ENGLISH DAYS: I
In order to give a full idea of Henry Bright and his home, I have
anticipated dates somewhat, but at this point will go back a little to
the summer of our arrival in England, since the atmosphere which
surrounded Hawthorne and the aspect of typical personalities which he
enjoyed are thus easily caught.
August 5, 1853.
. . . We have been so hospitably received that very little clear
leisure has been left for my own private use. . . . The children have
suffered very much from confinement within doors and bad air without,
and almost "everduring" rain. We find it will not do to remain in the
city any longer, and to-morrow we go across the Mersey to Rock-ferry,
a fine watering-place, twenty minutes off by steam, where the air is
pure and healthy.
We had a call from a certain Mrs. R. S. Ely and her mamma. She said
she herself was an American. On the afternoon of the same day we
received a formal invitation from this lady for a dinner-party. But
Mr. Hawthorne was engaged for that day to dine with Mr. Crittendon. As
she was a very fine lady, and resides in a very aristocratic street, I
was glad to be obliged to refuse, because my brocade was not yet
appointed, and I could wear nothing less in state. At the Waterloo we
received a call from Mrs. William Rathbone and her daughter, Mrs.
Thorn. It was a sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathbone, who wrote that
exquisite book, "The Diary of Lady Willoughby." She resides in London.
Mr. William Rathbone is a millionaire. His wife is a cordial and
excellent lady, who seemed to take us right into her heart, just as
the Brights did. . . . We have been to make our promised call at
Sandheys. Before we drove there, Mr. Bright took us to Norris Green,
the estate of his uncle. How can I convey to you an adequate idea of
it? I do not know what we are to do with the regal paradises of
England if I cannot cope with this. . . . Here in all directions
spread out actual velvet lawns, upon which when I trod I seemed to
sink into a downy enchantment; and these lawns were of such a tint, of
the most delicate pea-green, with a lustre upon it! . . .
Evening. I have been interrupted all day, receiving and making calls.
Mr. Hawthorne has made his maiden speech, and followed it by another
to-day, when he received the Chamber of Commerce in Mrs. Blodget's
great drawing-room.
Mrs. William Rathbone sent her carriage to take us to Green Bank. The
floors of the halls are almost invariably pavements of stone,
sometimes in colored mosaic. . . . By and by came Mr. Rathbone,--a
very animated, upright, facetious old gentleman, who seems to enjoy
life and his millions quite serenely. He is a person of great energy,
and full of benevolence, and the fountain of many of the great
charities of Liverpool. Then came his son, and then a pretty lady,
Miss Stuart; remarkably pretty she was. We were summoned to tea by
what I at first thought was a distant band of music; but I believe it
was an East Indian gong, merely stirred into a delicate melody. Tea
was at one end of the table, and coffee at the other; and old Mr.
Rathbone presided at the coffee, and Mrs. Thorn at the tea. The house
was hung with pictures from ceiling to floor, every room I entered. In
walking all round the grounds before tea, we came upon a fine view of
the Welsh mountains over the sunny slopes; for it proved the loveliest
afternoon, though in the morning it rained straight down. Mrs. Thorn
spoke to me with great fervor of "The Scarlet Letter." She said that
no book ever produced so powerful an effect upon her. She was obliged
to put it away when half through, to quiet the tumultuous excitement
it caused in her. She said she felt as if each word in it was the only
word that ought to be used, and the wholeness, the unity, the
perfection of art amazed her. . . .
