THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE
The letters to Mrs. Peabody sketch on:--
DEAREST MOTHER,--We have had an Englishman here, an artist, whom
George Putnam [a cousin] sent to take sketches. He came here with his
carpet-bag, and there seemed nothing to be done but to ask him to stay
with us while in town. I was the more glad to do so, hoping thereby to
save George some pennies, as I was obliged to disappoint him about
making the drawings myself. This artist is from the North of England.
He seems very good and simple-hearted, and he talks like the Cataract
of Lodore. He has the magnetic influence upon Mr. Hawthorne which
produces sleepiness.
He is enchanted with The Wayside.
You know Mr. Hawthorne is a sort of load-stone, which attracts all
men's confidences without a word of question, and scarcely any answer;
and so Mr. Miller tells his whole life and thoughts. If he has the
national reservedness generally, it certainly vanishes in my husband's
presence, for it seems as if he could not tell enough. On Monday and
Tuesday we expected to have Mr. Ticknor here, whom Mr. Hawthorne
wished to see about his book, but he did not come.
Mr. Hawthorne feels better now, and looks natural, with living color.
[He had been terribly shocked and overcome by the death, by drowning
from a burning vessel, of his sister Louisa.] Poor, dear Louisa! It is
harder and harder for me to realize that I shall not see her again.
And she had such a genuine joy in the children. But it is a positive
bliss to me to contemplate Louisa and her mother together. If there is
anything immortal in life it is the home relations, and heaven would
be no heaven without them. God never has knit my soul with my
husband's soul for such a paltry moment as this human life! I have not
loved my mother for one short day! My children do not thrill my
heart-strings with less than an eternal melody. We know that God
cannot trifle! This is all more real to me than what my human eye
rests on. I heard one of the truly second-sighted say once, that in a
trance he saw the spiritual world; and while gazing enraptured on its
green pastures, a spirit whispered to him, "Out of this greenness your
earthly pastures are green."
Yesterday afternoon Mr. Miller left us. Oh, dear, how the little man
talked! I do not know as the Cataract of Lodore is an adequate
exemplification, for that has some airy, fairy jets and overfalls. But
the good faith and earnestness with which Mr. Miller coined the air
into words were more like the noise and pertinacity of a manufactory.
He was certainly a new phase of man to me. When he finally vanished,
with his portfolio under his arm, my wings sprang up as if an iron
band had been holding them down. It was with a truly divine patience
that my husband gave ear to this personated Paper-Mill, because he saw
that he was good and true and honest. (I might have only said
"good.") Into those depths of misty gray light which stand for eyes
under my husband's brow, the little man was drawn as by a line. Miss
Bremer said to me of Mr. Hawthorne's eyes, "Wonderful, wonderful eyes!
They give, but receive not." But they do draw in. Mr. Miller kept his
face turned to him, as the sunflower to the sun; and when I spoke, and
he tried to turn to me, his head whirled back again. It really is
marvelous, how the mighty heart, with its charities, and comprehending
humanity, which glows and burns beneath the grand intellect, as if to
keep warm and fused the otherwise cold abstractions of thought,--it is
marvelous how it opens the bosoms of men. I have seen it so often, in
persons who have come to him. So Mr. Melville, generally silent and
incommunicative, pours out the rich floods of his mind and experience
to him, so sure of apprehension, so sure of a large and generous
interpretation, and of the most delicate and fine judgment. Thus only
could the poetic insight and far-searching analytic power be safely
intrusted to him. To him only who can tenderly sympathize must be
given the highest and profoundest insight.
How wonderfully it is arranged, that in the very person who most
imperiously demands absolute beauty and perfection (for so does Mr.
Hawthorne), in this very person is found the subtlest and widest
appreciation of human shortcomings, and the pleadings of weakness and
failure. In "Blithedale" I think one feels this tender humanity. It
will come out more and more.
Shall I tell you where I am? I am sitting in our acacia grove, on the
hill, with a few pines near enough for me to hear their oceanic
murmur. It is only necessary for me to shut my eyes, to hear every
variety of water sounds. The pine gives me the long, majestic swell
and retreat of the sea waves; the birch, the silvery tinkle of a
pebbly brook; the acacia, the soft fall of a cascade; and all mingled
together, a sound of many waters most refreshing to the sense. I thank
heaven that we possess a hilltop. No amount of plains could compete
with the value of this. To look down on the world actually is typical
of looking down spiritually, and so it is good. Una and Julian are
wandering around; Una having been reading to Julian. Rosebud is
asleep. Oh, she enjoys a summer day so much! This morning I set her
down on the green grass. Without looking at me, the happiest smile
began to dawn over her face; and then she suddenly waved her hands
like wings, and set forth. To fall down seemed a new joy. Julian
undertook to be her escort. It was a charming picture--the two figures
grouped together; the fair little blue-eyed face turned up to the
great brown, loving eyes, and all sorts of dulcet sounds responding to
one another. I could not help smiling to read in your letter that you
would have a rug spread for her. I should as soon think of keeping an
untamed bird on a rug as baby. I assure you that since she has had the
use of her feet she does not pause in the race of life. . . . It is good
to see such an expression of immense satisfaction as dwells upon her
face. Most lovingly your child,
SOPHIECHEN.
September 19.
