr. Thoreau has
been pretty often, and is very interesting. Mr. Emerson, from January,
was at the South; so Sirius was not visible to the eye for nearly
three months.
Among other things, I have been very much interested in teaching my
Irish angel to read and write. She is as bright as Burke, and repays
me an hundredfold by her progress. She is so sweet and generous and
gentle, that it is pleasant to happen upon her pretty face about the
house.
Mr. Hawthorne, says I must tell you that he shall be most happy to
meet you in heaven; but he wishes you would as a preliminary come and
spend a week with us this summer. He says this is the best way to get
acquainted with him.
To Mrs. Peabody, now living in Boston, Sophia writes:--
May.
DARLING MOTHER,--I find my heart cannot rest unless I send you an
enormous bunch of columbines; and so I have concluded to take my
cake-box and fill it with flowers. My husband and I have gathered all
these columbines since dinner, on the bank of the river, two fields
off from the battle-ground. Now I think of it, it is Lizzie's favorite
wildflower. I cannot bear to think of you as two prisoners in the
book-room, at this time. I do not know, however, as Elizabeth would be
happy to remain in the country, because men and women are her flowers,
and they do not grow on hills and slopes. But you were born to live in
a garden, where flowers at your tendance might gladlier grow
(according to Milton). We had a letter from Louisa Hawthorne to-day,
which says that the cat Beelzebub is dead. We are going to put our
Pigwiggin in mourning for her cousin. [Hawthorne was, as all his
family were, remarkably fond of cats. He had given Beelzebub his
name.]
Another letter now goes to Mrs. Foote:--
August 11.
BELOVED MARY,--I received your long expected letter during a visit
from the Hillards. I feared you were ill, but not that you had
forgotten me; for I have an imperturbable faith in the love of my
friends which appearances cannot affect.
No influenzas or epidemics of any kind reach our old abbey, though in
the village of Concord they often prevail. I think the angel who
descended with healing in his wings, and stirred the pool of Bethesda,
must purify the air around us. We have had a charming summer. At the
first flinging open of our doors my father made us a visit of a week,
and, according to his love of order, put everything out of doors in
place; moved patriarchal boards covered with venerable moss, and
vividly exercised all his mechanical powers. Among other things he
prepared the clay with which I mould men and heroes, so that I began
Mr. Hawthorne's bust. Next came Miss Anna Shaw [Mrs. S. G. Ward], in
full glory of her golden curls, flowing free over her neck and brows,
so that she looked like the goddess Diana, or Aurora. Everything
happened just right. The day she arrived, Mr. Emerson came to dine,
and shone back to the shining Anna. He was truly "tangled in the
meshes of her golden hair," for he reported in several places how
beautiful it was, afterwards. It was very warm, and after Mr. Emerson
left us, we went out upon the lawn under the shady trees, and Anna
extended herself on the grass, leaning her arms upon a low cricket,
and "Sydnian showers of sweet discourse" distilled upon us. Towards
sunset we went to the terrace on the bank of the river, and then there
was a walk to Sleepy Hollow. Afterwards, we again resorted to the
lawn, and the stars all came out over our heads with great brilliancy;
and Anna, again upon the grass, pointed out the most beautiful
constellations. Now we expect Louisa Hawthorne every day. Excepting
for the three weeks and a little more occupied by our friends, we have
been quite alone. The 9th of July, our wedding-day, was most heavenly,
and at night there was a most lustrous moon. That night Mr. Allston
died. Nature certainly arrayed herself in her most lovely guise, to
bid him farewell. Mr. Hawthorne has written a little, and cultivated
his garden a great deal; and as you may suppose, such vegetables never
before were tasted. It is a sober fact, dear Mary, that I never ate
any so good. When Apollos tend herds and till the earth, it is but
reasonable to expect unusual effects. I planted flowers, which grow
pretty well. We have voyaged on the river constantly, harvesting
water-lilies; and lately cardinal-flowers, which enrich the borders
with their superb scarlet mantles in great conclaves.