The Chamber of Commerce wished to pay their respects to Mr. Hawthorne;
but Mr. Hawthorne could not receive a cloud of gentlemen at our parlor
there, unless they had all "stood upon their dignity," as the witty
Miss Lynch suggested that Mr. Hawthorne should. The President of the
Chamber was a Mr. Barber, and, behold, when we came out to Rockferry
he called again, and invited us to dine at Poulton Hall, his
country-seat at Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he
resides with his two maiden sisters. He came for us in his beautiful
carriage,--a chariot it was, with a coachman as straight as a
lightning-rod,--and off we bowled to Poulton Hall. [My mother's
inexperience concerning splendid effects in luxurious life led her to
look upon them in a naive, though perfectly composed manner. One is
reminded of the New Adam and Eve, and one is glad that the patient
objects of time-honored beauty had found surprise at last.] It is four
hundred years old; and there we came upon unspoiled nature, as well as
elaborate art. It is an enchanting spot, with a lawn shaded by ancient
oaks and other forest trees; but green fields beyond and around that
had never been trimmed and repressed into thick velvet. The Hall had
belonged to the Greens, and the history of it is full of ghost stories
and awful tragedies. We entered a hall, and by the ancient oaken
staircase reposed upon the carpet a fox, in a fine attitude, with
erect head and brilliant eyes,--really a splendid specimen of a
creature. I was surprised at the quiet manner in which he reposed,
undisturbed by our entrance; but I was much more astonished to find it
was a dead fox stuffed. I could scarcely believe it after I was told.
Mr. Barber is a lover of sport, and is going with his family to-morrow
to Scotland to hunt grouse. He says that at this season the hills of
Scotland are gorgeous with heath flowers, like a carpet of rich dyes.
We were ushered into the drawing-room, which looked more like a
brilliant apartment in Versailles than what I had expected to see. The
panels were richly gilt, with mirrors in the centre, and hangings of
gilded paper; and the broad windows were hung with golden-colored
damask; the furniture was all of the same hue; with a carpet of superb
flowers; and vases of living flowers standing everywhere; and a
chandelier of diamonds (as to indefatigable and vivid shining), and
candlesticks of the same,--not the long prisms, like those on Mary's
astral, but a network of crystals diamond-cut. The two ladies were in
embroidered white muslin dresses over rose-colored silk, and black
velvet jackets, basque-shaped, with a dozen bracelets on their arms,
which were bare, with flowing sleeves. They received us with that
whole-hearted cordiality we meet everywhere. They told us some
terrible stories about the haunted house, and about a lady who was
imprisoned and tortured in one of the attic chambers on account of her
faith, and how she resisted to the end, and was starved to death. The
room bore the name of the "Martyr's Chamber." ["Dr. Grimshawe's
Secret" refers to this mansion.] We went up there, and saw the window
in the roof,--so high that the wretched lady could not look out; and
the door of solid oak, which was ruthlessly barred. We saw the spot
where one of the gentlemen of the former family cut his throat, and
was found dead; and Miss Marianne said children had been murdered in
the house, and uneasy spirits revisited the "glimpses of the moon." We
went all over the house, in which are twenty-five sleeping apartments.
One room contains a library in black letter, but that we could only
peep at through a great keyhole, because it was barred and padlocked.
I think Mr. Hawthorne would like to examine that. The ladies said
that, if we wished to go to church, we could tell the beadle of the
old Bebbington church to guide us to their pew. We passed this
venerable church on our way. Its tower is very fine, and has ivy and
golden flowers far up near its summit, and is built of reddish stone.
Both ladies spoke of "The Scarlet Letter" with admiration and wonder.
They said it had the loftiest moral of any book they had ever read.
. . . On Friday, Mr. Hawthorne dined with his worship the Mayor, the
Judges, the Grand Jury, the leading members of the bar, and some other
gentlemen, at the Town Hall. Mr. Hawthorne said the room was the most
stately and handsomest he ever saw. The city plate was superb, and
the city livery of the footmen was very splendid, and the footmen
themselves very handsome. His worship wore his robes of state, as did
the worshipful Judges, with their wigs. Speeches were made, and Mr.
Hawthorne made his third speech! Oh, how I wish I could have heard it!
. . . This morning the ferry steamers brought over two or three thousand
children--boys and girls of the Industrial School--to have a good
time. I hope they are kindly treated; but it makes me shudder, and
actually weep, to look upon the assemblage of young creatures, not one
of them able to call upon a mother; each with a distinct character,
each with a human heart. Poor little motherless children!