MY DEAR MOTHER,--On Friday Mr. Hawthorne returned from nearly a three
weeks' visit to the Isles of Shoals. I did not tell you about it while
he was there, because your heart is so tender I knew you would have no
peace, and you would all the time be thinking that he was separated
from us by water. But here he is, looking in splendid health, all safe
and sound. General Pierce, and some other dignitaries with their
wives, met Mr. Hawthorne for a day or two; and the rest of the time he
had all to himself. I must tell you a story, by which you will be
enabled to see into political slander. An officer of the army,
resident at Baltimore, told the editor of a paper friendly to General
Pierce, that while in Mexico General Pierce was at a gambling-table
with another officer; and, a squabble ensuing, this officer struck
General Pierce in the face, and that the General took it without a
word. He told the editor also that the officer who offered this insult
was in California, making it difficult to have a word from him upon
the subject. The editor, in perplexity, sent the paragraph to General
Pierce, who was at a loss how to prove the utter falsity of the whole
story. But, behold, the next thing which he laid his hand upon, on his
table, was a letter postmarked "California." He opened it, and it was
from the very officer who was said to have insulted him so foully, and
was an expression of the highest admiration and respect, and
congratulations upon his present position. This was an unanswerable
denial; and so he sent the letter to Baltimore. This story, fabricated
out of nothing but malice, was meant to injure in two ways, by proving
him a gambler, and also pusillanimous. The slanderous officer will
probably cease to be one, as I believe falsehood is not considered a
military grace.
Mr. Hawthorne went to Brunswick, having been cordially invited by the
President of the College. He met his classmates there. On account of
the heavy rains he was detained so many hours on his way thither that
he did not arrive till noon of the day, and thus providentially
escaped hearing himself orated and poetized about in the morning.
Brunswick was so full that he had to go to Bath to sleep; and there he
had funny adventures, some old sea-captains insisting upon considering
him a brother, and calling him all the time "Cap'n Hathorne." At the
Isles of Shoals he had the ocean all to himself; but when he wished to
see human beings, he found Mr. and Mrs. Thaxter very pleasant. Mrs.
Thaxter sent Una a necklace of native shells with a gold and coral
clasp, Julian a plume made of white owl feathers, and Rosebud a most
exquisite wreath of sea-moss upon a card. I kept a journal for my
husband, according to his express injunction. The children missed
papa miserably, and I could not bear the trial very well. I could not
eat, sitting opposite his empty chair at table, and I lost several
pounds of flesh.
To-day, when baby waked from a nap of four hours and a half, she
called for the first time, "Mamma!" I ran up, and she was smiling like
a constellation of stars. She mourned after papa a great deal, and
sometimes would hold a long discourse about him, pointing all the
while at the portrait. One day a neighbor sent me, to cheer my
loneliness, the most superb bouquet of rare and costly rosebuds that I
ever saw. I put them in the Study, in a pretty champagne-glass [the
tall, old-fashioned kind], and they filled the room with fragrance. I
tended them very carefully; but they bloomed too fully at last. Yet
just at that moment, the lady gave me a fresh supply--the very day
before Mr. Hawthorne's return; and on that bright Friday afternoon I
put the vase of delicious rosebuds, and a beautiful China plate of
peaches and grapes, and a basket of splendid golden Porter apples on
his table; and we opened the western door [leading from the Study to
the lawn] and let in a flood of sunsetting. Apollo's "beautiful
disdain" seemed kindled anew. Endymion smiled richly in his dream of
Diana. Lake Como was wrapped in golden mist. The divine form in the
Transfiguration floated in light. I thought it would be a pity if Mr.
Hawthorne did not come that moment. As I thought this, I heard the
railroad-coach--and he was here. He looked, to be sure, as he wrote in
one of his letters, "twice the man he was." Dear little Una went to
the village with the mail-bag, just before it was time to expect her
father, and I told her I hoped she would drive home with him. She met
him, caught a glance, and he was gone. It surprised me that her sense
of duty prevented her from turning back at once. I asked her why she
did not, as the letters were not of so much importance, since papa had
come. "Oh," said she, "I did not know but it would be wrong to go back
only because I wanted to." At last she came. She entered the Study in
a very quiet way (apparently), received his loving greeting, and then,
taking off her hat, sat down at my feet to look at him, and hear him.
When she went to bed, she said, "Oh, mamma, my head has tingled so,
ever since I saw papa, that I could hardly bear the pain! Do not tell
him, for it might trouble him." Was it not sweet and heroic in her to
keep so quiet for two hours? This is a good specimen of Una's powers
of self-sacrifice. It has sometimes made me wish to weep over her
delicious tears.
Sunday, October 24, 1852.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,--To-day we all went into the woods above and behind
our house, and sat down and wove wreaths of red and russet leaves, and
dreamed and mused with a far-off sound of booming waves and plash of
sea on smooth beach in the pine-trees about us. It was beautiful to
see the serene gleam of Una's face, fleckered with sunlight; and
Julian, with his coronet of curls, sitting quiet in the great peace.
My husband, at full length on the carpet of withered pine, presented
no hindrance to the tides of divine life that are ready to flow
through us, if we will. There are no Words to describe such enjoyment;
but you can understand it well. It is the highest wisdom, I think, to
sometimes do nothing; but only keep still, and reverently be happy,
and receptive of the great omnipresence. How studiously we mortals
keep it out of our eternal business. There should be no business at
least once a week. I rather think it is the best proof that Moses was
inspired that he instituted a Sabbath of rest from labor. God needs
not, but man needs, rest.