I have just finished Ranke's "History of the Popes." I stumbled quite
accidentally upon ecclesiastical history, lately. I asked my husband
to bring me any book that he chanced to touch upon from his Study, one
day, and it proved to be "Luther, and the Reformation." So I have gone
on and backwards, upon the same subject. I read several volumes of the
Theological Library, fretting all the time over the narrow spirit in
which great men were written about. Finally I took Ranke. He is
splendid and whole-sided, and has given me an idea of the state of
Europe from the first times.
Elizabeth Hoar came while Susan Hillard was here, looking as usual
like the Rose of Sharon, though thinner than ever. Ellery Channing and
E. live in a little red cottage on the road, with one acre attached,
upon which Ellery has worked very hard. E. keeps a small school for
little children. They are very happy, and Ellery is a very charming
companion. He talks very agreeably.
October 15.
BELOVED MARIE,--I received your requiem for Mrs. Peabody [not a near
connection of Mrs. Hawthorne's, but of Mr. George Peabody's, the
philanthropist] yesterday, and cannot delay responding to it. We talk
a great deal about the reality of Heaven and the shadowiness of earth,
but no one acts as if it were the truth. It seems as if the benign and
tender Father of men, in whose presence we rejoice and confide, became
suddenly changed into a dark power, and curtained Himself with gloom,
the instant death laid its hand upon our present bodies, and freed the
soul for another condition. And this, too, although Jesus Christ at
the hour when His spirit resigned the clay rent the veil from top to
bottom, and revealed to all eyes the golden cherubim and the Holy of
Holies. God alone knows whether I could act my belief in the greatest
of all possible earthly separations. But before I loved as I now do
heaven was dim to me in comparison. I cannot conceive of a separation
for one moment from my transfigured soul in him who is transfused with
my being. I am in heaven now. Oh, let me not doubt it, if for a little
while a shadow should wrap his material form from my sight.
I am in rejoicing and most vigorous health. After breakfast I paint
for two or three hours. I am now copying Mr. Emerson's divine
Endymion. After dinner we walk till about five.
The following letter refers to Sophia's sister Mary, who had become
Mrs. Horace Mann:--
DEAREST MARY,--I do not know whether you were ever aware of the
peculiar love I have felt from childhood for my precious sister, who
is now so blest. It has always been enthusiastic and profound. Her
still and perfect disinterestedness, her noiseless self-devotion, her
transparent truthfulness and all-comprehensive benevolence through
life! No words can ever express what a spear in my side it has been to
see her year after year toiling for all but herself, and growing thin
and pale with too much effort. Not that ever her heroic heart uttered
a word of complaint or depreciation. But so much the more did I feel
for her. I saw her lose her enchanting gayety, and become grave and
sad, yet could do nothing to restore her spirits. I was hardly aware,
until it was removed, how weighty had been the burden of her
unfulfilled life upon my heart. At her engagement, all my wings were
unfolded, and my body was light as air.
Mrs. Mann had been to Europe for her wedding-tour, and was thus
welcomed home:--
November 7.
BELOVED MARY,--Yesterday noon my dear husband came home from the
village but a few seconds--it seemed even to me--after he left me,
shining with glad tidings. They were, that the steamer had arrived
with you in it! Imagine my joy, for I cannot tell it. You will come
and see me, I am sure. I am especially commissioned by Mr. Emerson to
request my dear and honorable brother, Mr. Mann, to come to Concord to
lecture at the Lyceum as soon as he possibly can. He says that Mr.
Hoar told him he had never heard such eloquence from human lips as
from Mr. Mann's. "Therefore," says he, "this is the place of all
others for him to come and lecture." Tell me beforehand whether your
husband eats anything in particular, that I may have it all ready for
him. I am in the greatest hurry that mortal has been in since Absalom
ran from his pursuers. Your own
SOPHIECHEN.
The record for Sophia's mother goes on unfailingly:--
November 19.
My DEAREST MOTHER,--This Indian summer is very beautiful. The dulcet
air and stillness are lovely. This morning we watched the opal dawn,
and the stars becoming pale before it, as also the old moon, which
rose between five and six o'clock, and, in the form of a boat of pure
silvery-gold, floated up the sea of clear, rosy air. I am so very
early a riser that the first faint light usually finds me busy.