On Sunday afternoon we took a delightful walk. I think we made a
circuit of five miles, if not more. We went over Dacre Hill, from
which a sweet, tranquil landscape is seen; and onwards, down a lovely
lane. These lanes are all bordered with hedges of hawthorn, ivy, and
holly; and one of them abounded in lovely harebells, with stems so
delicate that I found it very difficult to see and seize them, so as
to pluck them. These hedges had not walls before them, and were not
too high, so that we could look over into the fields. A well-worn path
led from the harebell lane along the edge of a field; and very
convenient stone steps led over the walls. When we got to the street,
it seemed a very ancient place. This region was once the kingdom of
Mercia. The road seemed hewn out of stone. I cannot tell you how much
the cottages seemed like the first dwellings that ever were made. . . .
When I called on Mrs. Squarey, we found her a pleasant lady, and
Una thought she looked like Miss Maria Mitchell, and therefore Una
liked her. Our call was extremely agreeable. Mr. Hawthorne insists
upon calling her Mrs. Roundey. When Mr. Hawthorne came home this
afternoon, he said he met on the other side the children of the
Industrial School just landed. He saw them face to face, and he said
their faces were uncomely to the last degree. He said he never
imagined such faces,--so irredeemably stupid and homely. I do not
think I have realized the sin of the Old World in any way so much as
in a few faces I saw in Liverpool. It made me shiver and contract to
look at them,--so haggard, so without hope or faith, or any sign of
humanity. . . . Mr. Hawthorne had a letter from Kossuth to-day.
August 26.
MY DEAR FATHER,--I am just as stupid as an owl at noonday, but it is a
shame that a steamer should go without a letter from me to you, and it
shall not. Mr. Hawthorne wishes to escape from too constant
invitations to dinner in Liverpool, and by living in Rockferry will
always have a good excuse for refusing when there is really no reason
or rhyme in accepting, for the last steamer leaves Liverpool at ten in
the evening; and I shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all
company which I do not very much covet. I have no particular fancy for
Liverpool society, except the Rathbones' and Brights'.
Mr. Hawthorne was obliged the other day to bury an American captain
who died at his boarding-house. He paid for the funeral out of his
private purse, though I believe he expects some brother captains will
subscribe a part of the amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral,
and in one of those plumed carriages he followed the friendless
captain. The children are delighted with the aspect of things, and
with the house, which they think very stately and elegant. I have been
racing round the lawn and shrubberies with them. The flowers rejoice.
The scarlet geraniums, the crimson and rose-colored fuchsias, the deep
garnet carnations, the roses, and the enormous variously colored
pansies (pensees) look radiantly in the sun. There are many other
kinds of flowers besides; and the beautiful light green, smooth-shaven
lawn is a rest to the eyes.
There is a vast amount of latent force and energy here, but it takes a
cannon to put it in action. Of course there are exceptions enough.
Our friend Henry Bright is a slender, diaphanous young gentleman, of a
nervous temperament, with no beer or roast beef apparent in his mind
or person; and there are doubtless many like him. The English are
unfortunate in noses. Their noses are unspiritual, thick at the end;
and there is an expression about the mouth of enormous self-complacency.
The specimens of this amount to superb sometimes, when the curves of
the mouth are Apollo-like. Unfortunately there is too often a deep
stain of wine in the cheeks, or a general suffusion; and unless the
face is quite pale, one can find no other hue,--no healthy bloom either
in man or woman.
A young American was found in a deranged state, and taken before a
magistrate. There was one of two things to do,--either to put him in
the workhouse, or pay his board at the insane hospital. Mr. Hawthorne,
of course, chose the latter. It was just like him to choose it. The
young man's mother had lately married a second time, and was in
Naples. When Mrs. Blodget came to see me, a day or two since, she
exclaimed that she knew his mother, and that she was a lady of
fortune. . . .
September 30. Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Ticknor had a fine excursion to
Old Chester, and were so occupied with it that no time was left for
Eaton Hall. Julian has been parading round the garden this morning,
blowing a trumpet which papa brought him from Chester, and dragging
after him a portentous wooden cannon, which would not help to gain the
smallest battle. It is actually a sunny day! . . . A very great joy it
is to Rosebud to see the lovely little English robins come to pick up
crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They have great faith in man, and
come close to the window without fear. They have told the linnets and
thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets actually come, though
with dread and trembling; and they carry off the largest crumbs for
their families and neighbors. The English robin is very dear. . . .
Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and says he is a noble old man
and eloquent, and wins hearts in personal intercourse. His three
daughters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very attractive and
cultivated, and they are all most impatient to see Mr. Hawthorne. . . .
We are all going to Chester first on a Sunday, to attend the Cathedral
service with the children. How very singular that this dream of mine,
like so many other dreams, is coming true! For I always wished
earnestly that the children might go to church first in a grand old
cathedral, so that their impression of social worship might be
commensurate with its real sublimity. And, behold, it will be so,--for
they never yet have been to church. The echoes of those lofty vaults
are scarcely ever silent, for an anthem is sung there every day.
Afterwards we shall go on a week-day to examine the old town, said to
be older than Rome itself!
October 5. On Saturday, the ist, Mr. Hawthorne went to dine at Mr.
Aikens's with the two sons of Burns, Colonel and Major Burns. He says
they were gentlemanly persons, and agreeable, but not resembling their
father. After dinner, one of them sang one of Burns's songs, and again
another in the drawing-room. . . . Mr. Fields says, "'Tanglewood' is
going finely. Three thousand were sold at once on its appearance, and
it is still moving rapidly. The notices have been glorious everywhere;
and they ought to be, for the book is one of the most delightful which
your pen has let slip."
October 21. We are going to dine out this evening, at Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Holland's, Liscard Vale. These persons Mr. Hawthorne met a
little while ago at the house of Mr. Aikens, where he saw the sons of
Burns. For the benefit of cousin Mary Loring [the very beautiful and
spirited Mrs. George B. Loring, nee Pickman], I will say now that my
wreath is just from Paris, and consists of very exquisite flowers that
grow in wreaths. Part of it is the blackberry-vine (strange to say),
of such cunning workmanship that Julian says he knows the berries are
good to eat. The blossoms, and the black and red and green fruit and
leaves, are all equally perfect. Then there are little golden balls,
to imitate a plant that grows in Ireland,--fretted gold. Small flowers
are woven closely in, over the top of the head, and behind the ears
the long, streaming vines hang in a cluster.
October 23. At sunset the clouds cleared off and the sun shone, so
that our drive of six miles to Liscard Vale was much more pleasant
than we expected. It was rather dreary; uncultivated moors and
sea-nipped foliage. Finally we began to hasten, at a greatly
accelerated pace, down, down, and then entered a gate. It was too dark
to see distinctly; but, as far as I could discover, the land seemed
formed of low hills and vales, with trees in thin groves; and the
mouth of the Mersey, and Liverpool glittering with a thousand lights,
were visible through the vistas. Mrs. Holland is ladylike, and
therefore simple in her manners. Mr. Holland has the figure and air of
an American gentleman, rather thin and pale. The drawing-room was
beautiful. It was of very great size, and at one end was a window in
semicircular form, larger than any but a church window. Depending from
the lofty ceiling were several chains, in different parts of the room,
holding vases filled with richly colored flowers with long vines
streaming. Mr. Hawthorne as chief guest--there were twelve--took Mrs.
Holland, and sat at her right hand. The table was very handsome; two
enormous silver dish-covers, with the gleam of Damascus blades,
putting out all the rest of the light. After the soup, these covers
were removed, revealing a boiled turbot under one, and fried fish
under the other. The fish was replaced by two other enormous dishes
with shining covers; and then the whole table was immediately covered
with silver dishes; and in the centre was a tall silver stand holding
a silver bowl of celery. It would be useless to try to tell you all
the various dishes. A boiled turkey was before Mrs. Holland, and a
roasted goose before Mr. Holland; and in the intermediate spaces,
cutlets, fricassees, ragouts, tongue, chicken-pies, and many things
whose names I did not know, and on a side-table a boiled round of beef
as large as the dome of St. Peter's. The pastry of the chicken-pie
was of very elaborate sculpture. It was laid in a silver plate, an oak
vine being precisely cut all round, and flowers and fruits moulded on
the top. It really was a shame to spoil it. All these were then swept
off in a very noiseless manner. Grouse and pheasants are always served
with the sweets in England, and they appeared at either end of the
table. There were napkins under the finger-bowls, upon each of which a
castle or palace was traced in indelible ink, and its name written
beneath. The wines were port, sherry, madeira, claret, hock, and
champagne. I refused the five first, but the champagne was poured into
my glass without any question. So now you have the material elements
of the dinner-party. Perhaps I cannot give the spiritual so well. Mr.