Sunset. I left you to go out again and join my husband on the hilltop,
while the children's voices kept us advised of their welfare somewhere
about the place. My husband and I sat on a terrace on the side of the
hill, both looking off upon the tranquil horizon, beginning to be
veiled with a dim blue haze. Una ran up, calling out that Mr. Hosmer
wished to see papa and mamma. So we descended, and met the old
gentleman on a lower terrace, where I invited him to sit on the green
sofa; and we grouped about him. Julian at first went rushing through
our ranks like a young Olympian exercising heroic games, and finally
extended himself on the grass to listen to the palaver. Mr. Hosmer
began with the Great Daniel [Webster], who died at three o'clock this
morning. He expressed admiration of him, as we all did; and I thought
his death an immense loss. Mr. Hosmer was very glad that he died in
the fullness of his power of mind, and not sunken in the socket. He
discoursed upon the massive grandeur of his speeches, his wonderful
letters, and of all that was mighty in him. Also of his shortcomings
and their retribution. You would have liked to have heard Mr. Hosmer
glorify John Adams--even his appearance. He said that at eighty-three
(when he sat near him every Sunday at church) he was a "perfect
beauty;" that his cheeks were as unwrinkled as a girl's, and as fair
and white, and his head was a noble crown; and that any woman would
fall in love with him. So we talked of great men, till I came in to
watch baby's sleep. She soon waked, all smiles and love; and then Mr.
Hawthorne and Mr. Hosmer came in, still upon the theme of great men.
Mr. Hosmer thought Oliver Cromwell greatest of all, I believe. Una and
I made you a wreath of richly tinted oak leaves to-day, and when I go
to Newton I will take it. I wish you could hear her repeat poetry in
her dulcet, touching tones. I never heard any one repeat poetry so
much to my mind.
Evening. Mr. Hawthorne is drawn forcibly out of doors by the moon's
rays, they are so clear and superb to-night. He looked out and sighed,
for he did not really want to go; but he felt under a moral necessity.
I walk out in him, being mamma and nurse [Rosebud was still up]. When
you write to Mr. Plumly, bless him for me for the mantle [his gift to
Mrs. Peabody] and his beautiful, refreshing letter about it. I had a
great mind to write to him myself of his appreciation of you and of my
husband. What a noble, lovely person he is!
Your child, SOPHY.
April 14, 1853.
My husband went off in a dark rain this morning, on his way to
Washington. Mary Herne called to baby to come and take care of her
dolly, who was upon the floor in the kitchen. Rose rushed in a
breakneck manner across the parlor, exclaiming as if in the utmost
maternal distress, "Oh, mershy, mershy!" and rescued Dolly from her
peril. She was quite happy and still in the kitchen; and then I heard
her shout, "I like it--I like it motch!" I asked Mary what it was that
baby liked so "motch." When Mary got up to investigate, she found baby
in the closet at the molasses jug, still crying, "I like it--I like it
motch!" She was very much diverted by our consternation; and when, at
tea-time, I was speaking of it, she burst into inextinguishable
laughter; and as soon as she could speak, said, "I glad! Was ever such
a mischief?" Twice to-day she began to go into the Study for "papa
take her." I sent Julian to the village at five, and he returned in a
pouring rain. His sack kept him dry, but he thought he was soaked to
the skin because his nose was wet. He brought a letter from Charlotte
Bridge, inclosing two notes to my husband from Mr. Bridge. To-day I
found nothing in the post-office but Mr. Emerson. He walked along with
me and said he had a letter from Mr. Synge [whom Hawthorne met, later,
in England], an attache of the British Legation, asking for an
autograph of Mr. Hawthorne. Grandpapa, baby, and I sat in the parlor
in the afternoon, and baby was in the highest spirits, and conversed
for the first time in the most facetious manner, casting side glances,
and laughing with a great pretense of being vastly amused, and of
superior insight into the bearing of things.
April 19. The great day of the Concord fight. I was awakened by
cannon and the ringing of bells. The cannon thundered all around the
welkin, in a very grand, stately, and leisurely manner. I read the
history of the day to the children. What made the morning beautiful
and springlike to me was a letter which Julian brought from my
husband.
April 21. A day like a dulcimer. It was so charming to rake and plant
and prune that I remained out a long time, and tore my hands nicely.
Julian requested to go and take a quiet walk in the woods, and
returned just as I was becoming anxious about him, shouting, with a
sweet-brier bush which he had pulled up by the roots in the wood. I
took a spade, and dug a great cave, and planted it beneath his western
window; and I am sure it must grow for him, for he sent sunshine down
into the earth from his eyes upon the roots while I was setting it
out.
The stage-coach drove up and brought me Mrs. S. G. Ward and Sarah
Clarke. Mrs. Ward was cruelly disappointed not to see Mr. Hawthorne;
and I told her that he would probably tear his hair when he came back
and found what he had lost. "Tell him," said she, "that I tore out all
mine." She was splendid and radiant beyond my power to tell; dressed
in rich green and a rose-colored bonnet, and her beautiful hair
curling round her wonderful face. I do not believe there is another
such woman in the world. When she had stepped from the house, Julian
begged me to run after her, and tell her she must go to England
[whither the family now expected to journey]; and with the most
enchanting grace she laughed, and said, "Tell him I certainly shall!"
Sunday. At ten, my little flock gathered [Mrs. Hawthorne taught
reading, geography, drawing, etc., to several children besides her
own, for love, and gave them Sunday-school lessons also]; and I read
them the story of Balaam's ass, and about the death of Moses. They
were much afflicted that Moses was not allowed to go to the Promised
Land. I read that he looked down from Mount Pisgah and saw Canaan and
the City of Palms, and showed them my Cuban sketch of a palm,
describing exactly how they looked and grew; and the vision of the
City of Palms became very beautiful to them. Poor little Mary Ellen
felt ill, but she was so interested that I could not persuade her to
go home.