I wish you could see how charmingly my husband's Study looks now. As
we abandon our drawing-room this winter, I have hung on his walls the
two Lake Como and the Loch Lomond pictures, all of which I painted
expressly for him; and the little mahogany centre-table stands under
the astral lamp, covered with a crimson cloth. The antique
centre-table broke down one day beneath my dear husband's arms, with a
mighty sound, astonishing me in my studio below the Study. He has
mended it. On one of the secretaries stands the lovely Ceres, and
opposite it Margaret Fuller's bronze vase. In the afternoon, when the
sun fills the room and lights up the pictures, it is beautiful. Yet
still more, perhaps, in the evening, when the astral enacts the sun,
and pours shine upon all the objects, and shows, beneath, the noblest
head in Christendom, in the ancient chair with its sculptured back [a
chair said to have come over in the Mayflower, and owned by the
Hawthorne family]; and whenever I look up, two stars beneath a brow of
serene white radiate love and sympathy upon me. Can you think of a
happier life, with its rich intellectual feasts? That downy bloom of
happiness, which unfaithful and ignoble poets have persisted in
declaring always vanished at the touch and wear of life, is delicate
and fresh as ever, and must remain so if we remain unprofane. The
sacredness, the loftiness, the ethereal delicacy of such a soul as my
husband's will keep heaven about us. My thought does not yet compass
him. December. For the world's eye I care nothing; but in the
profound shelter of this home I would put on daily a velvet robe, and
pearls in my hair, to gratify my husband's taste. This is a true
wife's world. Directly after dinner my lord went to the Athenaeum; and
when he returned, he sat reading Horace Walpole till he went out to
the wood-house to saw and split wood. Presently I saw, hastening up
the avenue, Mr. George Bradford. He stayed to tea. His beautiful
character makes him perennial in interest. As my husband says, we can
see nature through him straight, without refraction. My water this
morning was deadly cold instead of livingly cold, and I knew the Imp
must have taken it from some already drawn, instead of right from the
well. The maid brought for me from Mrs. Emerson's "The Mysteries of
Paris," which I read all the evening. I have been to see E. Channing,
who looked very pretty. She has a dog named Romeo, which Mrs. S. G.
Ward gave them. I borrowed a book of E. about sainted women. In "The
Democratic Review" was my husband's "Fire Worship." I could not wait
to read it! It is perfectly inimitable, as usual. His wit is as subtle
as fire. This morning I got up by moonlight again, and sewed till Mary
brought my fresh-drawn water. The moon did not set till after dawn.
To-day I promenaded in the gallery with wadded dress and muff and
tippet on. After tea, my lord read Jones Very's criticism upon
"Hamlet." This morning was very superb, and the sunlight played upon
the white earth like the glow of rubies upon pearls. My husband was
entirely satisfied with the beauty of it. He is so seldom fully
satisfied with weather, things, or people, that I am always glad to
find him pleased. Nothing short of perfection can content him. How can
seraphs be contented with less? After breakfast, as I could not walk
out on account of the snow, I concluded to housewife. My husband
shoveled paths (heaps of snow being trifles to his might), and sawed
and split wood, and brought me water from the well. To such uses do
seraphs come when they get astray on earth. I painted till after one
o'clock. There was a purple and gold sunset. After dinner to-day Mr.
Hawthorne went to the village, and brought back "The Salem Gazette."
Some one had the impudence to speak of him in it as "gentle Nat
Hawthorne." I cannot conceive who could be so bold and so familiar.
Gentle he surely is, but such an epithet does not comprehend him, and
gives a false idea. As usual after sunset, he went out to find
exercise till quite dark. Then he read aloud part of "The Tempest,"
while I sewed. In the evening he told me about his early life in
Raymond [Maine], and he gave me some of Mr. Bridge's famous wine.