Littledale was a gentleman with a face in full bloom, a very white
cravat coming out even with his chin; and within it he bridled with
the unmistakable English sense of superiority to the rest of mankind.
He is a specimen of the independent, rich country gentleman of
England. His conservatories were the best in the world, . . . and so
on through all things appertaining to him. One could see directly that
any attempt to convince him to the contrary would be utterly futile.
His ears were not made to admit any such remarks. . . . He declared that
the weather of the last twelve months was unprecedented. I meekly
suggested Bulwer's testimony, but he scoffed at it. . . . He discussed
with Mrs. Holland the probable merits of a pudding before her, and
concluded he would not try it. There was something peremptory,
petulant, and whimsical about him. . . . He was precisely a character
such as I have read about in English novels, and entertained me very
much. He was evidently of the war party of Britain, and thought
Kossuth's last letter to the people of Straffan "exceedingly clever."
In speaking of contested elections, he referred to one which cost
100,000 pounds; and some one asked Mr. Hawthorne if an election ever
cost so much as that in America. Upon this question, a young
gentleman, a fair-haired Egbert, with an aristocratic face and head,
observed that he supposed 100,000 pounds would purchase all America!
Was not that impertinent? Mr. Hawthorne gravely replied that from the
number of elections it was impossible that any such purchasing could
be made. Opposite me sat a Mrs. Mann;--an old lady with an
extraordinary cap, trimmed with pink ribbon, and a magnificent
necklace of rubies round her neck, and bracelets of the same. She had
a very intelligent face. There was a Mrs. Miller, who floated in fine,
white, embroidered muslin, with a long scarlet sash, and a scarlet net
upon the back of her head, confining her dark hair in a heavy clump,
very low. She was a very romantic, graceful-looking person, slender
and pale and elegant; and I had a good deal of conversation with her.
She is one of Mr. Hawthorne's profound admirers. . . . She smiled
very brightly; but a look of unspeakable sadness alternated with her
smile that expressed great suffering of some kind. She spoke of
having been ill once, when her friends called her the White Lady of
Avenel; and that is just her picture now. Her dress made her fairness
so apparent,--the gossamer tissue, the bright scarlet, and raven hair
and dark eyes and lashes. The tones of her voice were very airy and
distant, so that I could scarcely catch her words; and this I have
observed in several English ladies. "Where could Zenobia have found
her ever-fresh, rich flower?" asked Mrs. Holland. It is singular to
observe how familiar and like a household word Mr. Hawthorne is to all
cultivated English people. People who have not heard of Thackeray
here, know Mr. Hawthorne. Is not that funny? We ladies had a very good
time together in the drawing-room. Coffee was served in exquisite
little china cups all flowers and gold. . . . Mr. Holland asked me
whether Mr. Hawthorne was mobbed in "the States," and said that if he
should go to London it would be hard work for him, for he would
inevitably be mobbed. He then remarked that he did not like
"Blithedale" so well as the other books. He spoke of Bulwer, and said
that when he saw him he concluded it was better never to see an
author, for he generally disappointed us; that Bulwer was an entirely
made-up man in appearance, effeminate and finical,--flowing curls and
curling mustachios, and elaborate and formal manners. I told him I
should expect just such a looking person in Bulwer, from reading all
his first novels, so very inferior to "The Caxtons" and "My Novel."
November 6.