April 26. I met Mr. Rockwood Hoar, who congratulated us upon our
expected residence in England, which he said was "the only place fit
to live in out of America."
April 29. A neighbor came yesterday with an English white rose, and
set out the tree for me. He said it was for Rosebud. We are getting
to look quite nice, but all will look black and bare to my husband,
after being at the South. Baby is filled with joy to be out in such
lovely weather, and makes no hesitation to take the heaviest tools,
and dig and rake and hoe. She will not come in even to drink her milk.
Some documents came this morning from the State Department, relating
to the Consulate at Liverpool. The peach-trees are all in bloom, and
the cherry-trees also. I looked about, as I sat down in our pine
grove, and tried to bear my husband's absence but it is desolation
without him. This is the sweetest place--I really cannot bear to leave
it. My scholars drew flowers, this morning. Mr. Emerson and Ellery
Charming passed along; and Mr. Emerson asked Julian to go with the
children to Fairy Land [in Walden woods]. He went, in a state of
ecstatic bliss. He brought me home, in a basket, cowslips, anemones,
and violets.
In June the voyage to England, as Hawthorne was appointed Consul at
Liverpool by President Pierce, was undertaken, and pleasantly
accomplished.
Hawthorne's "English Note-Books," as well as the elaborated papers
that make up "Our Old Home," disclose something of his daily life in
England during his consulship; but it was in the rapid, familiar
letters of my mother to her family that his life was most freely
narrated. I have preserved these letters, and shall give extracts from
them in the pages that follow, prefacing and interpolating a few
girlish memories of my father and of the places in which I saw him,
although they are trivial and meagre in incident. He died the day
before my thirteenth birthday, and as my existence had begun at a time
when his quiet life was invaded (if we may use that term in connection
with a welcome guest) by fame, with its attendant activity in the
outside world, my intercourse with him was both juvenile and brief. In
England, he mingled more than ever before with the members of literary
and fashionable society. I, who in 1853 was but two years old, had to
be satisfied with a glance and a smile, which were so much less than
he had been able to give to my brother and sister in their happier
childhood days, for they had enjoyed hours of his companionship as a
constant pastime. I was, moreover, much younger than the others, and
was never allowed to grow, as I wished, out of the appellations of
Rosebud, Baby, and Bab (as my father always called me), and all the
infantine thought which those pet names imply. I longed myself to
hear the splendidly grotesque fairy tales, sprung from his delicious
jollity of imagination, which Una and Julian had reveled in when our
father had been at leisure in Lenox and Concord; and the various
frolics about which I received appetizing hints as I grew into
girlhood made me seem to myself a stranger who had come too late. But
a stranger at Hawthorne's side could be very happy, and, whatever my
losses, I knew myself to be rich.
In the early years of our stay in England his personality was most
radiant. His face was sunny, his aspect that of shining elegance.
There was the perpetual gleam of a glad smile on his mouth and in his
eyes. His eyes were either a light gray or a violet blue, according to
his mood. His hair was brown and waved loosely (I take it very hard
when people ask me if it was at all red!), and his complexion was as
clear and luminous as his mother's, who was the most beautiful woman
some people have ever seen. He was tall, and with as little
superfluous flesh and as much sturdy vigor as a young athlete; for his
mode of life was always athletic, simple, and abstemious. He leaned
his head a little to one side, often, in a position indicating alert
rest, such as we find in many Greek statues,--so different from the
straight, dogged pose of a Roman emperor. He was very apt to make an
assent with an upward movement of the head, a comfortable h'm-m, and a
half-smile. Sympathetic he was, indeed, and warm with the fire that
never goes out in great natures. He had much dignity; so much that
persons in his own country sometimes thought him shy and reticent to
the verge of morbidness. But it was merely the gentlemanliness of the
man, who was jocund with no one but his intimate friends, and never
fierce except with rascals, as I observed on one or two occasions.
Those who thought him too silent were bores whom he desired not to
attract. Those who thought him unphilosophical (and some philosophers
thought that) were not artists, and could not analyze his work. Those
who knew him for a man and a friend were manly and salubrious of soul
themselves. They have given plenty of testimony as to the
good-fellowship of a nature which could be so silent at will.