To-day my husband partly read "Two Gentlemen of Verona." I do not like
it much. What a queer mood Shakespeare must have been in, to write
it. He seems to be making fun. I wrote to Mrs. Follen, and made up a
budget of a paper from my husband for her "Child's Friend." It was the
incident of Mr. Raike's life, with regard to his founding of
Sunday-schools, most exquisitely told, and set in a frame of precious
jewels. Whatever my husband touches turns to gold in the intellectual
and spiritual world. I sewed on a purple blouse for him till dusk. We
have the luxury of our maid's absence, and Apollo helped me by making
the fires. I warmed rice for myself, and had the happiness of toasting
his bread. He read aloud "Love's Labour 's Lost," and said that play
had no foundation in nature. To-day there have been bright gleams,
but no steady sunshine. Apollo boiled some potatoes for breakfast.
Imagine him with that magnificent head bent over a cooking-stove, and
those star-eyes watching the pot boil! In consequence, there never
were such good potatoes before. For dinner we did not succeed in
warming the potatoes effectually; but they were edible, and we had
meat, cheese, and apples. This is Christmas Day, which I consider the
most illustrious and sacred day of the year. Before sunrise, a great,
dark blue cloud in the east made me suppose it was to be a dismal day;
but I was quite mistaken, for it has been uncommonly beautiful. Peace
has seemed brooding "with turtle wing" over the world, and no one
stirs, as if all men obeyed the command of the elements, which was,
"Be still, as we are." I intended to make a fine bowl of chocolate for
my husband's dinner, but he proposed to celebrate Christmas by having
no cooking at all. At one o'clock we went together to the village, my
husband going to the Athenaeum, and I to Mrs. Emerson's, where Mr.
Thoreau was dining. On the way home I saw in the distance the form of
forms approaching. We dined on preserved fruits and bread and
milk,--quite elegant and very nice. What a miracle my husband is! He
has the faculty of accommodating himself to all sorts of circumstances
with marvelous grace of soul. In the afternoon he brought me some
letters, one being from E. Hooper, with verses which she had written
after reading "Fire Worship." The motto is "Fight for your stoves!"
and the measure that of "Scots wha hae." It is very good. The maid
returned. This morning we awoke to a mighty snowstorm. The trees stood
white-armed all around us. In the afternoon some one knocked at the
front door. I was amazed, supposing no one could overcome the roads,
and thought it must be a government officer. As the door opened, I
heard a voice say, "Where is the man?" It was Ellery Channing, who
exclaimed, as he appeared at the Study, where we were, that it was the
very time to come,--he liked the snow. He looked like a shaggy bear;
but his face was quite shining, as usual. He brought some novels and
reviews, which Queen Margaret [Fuller] had sent to Ellen Channing [her
sister] to read. We had to leave him, while we dined, at three. He
would not join us, and made his exit while we were in the dining-room.
To-day as I painted the wind arose, and howled and swept about, and
clouded the sun, and wearied my spirits. I was obliged to put away my
palette at half past twelve o'clock, and then came up, and looked into
the Study at my husband. He was writing, and I was conscience-stricken
for having interrupted him. We went to walk, and a neighbor invited us
to drive to town in his sleigh. I accepted, but my husband did not.
The Imp sprang on, as we passed his house; and then I found that the
kind old man was Mr. Jarvis of the hill. I went to the post-office,
where my husband was reading a letter from Mr. Hillard. We stayed at
the Athenaeum till after two, and then braved the warring winds
homewards. We had no reading in the evening, for the wind was too
noisy.
January 1, 1844. A quiet morning at last; the wind had howled itself
dead, as if it were the breath of the Old Year, by midnight. On our
way home to-day from the Athenaeum, Dr. Bartlett met us, and offered
to take me along. On the way he spoke of George Bradford's worshiping
Mr. Hawthorne. I had a fine time painting, this morning. Everything
went right, and I succeeded quite to my mind. I felt sure my husband
above me must also be having a propitious morning. When he came to
dinner, he said he did not know as he ever felt so much like writing
on any one day. Mr. Emerson called.
January 9.
BELOVED MOTHER,--I dated all the documents I sent by Plato [Mr.
Emerson] a day too late. My husband will dispatch a budget to Mr.
Hillard's care, containing a paper which he is to send to Mr.