MY DEAREST FATHER,--Last Sunday was a day that seemed to be dropped
from heaven. I immediately thought that this was the Sunday for
Chester. . . . So we sent to Mr. Squarey, who returned word that he
would meet us at the depot at nine. We did not pick him out from all
others for a companion to the Cathedral, but his wife first requested
us to go with them, and so we were, in a certain way, bound not to go
without, them. It was very affecting to me when I came suddenly upon
the Cathedral. . . . Every "Amen" was slow, solemn, full music, which
had a wonderful effect. It was like the melodious assent of all
nature and mankind to the preceding prayer,--"So be it!" . . . Una and
Julian, especially Julian, suffered much ennui during the sermon; and
Una wrote the other day in one of her letters that "it was very
tegeuse" (her first attempt at spelling "tedious") "for there was
hardly anything in it." Julian inadvertently gaped aloud, which so
startled Mr. Hawthorne that he exclaimed, "Good God!" thus making the
matter much worse; but as even I, who sat next him, did not hear him,
I presume that the same great spaces which took up the canon's voice
disposed of Mr. Hawthorne's exclamation. I am sorry the children were
obliged to stay through the sermon, as it rather spoiled the effect of
the preceding service. It would have been far better to have had
another of David's Psalms chanted. While listening to those of the
morning lesson, I thought how marvelous it was that these Psalms, sung
by the Jewish king and poet to his harp three thousand years ago,
should now be a portion of the religious service of nearly all
Christendom; so many organs grandly accompanying thousands of voices
in praising God in his very words, as the worthiest which man has yet
uttered. And they are indeed worthy; and in this stately old Cathedral
with its manifold associations they sounded grander, more touching,
more eloquent than ever, borne up from the points of the flaming
pinnacles, on solemn organ-tones, to God. This united worship affected
me very deeply, it is so long since I have been to church,--hardly
once since Una was born! You know I always loved to go to church,
always supplying by my imagination what I did not find. . . . I think
that the English Church is the merest petrifaction now. It has not the
fervor and unction of the Roman Catholic even (that is dead enough,
and will be dead soon). The English Church is fat, lazy, cold, timid,
and selfish. How natural that some strong souls, with warm hearts and
the fire of genius in them, should go back to Romanism from its icy
presence!
November 8. Yesterday afternoon was beautiful, and we (Una, Julian,
and I) were quite rejoiced to find Mr. Hawthorne in the ferry-boat
when we returned from Liverpool. It was beautiful,--up in the sky, I
mean; for there never was anything so nasty as Liverpool. Thousands of
footsteps had stirred up the wetness and earth into such a mud-slush
as one can have no idea of in America. It was necessary to look aloft
into the clean heavens to believe any longer that mud was not eternal,
infinite, omnipresent. . . . I left you introduced into the Cathedral
cloisters in Chester, but I suppose you do not wish to stay there any
longer. We went upon the walls afterwards, as we had three hours upon
our hands. I had a great desire to plant my foot in Wales, and so we
crossed the river Dee. I stopped to look at the river Dee. It is a
mere brook in comparison to our great rivers, though the Concord is no
wider in some places. It was flowing peacefully along; and I
remembered that Edgar the Peaceable was rowed in triumph by eight
kings from his palace on the south bank to the monastery in 973. It
was too late to walk far into the immense grounds of Eaton Hall, the
seat of the Marquis of Westminster. He is a Norman noble. I told Mr.
Squarey that my father was of Welsh descent, and he asked me why I did
not fall down and kiss my fatherland.
November.
Mr. Hawthorne's speeches are never "reported," dear father, or I would
send them to you. They remain only in the ear of him who hears them,
happy man that he is.
Oh, these fogs! If you have read "Bleak House," you have read a
description of a London fog; but still you could scarcely have a true
image of it. Out of doors one feels hooded with fog, and cannot see
his own hand. It is just as if one should jump into a great bag of
cotton-wool,--not lamb's wool, for that is a little pervious. Our
fogs here are impervious. Mr. Ogden (the large-hearted western
gentleman whom Elizabeth knows) called at the Consulate upon Mr.