He was usually reserved, but he was ready for action all the time. His
full, smooth lips, sensitive as a child's, would tell a student of
facial lines how vivid was his life, though absolutely under his cool
command. He was a delightful companion even when little was said,
because his eyes spoke with a sort of apprehension of your thought, so
that you felt that your expression of face was a clear record for him,
and that words would have been a sort of anticlimax. His companionship
was exquisitely restful, since it was instinctively sympathetic. He
did not need to exert himself to know you deeply, and he saw all the
good in you there was to know; and the weakness and the wrong of any
heart he weighed as nicely in the balance of tender mercy as we could
do in pity for ourselves. I always felt a great awe of him, a
tremendous sense of his power. His large eyes, liquid with blue and
white light and deep with dark shadows, told me even when I was very
young that he was in some respects different from other people. He
could be most tender in outward action, but he never threw such action
away. He knew swine under the cleverest disguise. I speak of outward
acts of tenderness. As for his spirit, it was always arousing mine,
or any one's, and acting towards one's spiritual being invisibly and
silently, but with gentle earnestness. He evinced by it either a
sternly sweet dignity of tolerance, or an approbation generous as a
broad meadow, or a sadly glanced, adverse comment that lashed one's
inner consciousness with remorse. He was meditative, as all those are
who care that the world is full of sorrow and sin, but cheerful, as
those are who have the character and genius to see the finite beauty
and perfection in the world, which are sent to the true-hearted as
indications of heaven. He could be full of cheer, and at the same
time never lose the solemnity of a perception of the Infinite,--that
familiar fact which we, so many of us, have ceased to fear, but which
the greatest men so remember and reverence. He never became wholly
merged in fun, however gay the games in which he joined with us
children; just as a man of refinement who has been in war never quite
throws aside the dignity of the sorrow which he has seen. He might
seem, at a superficial glance, to be the merriest of us all, but on
second thoughts he was not. Of course, there were times when it was
very evident to me that my father was as comfortable and happy as he
cared to be. When he stood upon the hearth-rug, before the snapping,
blushing English fire (always poked into a blaze towards evening, as
he was about to enter the parlor),--when he stood there with his hands
clasped behind him, swaying from side to side in a way peculiar to
him, and which recalled the many sea-swayed ancestors of his who had
kept their feet on rolling decks, then he was a picture of benevolent
pleasure. Perhaps, for this moment, the soldier from the battlefields
of the soul ceased to remember scenes of cruelty and agony. He swayed
from side to side, and raised himself on his toes, and creaked his
slippered heels jocosely, and smiled upon me, and lost himself in
agreeable musings. He was very courteous, entirely sincere, and quiet
with fixed principles as a great machine with consistent movement. He
treated children handsomely; harshness was not in him to be subdued,
and scorn of anything that was honestly developing would have seemed
to him blasphemy. He stooped to my intelligence, and rejoiced it. We
were usually a silent couple when off for a walk together, or when we
met by chance in the household. I suppose that we were seeing which
could outdo the other at "holding the tongue." But still, our
intercourse, as I remarked before, might be complete. I knew him very
well indeed,--' his power, his supremacy of honesty, his wealth of
refinement. And he, I was fully aware, could see through me as easily
as if I were a soul in one of his own books.
Even as a child, knowing that he could not think me a remunerative
companion, I realized how remarkable it was that in all his being
there was not an atom of the poison of contempt. If he did not love
stupidity, he forgave it. If he was strong with analysis and the
rejection of all sham and wrong, his hand was ready to grasp s any
hand, because it was a human creature's, whose destiny was a part of
every destiny--even Christ's. This sympathy, which caused the choice
he had made of his character-studies, and brought many confessions to
his judgment from bewildered men and women, was with him so entire
that it showed itself in the little things of existence, as a whole
garden-path is noble with the nature of the rose that stands blooming
there.
His aspect avoided, as did that of his art, which exactly reproduced
his character, anything like self-conscious picturesqueness. It is
pleasant to have the object of our regard unconscious of himself. He
had a way of ignoring, while observing automatically, all accessories,
which reminded us that his soul was ever awake, and waiting to be made
free of earthly things and common ideas.
During our European life he frequently wore a soft brown felt hat and
a brown talma of finest broadcloth, whose Greek-like folds and
double-decked effect were artistic, but did not tempt him to pose or
remember his material self. He was as forgetful of his appearance as
an Irishman of the true quality, who may have heard something about
his coat or his hair, but has let slip from his mind what it was, and
cares not, so long as the song of his comrades is tender and the
laughter generous. In some such downright way, I was convinced, my
father regarded the beauty and stateliness which were his, and for
which he had been praised all through his existence. He forgot himself
in high aims, which are greater than things seen, no matter how fine
soever.
We made a very happy family group as we gladly followed and looked
upon him when he took ship to start for the Liverpool Consulate; and
of this journey and the new experiences which ensued my mother writes
to Dr. Peabody as follows:--
STEAMER NIAGARA, ATLANTIC OCEAN,
July 7, 1853.
MY DEAREST FATHER,--It is early morning. Wrapped in furs and blanket
shawl, in the sun and close against the vast scarlet cylinder of
scalding hot steam, I have seated myself to greet you from Halifax,
where we shall arrive to-night. I was glad to leave the sight of you
while you were talking with Mr. Fields, whose cheerful face (and
words, no doubt) caused you to smile. I was so glad to leave you
smiling happily. Then came the cannonade, which was very long. And why
do you suppose it was so long? Mr. Ticknor says that always they give
a salute of two guns; but that yesterday so many were thundered off
because Mr. Hawthorne, the distinguished United States Consul and
author, was leaving the shore, and honoring her Majesty's steamship
with his presence. While they were stabbing me with their noise I was
ignorant of this. Perhaps my wifely pride would have enabled me to
bear it better if I had known that the steamer were trembling with
honor rendered to my husband. After this we were quiet, enough, for
we were moving magically over a sea like a vast pearl, almost white
with peace. I never saw anything so fair and lovely as the whole
aspect of the mighty ocean. Off on the horizon a celestial blue seemed
to meet the sky. Julian sat absorbed. He did not turn his head, but
gazed and gazed on this, to him, new and wondrous picture. Seeing a
point of land running out, he said, "That, I suppose, is the end of
America! I do not think America reaches very far!" I managed to change
his beaver and plume for his great straw Fayal hat, but he would not
turn his head for it. It was excessively hot. An awning was spread at
the stern, and then it was very comfortable. I heard that the British
minister was on board, and I searched round to find him out. I decided
upon a fine-looking elderly gentleman who was asleep near the
helm-house. Afterwards the mail-agent came to Mr. Hawthorne and said
the minister wished to make his acquaintance; and behold, here was my
minister, a stately, handsome person, with an air noble and of great
simplicity and charm of manner. Mr. Hawthorne introduced me, but I had
no conversation then. Later, I had a very delightful interview. . . .