Griswold, editor of "Graham's Magazine." He wrote to my husband, when
he took the editorship, and requested him to contribute, telling him
he intended to make the magazine of a higher character, and therefore
ventured to ask, offering five dollars per page, and the liberty of
drawing for the money the moment the article was published. "The
Democratic Review" is so poor now that it can only offer twenty
dollars for an article of what length soever, so that Mr. Hawthorne
cannot well afford to give any but short stories to it; and it is
besides sadly dilatory about payment. The last paper he sent to it was
a real gift, as it was more than four pages; but he thought its
character better suited to the grave "Democrat" than for the other
publication. Why did not you send the last number? lie is quite
impatient for it. I also long to read again that terrific and true
picture of a cold heart. [The Bosom Serpent.] I do not know what the
present production is about, even; for I have made it a law to myself
never to ask him a word concerning what he is writing, because I
always disliked to speak of what I was painting. He often tells me;
but sometimes the story remains hidden till he reads it aloud to me,
before sending it away. I can comprehend the delicacy and tricksiness
of his mood when he is evolving a work of art. He waits upon the light
in such a purely simple way that I do not wonder at the perfection of
each of his stories. Of several sketches, first one and then another
come up to be clothed upon with language, after their own will and
pleasure. It is real inspiration, and few are reverent and patient
enough to wait for it as he does. I think it is in this way .that he
comes to be so void of extravagance in his style and material. He does
not meddle with the clear, true picture that is painted on his mind.
He lifts the curtain, and we see a microcosm of nature, so cunningly
portrayed that truth itself seems to have been the agent of its
appearance. Thus his taste is genuine--the most faultless I ever knew.
Now, behold! all unforeseen, a criticism upon the genius of Nathaniel
Hawthorne!
Dear mother, Louisa Hawthorne has sent me some exquisite silk flannel
for little shirts, but not quite enough. It is a dollar a yard. Mrs.
Emerson says that you will find it at Jacobs', on Tremont Street. I
could not refuse my child the luxury of feeling such a material over
its dear little bosom. I have to spend a great deal of time in darning
the small craters in my stockings.
January 21. In the hope of some unoccupied carrier-pigeon's straying
this way, I shall write to-day. The extreme cold freezes the ground,
and my lord will not consent to my putting foot out of doors, so I
remain a singing-bird in my happy cage, endeavoring by walks in the
long upper entry (which is enlivened by sundry winds rushing through a
broken window-pane) to make some amends for being deprived of the
outward world. Yesterday I felt as if I had dieted upon diamonds and
were sparkling with rainbow colors like an icicle in the sun. I
painted upon Endymion. My husband blasphemes the fierce winds and
extreme cold in a very picturesque manner; but the disapprobation he
feels is a moral ope, not a physical discomfort. He cleaves the air
like a Damascus blade, so finely attempered that he is unharmed. I
never knew any person in such fine health as he is; because he is not
obtusely well--he has no brute force; but every part of his frame
seems in perfect diapason, like a bird's. I should be afraid of him
if he were in ferocious health; but his health is heavenly. Endymion
will certainly be finished this week if I remain alive, and the sun
shines. [It is a picture in pale brown monochromes, of the most
remarkable perfection of finish and beauty of draughtsmanship.] I
shall ask Plato to carry it to Boston in his arms, unless my honorable
brother Horace [Mann] will take it when he comes to lecture. It will
be perfectly light, but cannot be given up to the stage-man. I do not
want it shown to any person until it be framed, with a glass over it.
Daggett must be made to hasten his work; but he is as obstinate and
cross as a mule; yet no one can make such superlative frames. The
price must be an hundred dollars independently of the frame; if it be
worth one cent, it is worth that. I dearly desire that some one I know
should possess it. I shall be glad some day to redeem it, for it has
come out of my soul. What a record it is of these happy, hopeful days!
The divine dream shining in Endymion's face, his body entranced in
sleep, his soul bathed in light, every curve flowing in consummate
beauty--in some way it is my life. But, for Endymion, I must look upon
a small bit of gold. [Her husband would not let her sell the picture,
after all.]