Hawthorne, and Mr. Hawthorne invited him to make us a visit. He is
overflowing with life, and seems to have the broad prairies in him. He
entertained me very much with an account of the Lord Mayor's dinner in
London, and other wonders he had seen. At the dinner he had a
peculiarly pleasant, clever, and amiable group immediately around him
of baronets. He told us about going with Miss Bacon to the old city of
Verulam to see Lord Bacon's estate and his tomb. They went into the
vault of the church where the family is buried, but they could not
prevail upon the beadle to open the brick sepulchre where Lord Bacon
himself is supposed to be interred. The ruins of the castle in which
Lord Bacon lived show that it was very rich and sumptuous; and the
very grove in which he used to walk and meditate and study stands
unmolested,--a grand old grove of stately trees planted by man, for
they are in regular rows. When Mr. Hawthorne came home the next
evening, he brought me a superb bouquet of flowers, which he said was
a parting gift to me from Mr. Ogden, who actually followed him to the
boat with them. They are a bright and fragrant memory of that
agreeable and excellent gentleman.
From the "Westminster Review" which lies on the table I will extract
for you one passage: "Few have observed mankind closely enough to be
able to trace through all its windings the tortuous course of a man
who, having made one false step, finds himself thereby compelled to
leave the path of truth and uprightness, and seldom regains it. We
can, however, refer to at least one living author who has done so; and
in 'The Scarlet Letter' by Hawthorne, the greatest of American
novelists, Mr. [Wilkie] Collins might see the mode in which the moral
lesson from examples of error and crime ought to be drawn. There is a
tale of sin, and its inevitable consequences, from which the most pure
need not turn away." In another paper in the same number the reviewer
speaks of some one who "writes with the pure poetry of Nathaniel
Hawthorne." As I have entered upon the subject of glorification, I
will continue a little. From London an American traveler writes to
Mr. Hawthorne: "A great day I spent with Sir William Hamilton, and two
blessed evenings with De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey's
house yours is the only portrait. They spoke of you with the greatest
enthusiasm, and I was loved for even having seen you. Sir William
Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says your 'House of the
Seven Gables' is more powerful in description than 'The Scarlet
Letter.'" Did I tell you once of an English lady who went to the
Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and introduced herself as a literary
sister, and who had never been in Liverpool before, and desired Mr.
Hawthorne to show her the lions, and he actually escorted her about?
An American lady, who knows this Englishwoman, sent the other day a
bit of a note, torn off, to Mr. Hawthorne, and on this scrap the
English lady says, "I admire Mr. Hawthorne, as a man and as an
author, more than any other human being."
I have diligently taken cold these four months, and now have a hard
cough. It is very noisy and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind fog,
chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly well, and is the only
Phoebus that shines in England.
I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin's urgent invitation to Mr.
Hawthorne to go to his seat of Clandeboye, in Ireland, four or five
hours from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then came another
note. The first was quite formal, but this begins:--
"MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--. . . Mrs. Norton [his aunt, the Honorable
Mrs. Norton] hopes . . . that you will allow her to have the pleasure
of receiving you at her house in Chesterfield Street; and I trust you
will always remember that I shall esteem it an honor to be allowed to
receive you here whenever you may be disposed to pay this country a
visit. Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne,
"Yours very truly,
"DUFFERIN."
"CLANDEBOYE, HOLYWOOD."
Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage,--"flummery" Mr.
Hawthorne calls it?
To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. We are going to observe it in memory of
the fatherland. Mr. Bright will dine with us by his own invitation,
not knowing it was a festival day with us. He has long been projecting
a visit, and finally proposed coming this week. He will remain all
night, as Sandheys is on the other side of Liverpool, and his mamma
does not wish him to cross the river [usually foggy] in the dark.
The English people, the ladies and gentlemen with whom we have become
acquainted, are very lovely and affectionate and friendly. They seem
lifelong acquaintances. I suppose there is no society in the world
that can quite compare to this. It is all stereotyped, crystallized,
with the repose and quiet in it of an immovable condition of caste.