Near by stood a gentleman whom I supposed his attache; and with him I
had a very long and interesting conversation. We had a nice talk
about art and Rome, and America and England, and architecture. I do
not yet know his name, but only that his brother was joint executor
with Sir Robert Peel on the estate of Hadley, the artist. This unknown
told me that the minister was an exquisite amateur artist, and his
portfolio was full of the finest sketches. This accounted for the
serene expression of his eyes, that rest contemplatively upon all
objects. Mr. Silsbee looks so thin and pale that I fear for him; but I
will take good care of him. At table, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have the
seats of honor, on either hand of the captain. He is a very
remarkable man. The minister told me that he sailed with him five
years ago, when the captain was very young, and he was then astonished
at his skill and power of command; that the captains of these great
English steamers are picked men, trained in the navy, and eminent for
ability and accomplishment, and that Captain Leitch is remarkable
among the best. It was good to see his assured military air, as he
walked back and forth while we moved out of the beautiful harbor. He
made motions with his hand with such an air of majesty and conscious
power. His smile is charming, and his voice fine. The enunciation of
Mr. Crampton, the minister, is also wonderfully fine. Mr. Crampton
says that these steamers have run for seventeen years, and that not
one accident has happened, and not a man been lost, except that once a
steamer was lost in a fog, but all the passengers and crew were safely
got off. Una enjoys herself very much, and reads the "Tanglewood
Tales," and walks and races on the upper deck with Julian, this fine
cold morning. It is glorious, glorious,--this blue surrounding sea,
and no land.
Your affectionate daughter,
SOPHIA.
WATERLOO HOUSE, LIVERPOOL, July 17, Sunday morning.
Here we are, dear father, in England; and I cannot realize it, because
a moment ago we were in Boston Harbor, and how can I be three thousand
miles afar? If we had had more difficulty, storms, and danger, I could
realize it better; but it seems like a pleasure excursion on a lake. I
sit in a parlor, with one great, broad window from ceiling to floor, a
casement opening upon a balcony, which commands a handsome street. It
does not look like Boston, and, Mr. Hawthorne says, not like New York,
but--like Liverpool. People are going to church, and the bells are
chiming in a pleasant jangle. Every gentleman has an umbrella under
his arm; for it is bright sunshine one moment, and a merry little
shower the next.
I spoke in my note from Halifax of Mr. Crampton, and a gentleman whom
I thought his attached Mr. Crampton we lost at Halifax, but the
supposed attache remained; and I was glad, for he was the most
interesting person in the steamer. We in vain tried to discover his
name, but at last found it to be Field Talfourd, brother of Sir Thomas
Talfourd, author of "Ion." I had very charming conversations with him.
He was a perfect gentleman, with an ease of manner so fascinating and
rare, showing high breeding, and a voice rich and full. Whenever he
spoke, his words came out clear from the surrounding babble and all
the noise of the ship, so that I could always tell where he was. He is
one of the primitive men, in contradistinction to the derivative (as
Sarah Clarice once divided people). He seemed never at a loss on any
subject soever; and when the passengers were trying feats of skill and
physical prowess to pass the time, I saw Mr. Talfourd exhibit
marvelous power as a gymnast in performing a feat which no one else
would even attempt. His education was all-sided, body and mind,
apparently; and, with all, this charm of gentlemanliness,--not very
often met with in America. It seems to require more leisure and a
deeper culture than we Americans have yet, to produce such a lovely
flower. . . .
July 19. We all have colds now, except Mr. Hawthorne, with whom
earth's maladies have nothing to do. Julian and Una are homesick for
broad fields and hilltops. Julian, in this narrow, high room, is very
much like an eagle crowded into a canary-bird's cage! They shall go to
Prince's Park as soon as I can find' the way; and there they will see
water and green grass and trees. They think of the dear Wayside with
despair. As soon as possible we shall go into the country. Yesterday
the waning consul, Mr. Crittendon, called. Mr. Hawthorne likes him
much. Mr. Silsbee and Mr. Wight called. The latter talked a great deal
of transcendental philosophy to me, on the Niagara; and I was
sometimes tempted to fling him to the fishes, to baptize him in
realities.
July 21. An Oxford graduate, who went to see Mr. Hawthorne in Concord,
called to see him, and brought his father, a fine-looking gentleman.
Their name is Bright. Mary Herne thought the son was Eustace Bright
himself! To-day the father came to invite us all out to West Derby to
tea on Saturday, and the son is coming for us. There the children
will see swans and gardens and green grass, and they are in raptures.
Young Henry Bright is a very enthusiastic young gentleman, full of
life and emotion; and he very politely brought me from his gardens a
radiant bouquet of flowers, among which the heliotrope and moss-roses
and all other roses and mignonette make delicious fragrance. Yesterday
Miss Lynch sent me a bunch of moss-rose buds--nine! Just think of
seeing together nine moss-rose buds! Henry Bright brought the
"Westminster Review" to Mr. Hawthorne, and said he should bring him
all the new books. Mrs. Train called to see me before she went to town
[London], and Mr. Hawthorne and I went back with her to the Adelphi,
and walked on to see a very magnificent stone building, called St.
George's Hall. It is not quite finished; and as far as the mist would
allow me to see, it was sumptuous. . . . We have strawberries as large
as small peaches, one being quite a feast, and fine raspberries. The
head of the Waterloo House, Mr. Lynn, is a venerable-looking person,
resembling one's idea of an ancient duke,--dressing with elaborate
elegance, and with the finest ruffled bosoms. Out of peculiar respect
to the Consul of the United States, he comes in at the serving of the
soup, and holds each plate while I pour the soup, and then, with great
state, presents it to the waiter to place before each person. After
this ceremony he retires with a respectful obeisance. This homage
diverts Mr. Hawthorne so much that I am afraid he will smile some day.