March 16.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,--The sumptuous boxful arrived, and the dressed beef
is most acceptable, and the wafers are very nice, Mr. Hawthorne liking
them exceedingly. Una went to see her father yesterday morning, the
nurse declaring that she looked as nice as silver and pretty as a
white rose. Great was his surprise to see his little daughter coming
to him! My husband wishes father would please go to the agents for
"The Democratic Review," and tell them he is on the free list. The
three last numbers have not been sent to him, they having stopped
sending at the printing of "The Christmas Banquet." Will father also
look into "Graham's Magazine" for March, and see whether it contains
"Earth's Holocaust," and if so, send it to us?
August.
Directly after you left us, baby went to sleep, and slept three hours,
during which time I accomplished wonders. We dined upon potatoes,
corn, carrots, and whortleberry pudding, quite sumptuously. Our cook
was Hyperion, whom we have engaged. He, with his eyes of light, his
arched brow, and "locks of lovely splendor," officiated even to
dish-washing, with the air of one making worlds. I, with babe on arm,
looked at him part of the time. No accident happened, except that a
sprigged saucer "came into halves;" and I found that Hyperion, in his
new office, had put the ivory handles of the knives into the water,
knowing no better, and left the silver to be washed last instead of
first. I dragged Una in her carriage in the avenue, and she was very
happy. She woke a little after four this morning, and when I first
opened my eyes upon her, her feet were "in the sky." I laid the
breakfast-table, and prepared everything for Hyperion to cook milk and
boil water. At breakfast, baby sat radiant in her coach. George
Prescott brought a hot Indian cake from his mother, while we were at
table. Before Hyperion had quite finished his kitchen-work, Colonel
Hall and his little son came to see him. The Colonel only stayed about
an hour, and could not come to dinner. The unhappy lamb was boiled,
together with some shelled beans and corn.
August 20. Your packet arrived last evening. I am much inclined to
have the black woman. My husband says he does not want me to
undertake to keep anybody who is apparently innocent, after my late
sore experience. He says the old black lady is probably as bad already
as she ever will be. If you find the blackey not disinclined to come
to such poor folks, I will take her in September. I cannot well ask
dear Mary to visit me while my Hyperion is cook and maid. He will not
let me go into his kitchen, hardly; but it is no poetry to cook, and
wash dishes; and I cannot let him do it for anybody but myself alone.
The only way we can make money now seems to be to save it; and as he
declares he can manage till September, we will remain alone till then.
It is beyond words enchanting to be so. But, I assure you, his office
is no sinecure. He actually does everything. And I sit upstairs, and
out of doors with baby, more of a queen than ever, for I have a king
to my servitor. It would cost too much to board; you know we cannot
live cheaper anywhere or anyhow than thus.
Again, a letter is sent to Mrs. Caleb Foote:--
The Promised Land.
MY DEAR MARY,--You are the most satisfactory person to draw for of any
one I know. [Sophia had sent one of her pictures as a present.] Your
letter gave me the purest pleasure, for it made me feel as if I had
caused two hearts to be glad, and that is worth living for, if it be
done but once in a life. . . . We have passed the happiest winter, the
long evenings lifted out of the common sphere by the magic of
Shakespeare. Mr. Hawthorne read aloud to me all the Plays. And you
must know how he reads, before you can have any idea what it was. I
can truly say I never comprehended Shakespeare before; and my husband
was pleased to declare that he never himself understood him so well,
though he has pored over the Plays all his life. All the magnificence,
the pomp, the cunning beauty, the wisdom and fine wit, and the grace
were revealed to me as by a new light. Every character is unfixed from
the page, and stands free in life. Meanwhile I sewed, and whenever a
little garment was finished, I held it up, and won a radiant smile for
it and the never-weary question (with the charming, arch glance)
"Pray, who is that for?"
We breakfast about nine o'clock, because we do not dine till three;
and we have no tea ceremony, because it broke our evenings too much. I
break my fast upon fruit, and we lunch upon fruit, and in the evening,
also, partake of that paradisaical food. Mr. Emerson, with his sunrise
smile, Ellery Channing, radiating dark light, and, very rarely,
Elizabeth Hoar, with spirit voice and tread, have alone varied our
days from without; but we have felt no want. My sweet, intelligent
maid sings at her work, with melodious note. I do not know what is in
store for me; but I know well that God is in the future, and I do not
fear, or lose the precious present by anticipating possible evil. I
remember Father Taylor's inspired words, "Heaven is not afar. We are
like phials of water in the midst of the ocean. Eternity, heaven, God,
are all around us, and we are full of God. Let the thin crystal
break, and it is all one." Mr. Mann came to Concord to lecture last
week. He looked happiest. What can he ask for more, having Mary for
his own? Hold me ever as Your true and affectionate friend,
SOPHIA.
The Hawthornes left the Old Manse for visits to their relatives.
Hawthorne went to Salem in advance of his wife, who writes to him:--
BOSTON, August 15.
. . . Yesterday your letter raised me to the eighth heaven--one heaven
beyond the imagination of the great poet. . . . I am very sorry you did
not come, for Mr. Atherton was to be at home at eight o'clock that
evening, hoping to see you, and Mr. Pierce was also in the city,
desiring to meet you. Una knew Mr. Atherton directly, when I took her
to call, and at once challenged him to run after her. Soon afterwards
a fine wooden singing-bird arrived, with a card on which was written
"for Una Hawthorne." Mrs. Williams called. She asked me to give you a
great deal of love. She wished we would visit her in Augusta, Maine. I
have taken Una upon the Common several times, and she runs after all
babies and dogs. She is so beautiful that I am astonished at her.
Frank Shaw says she is perfect, and like Raphael's ideal babies. This
morning a letter came to you from the Count [Mr. John O'Sullivan was
usually called by this title by the Hawthornes], who has some good
proposals. The offer from the "Blatant Beast" [name given by
Hawthorne to a certain publisher] of the--But I will send the letter;
it will not cost any more than mine alone, thanks to the new law.
Having gone to stay for a few days in Herbert Street, Mrs. Hawthorne
writes to her mother:--
SALEM, November 19.
. . . Father took most beautiful care of us, and did not leave us till
we were seated in the cars. Mr. Dike followed. I told him that if he
wished to see Una, he could do it by sitting behind. This he did, and
kept up a constant talking with her, all the way. She looked lofty and
grave, and unfathomable in her eyes; but finally had compassion on
him, and faintly smiled in that way which always makes her father say,
"Mightily gracious, madam!" An old man by the side of Mr. Dike asked
him whether Una were his grandchild! She liked the old man, and smiled
at him whenever he spoke to her. Upon arriving in Salem, Mr. Dike
went to find my husband; whom, however, I saw afar off in the crowd of
ugly men, showing like a jewel (pearl) in an Ethiop's ear, so fine and
pale, with the large lids cast down, and a radiant smile on his lips.
For the first time since my husband can remember, he dined with his
mother! This is only one of the miracles which the baby is to perform.
Her grandmother held her on her lap till one of us should finish
dining, and then ate her own meal. She thinks Una is a beauty, and, I
believe, is not at all disappointed in her. Her grandmother also says
she has the most perfect form she ever saw in a baby. She waked this
morning like another dawn, and smiled bountifully, and was borne off
to the penetralia of the house to see Madam Hawthorne and aunt
Elizabeth. My husband's muse is urging him now, and he is writing
again. He never looked so excellently beautiful. Una is to be dressed
as sumptuously as possible to-day, to visit her grandaunt Ruth
[Manning]. Louisa wants her to overcome with all kinds of beauty,
outward and inward. I feel just made. All are quite well here, and
enjoy the baby vastly.
To Hawthorne in Salem:--
BOSTON, December 19.
. . . If I asked myself strictly whether I could write to you this
evening, I should say absolutely no, for ten thousand different things
demand the precious moments while our baby sleeps. . . . I bless God for
such a destiny as mine; you satisfy me beyond all things. . . . Una is
now downstairs with her aunt Elizabeth, and she shines with perfection
of well-being. When she is near a chair, with both hands resting upon
it, she will suddenly let go, and for a few glorious seconds maintain
her equilibrium, and then down she sits upon the floor. C. Sturgis and
Anna Shaw have been to see her. I took her to William Story's
yesterday, and he thought her eyes very beautiful, and said he had
scarcely ever seen perfectly gray eyes before; and that such were the
finest eyes in the world, capable of the most expression. He added,
that her eyes were like those of an exquisite child of Raphael's,
which he had seen, in oils.