The gravity of the servants is imperturbable. One, Mr. Hawthorne calls
our Methodist preacher. The service is absolutely perfect. Your
affectionate child,
SOPHIA.
The Brights, especially Henry Bright, appear frequently in the
"Note-Books," and their names occur very often in my mother's letters.
The young Oxford graduate I remember most distinctly. He was thin,
and so tall that he waved like a reed, and so shining-eyed that his
eyes seemed like icebergs; they were very prominent. His nose was one
of your English masterpieces,--a mountainous range of aristocratic
formation; and his far-sweeping eyebrows of delicate brown, his red,
red lips and white doglike teeth, and his deeply cleft British chin
were a source of fathomless study. In England a man can be
extraordinarily ordinary and material; but the men of culture are, as
a rule, remarkably forcible in unique and deep-cut characteristics,
both of face and of mind, with a prevailing freedom from
self-analysis--except privately, no doubt.
The strong features of Henry Bright, at any rate, made a total of
ravishing refinement. He and my father would sit on opposite sides of
the fire; Mr. Bright with a staring, frosty gaze directed unmeltingly
at the sunny glow of the coals as he talked, his slender long fingers
propping up his charming head (over which his delicately brown hair
fell in close-gliding waves) as he leaned on the arm of his
easy-chair. Sometimes he held a book of Tennyson's poetry to his
near-sighted, prominent eyes, as closely as two materials could remain
and not blend into one. He recited "The Brook" in a fine fury of
appreciation, and with a sure movement that suggested well the
down-tumbling of the frolicking element, with its under-current of
sympathizing pathos, the life-blood of the stream. "For men may come,
and men may go, but I go on for ever!" rang in my empty little head
for years, and summed up, as I guessed, all of Egyptian wisdom and
spiritual perpetuity in a single suggestive fact. Mr. Bright had a way
of laughing that I could never cease to enjoy, even in the faint echo
of retrospect. It always ended in a whispered snort from the great
mountain range of his nose. He laughed often, at his own and my
father's remarks, and at the close of the tumbling diction of "The
Brook;" and he therefore frequently snorted in this
sweeping-of-the-wind fashion. I listened, spellbound. He also very
gently and breezily expressed his touched sensibility, after some
recitation of his of rare lines from other poems, but in the same odd
manner. My father stirred this beloved friend with judicious,
thought-developing opposition of opinion concerning all sorts of
polite subjects, but principally, when I overheard, concerning the
respective worth of writers. The small volume of Tennyson which Mr.
Bright held in his two hands caressingly, with that Anglo-literary
filliping of the leaves which is so great a compliment to any book,
contained for him a large share of Great Britain's greatness. His
brave heart beat for Tennyson; I think my father's did not, though his
head applauded. My mother, for her part, was entranced by the
goldsmith's work of the noble poet, and by the gems enclasped in its
perfection of formative art,--perfections within the pale of
convention and fashion and romantic beauty which make lovely
Tennyson's baronial domain. Henry Bright wrote verses, too; and he was
beginning to be successful in a certain profound interest which
customarily absorbs young men of genuine feeling who are not yet
married; and therefore it was worth while to stir the young lover up,
and hear what he could say for "The Princess" and "The Lord of
Burleigh." My mother, in a letter written six months after we had
reached England, and when he was established as a household friend,
draws a graphic picture of his lively personality:--
ROCK PARK, December 8.
. . . We had a charming visit from Henry Bright a fortnight ago. He
stayed all night, and he talks--I was going to say, like a storm; but
it is more like a breeze, for he is very gentle. He is extremely
interesting, sincere, earnest, independent, warm and generous hearted;
not at all dogmatic; full of questions, and with ready answers. He is
highly cultivated, and writes for the "Westminster." . . . Eustace
Bright, as described in "The Wonder-Book," is so much like him in
certain things that it is really curious: "Slender, pale, yet of a
healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his
shoes." He is also near-sighted, though he does not wear spectacles.
His eyes are large, bright, and prominent, rather, indicating great
facility of language, which he has. He is an Oxford scholar, and has
decided literary tastes. He is delicately strung, and is as
transparent-minded and pure-hearted as a child, with great enthusiasm
and earnestness of character; and, though a Liberal, very loyal to his
Queen and very admiring of the aristocracy. This comes partly by
blood, as his mother has noble blood in her veins from various
directions, even the Percys and Stanleys, and is therefore a native
aristocrat. He enjoyed his visit to America extremely, and says
Boston is the Mecca of English Unitarians, and Dr. Channing is their
patron saint. I like to talk with him: he can really converse. He goes
to the Consulate a good deal, for he evidently loves Mr. Hawthorne
dearly. I wish my husband could always have visitors so agreeable. The
other day a woman went to him about a case in Chancery. Mr. Hawthorne
thought she was crazy; and I believe all people are who have a suit in
Chancery.
A few weeks after the date of the last letters, a visit was paid to
the Brights at their family home, and my mother thus writes of it:--
ROCK PARK, February 16, 1854.
I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandheys, the domain of Mr.
Bright. He has been urging all winter that we should go and dine and
stay all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. Bright wrote
a cordial note and invited Mr. Hawthorne and Una and me to go and
meet Mr. and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. It seemed
not possible to refuse without being uncivil, though I did not like to
leave Julian and baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended
to stay but one night, and the next morning would come home and see
Julian and Rose, and take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate
with him; and we left King, that excellent butler, in the house. It
was really safe enough; only, you know, mothers have, perhaps,
unfounded alarms. We took a carriage at Pier-head (Una and I) and
drove to the Consulate, where we took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Bright.
. . . We arrived at about six o'clock, and Una and I had to dress for
dinner after our arrival. It was a party of twelve. . . . Mrs. H.
[aunt of Henry Bright] is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in
season, and out of season at Norris Green. She was dressed in crimson
velvet, with pearls and diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair
and pretty.
She was resolved to tease Mr. Hawthorne into consenting to go to her
ball. Just imagine him in the clutches of a lady of fashion! But he
always behaves so superbly under the most trying circumstances, that I
was exceedingly proud of him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she
could not tell whether he would accept or not, and said she would
leave the matter to me, with confidence that I would prevail. . . .
Just after luncheon on Tuesday, Mrs. Bright's brother came to tell her
that the Great Britain had come, and she would not believe it, because
her husband had not telegraphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in
the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come back from Australia. . . .
Mr. Martineau has a kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But
the full dress of the gentlemen now requiring a white cravat and tie,
they all looked ministerial to me, except the United States Consul,
who will hold on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. He
does not choose to do as the Romans do while in Rome. At least, he is
not yet broken in. I suppose it is useless for me to say that he was
by far the handsomest person present, and might have been taken for
the king of them all. The chandelier that poured floods of light down
on the heads beneath was very becoming to him; for the more light
there is, the better he looks always. The dinner was exceedingly
elegant, and the service as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and
crystal could make it. And one of the attendants, the coachman,
diverted me very much by the air with which he carried off his black
satin breeches, white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with
gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with silver. Not the
autocrat of all the Russias feels grander than these livery servants.
The butler, who is really above the livery servants in position,
looked meek in his black suit and white vest and cravat, though he had
a right to look down on the varlet in small-clothes. This last,
however, was much the most imposing, in figure, and fair round red
cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear me, what is man! At the
sound of a bell, when the dessert was put upon the table, the children
came in. They never dine with mamma and papa, . . . and all troop in
at dessert, looking so pretty, in full dress, . . . thin white muslin
or tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long streaming sashes.
I found the next day that it was just the same when there was no great
party at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white vest and muslin
cravat,--like a picture of the old regime. In the evening we had
music, weaving itself into the conversation.
Mrs. Bright is . . . a person of delicate and fine taste; . . . she has
eight children, but in her face one does not find wearing care. . . . It
is a face of great sensibility. . . . Her smile breaks out like real
sunshine, revealing a happy and satisfied spirit, a fresh and unworn
nature. Her children seem to regard her as a precious treasure. Her
husband, with a white head and perfectly Eastern face, is exceedingly
pleasant; and when he comes home to dinner he goes to his wife and
takes her hand, as if he had been gone many months, and asks her
particularly how it is with her, in a tender and at the same time
playful way, which causes a great deal of sunshine. Then he runs
upstairs to dress, and comes back in an incredibly short time, as nice
as a new pin, and overflowing with the kindest hospitality. It is such
a pretty scene: the elegant drawing-room, the recess a bow window of
great size, filled with such large and clear plate glass that it seems
wide open, looking out upon the verdant lawn and rich green--
evergreen--shrubbery; two superb cranes, with stately crests,
walking about with proud steps, or with outspread wings half flying,
and uttering a short, sharp cry; oval and circular plots of ground
surrounded now with snowdrops, about twice as large as those we have
in America. Everything is lovely outside. Inside, innumerable gems of
art and mechanism cover the tables. . . . In the evening . . . the
group of airily dressed children; the tender mother in her rich
brocade and lace mantle; the happy father; the agreeable governess
(Miss Cumberland is a remarkably accomplished person, and has been
with the family fifteen years); the music, talk, and aesthetic
tea,--it is a charming picture. . . . The grave butler brings in a
tray with cups and saucers and an urn, and leaves the room. H. makes
tea, pours it out, and takes it to each person, with a little morsel
of spread bread. S. and A. look about for empty cups, and return them
to the tray. There is no fuss; it is all enfamille; and the tray is
borne off again by the butler, stepping with noiseless feet. There is
no noise at any time anywhere in the house, except the angry squall of
the cockatoo, who gets into a violent rage once in a while with some
invisible foe, and tears his cage, and erects the long feathers on his
head like so many swords drawn out of their scabbards. . . . The
Brights treated me in the sweetest way, as if they had always known
me, and I felt quite at home. H. is to go to her aunt's fancy ball as
a mermaid; and on Tuesday I helped sprinkle her sea-green veil with
pearls.
This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is the lady of ladies; her
children are all clever (in an English sense), and one son a prodigy.
. . . They are all good as well as clever; well educated,
accomplished, and most entirely united. It is all peace and love and
happiness there, and I cannot discover where the shadow is. Health,
wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces and virtues--I
cannot see the trail of the serpent anywhere in that Paradise.
. . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little talks. She told me
elaborately how she admired and loved Mr. Hawthorne's books; how she
had found expressed in them what she had found nowhere else; with what
rapture one of her sisters read, re-read, and read again "The
Wonder-Book;" . . . how Mrs. H. thought him peerless; and so on. There
is not the least extravagance about Mrs. Bright, but remarkable
sobriety; and so what she said had double force. We talked . . .
while we sprinkled pearls over the mermaid's sea-green veil. On
Wednesday the sun shone! If you lived here [in or near Liverpool] you
would hardly credit such a phenomenon.