Mr. Colton has been again to see you. Perhaps it is quite fortunate
that you were guarded from an interview, since you would have refused
his offers. When will you come back? Mr. Hillard said you promised to
go there again. You can always come here.
Your loving wife, PHOEBE.
After returning home, Sophia writes:--
CONCORD, January 26, 1845.
BEST MOTHER (I like that Swedish epithet),--The jewel is precisely
what I wanted. It appears strange for us to make presents of precious
stones set in gold; but the occasion is sufficient to justify it. Mrs.
Prescott is perpetually doing for me what she will not allow me to pay
for, and often what I cannot pay for. She remains rich in
consciousness, but the burden of obligation is too great. She papered
my kitchen with her own hands, and would not let me even pay for the
paper; she also employed her man to put up a partition; and she is
stiff-necked as an Israelite on these points. She sends us Indian
cakes and milk bread, or any nicety she happens to have. George has
the pleasantest way of going of errands about which I cannot employ
the Imp, Ben, and he took excellent care of Leo, the dog, during our
absence, feeding him so sumptuously that he looked very superb when we
returned, only requiring to have an heroic soul to be the Doge of
dogs. I never imagined anything so enchanting as Una's rapid
development. Every morning, as soon as she is awake, she extends her
little hand to the Madonna. Then she points to Loch Lomond (which I
have moved to my room), and then to Abbotsford, each time observing
something about the pictures, as she gazes into my face. My replies I
always feel to be very stupid; but I do as well as I can, considering
that I am not now a baby. Another of her acts is to put up her
forefinger to my mouth, to be kissed; and often she puts up her own
mouth for a kiss, and then smiles with an expression of covert
fun--sub ridens, her father calls it. The other evening, while the
trees were still crystal chandeliers, it grew dusk before the lamps
were lighted; and all at once, behold the full moon rose up from
behind the hill "over against our house," exactly between the trees at
the entrance of our avenue. Picture to yourself the magnificence. The
sharp gleam of the crystals made it seem as if the stars had fallen,
and were caught by the branches, and a thousand shining scimitars
flashed into view. Una happened to be turned towards the scene. How I
wish you could have seen the wonder and gleam of her face! As the moon
rose higher and higher, she continued to talk about it, her hand
extended. We lighted no lamp that evening. The next morning I asked
her where the moon was, and she turned towards the window with a
questioning tone. Last evening my better than Epaminondas was
stretched upon the floor, for her entertainment. It was the prettiest
sight that ever was. Una is as strong as a little lion, and I could
dance at any moment. The half-hour glass that you gave me is a great
enchantment to my husband, and has already suggested some divine
production.
To Mrs. Foote, once more:--
Paradise Regained, May 4, 1845.
MY DEAR MARY,--My husband and I will be most happy to receive you, I
would say at once, but I must wait till these avenue trees are in
leaf, because I want you to see our quiet Eden in its full summer
dress. It has begun to array itself; and the Balm of Gilead, a
significant tree for us, is already in tender green, and the showerful
poplar, so mightily abused, is, this lovely morning, becoming golden
with new yellow foliage. But as this is our last year in the blessed
old abbey, you must see it in perfection. The lawn beneath the trees
is already a rich emerald, and large gold stars begin to spangle it.
You shall see my little darling running over the green grass, with a
continued song of exultation. She thinks this is the first Paradise,
and that her father is the primal Adam, and that she possesses the
earth, now that she is out of leading-strings.
December 7, 1845.
I was very glad of an answer to my volume of a letter, and that it
gave you satisfaction. Words are a poor portrait of Una, this ray of
light. The distinctness and intelligence of her language are a kind of
miracle. Her father said one day that she was the book of Revelation.
Once, I said for her Mother Goose's "Cushy cow bonny, let down your
milk!" and after hearing the whole verse several times she began to
repeat it to herself, but said, "Tushy tow bonny, let down Nona's milk!"
And she always corrects me if I omit her name. She often says,
"Bobby Shafto's done to sea; tome back, marry Nona!" with a very
facetious expression. Her father tells her that he shall not allow
Bobby to marry her.