There is such a simplicity, such an ease, such an entire cordiality,
such sweetness, that it is really beautiful to see. It is only when
looking at the matter outside--or rather out of it--that one can see
any disadvantage or unloveliness. It is a deep and great
question,--this about rank. Birth and wealth often are causes of the
superior cultivation and refinement that are found with them. In this
old civilization there seems to be no jealousy, no effort to alter
position. . . . Provided that the lowest orders could be redeemed from
the brutal misery in which they are plunged, there could be a little
more enjoyment in contemplating and mingling with the higher. But it
seems as if everything must be turned upside down rather than for one
moment more to tolerate such suffering, such bestiality. There have
been one or two individual cases that went before the courts that
really make it almost wicked ever to smile again. . . . As Mr. Hawthorne
delays to go to London, London is beginning to come to him, for Mr.
Holland says he must inevitably be mobbed in England. Two Londoners
called lately,--one a Mr. William Jerdan, about seventy years old, a
literary man, who for fifty years has been familiar with the best
society in London, and knows everybody for whom one cares to ask. He
is a perfect mine of rich memories. He pleased me mightily, and made
me think of Dr. Johnson. Rose sat on his knee, and gazed with
unwinking, earnest eyes into his face. He said he never saw anything
like it except the gaze of Talleyrand (whom he knew very well). He
said that Talleyrand undertook to look at a man and not allow a man to
look into him,--he always fixed such a glance as that upon one.
Imperturbably, baby continued to gaze, without any smile; and he kept
dodging from her and making funny contortions, but she was not in the
least moved. "Why," he exclaimed, "you would be an admirable judge,
and I should not like to be the fellow who would take sentence from
your Lordship when you get on your black cap!" At last she smiled
confidingly at him. "There," he said, "now I have it! She loves me,
she loves me!" At eight they left us for London, intending not to
shoot through that night, but sleep at Birmingham, halfway. "Oh," said
Mr. Jerdan, "I make nothing of going out to dine an hundred miles and
returning!" The gentleman with him was Mr. Bennoch, a patron of poets
and artists, and as pleasant, merry, and genial as possible. He told
Julian that, if he would go to London with him, he should have a pony
as low as the table and a dog as high as the pony; but Julian would
not, even in prospect of possessing what his heart desireth most.
December 8.
Yesterday who should come to see me but Mr. James Martineau and his
wife! I have the greatest admiration for him as a divine, and I do not
know what I expected to see in the outward man. But I was well
pleased with his aspect as I found it. He is not tall, and he is pale,
though not thin, with the most perfectly simple manners and beautiful
expression. It seemed as if he had always been my brother; as if I
could find in him counselor, friend, saint, and sage; and I have no
doubt it is so, so potent is the aroma of character, without a word or
sign. How worse than folly it is to imagine that character can either
be cried up or cried down! No veil can conceal, no blazonry exalt,
either the good or the evil. A man has only to come in and sit down,
and there he is, for better, for worse. I, at least, am always, as it
were, hit by a person's sphere; and either the music of the spheres or
the contrary supervenes, and sometimes also nothing at all, if there
is not much strength of character. Mr. Martineau did not say much;
but his voice was very pleasant and sympathetic, and he won regard
merely by his manner of being. Mrs. Martineau sat with her back to the
only dim light there was, and I could receive no impression from her
face; but she seemed pleasant and friendly. Mrs. Martineau said she
wished very much that we would go to her party on the 19th, which was
their silver wedding day. She said we should meet Mrs. Gaskell, the
author of "Mary Barton," "Ruth," and "Cranford," and several other
friends. It is the greatest pity that we cannot go; but it would be
madness to think of going out at night in these solid fogs with my
cough. They live beyond Liverpool, in Prince's Park. Mrs. Martineau
showed herself perfectly well-bred by not being importunate. It was a
delightful call; and I feel as if I had friends indeed and in need
just from that one interview. Mr. Martineau said Una would be homesick
until she had some friends of her own age, and that he had a daughter
a little older, who might do for one of them. They wished to see Mr.
Hawthorne, and came pretty near it, for they could not have got out of
the lodge gate before he came home! Was not that a shame?
I must tell you that there is a splendid show which Mr. Jerdan wants
us to see at Lord Warremore de Tabley's; it is a vast salt mine of
twenty acres, cut into a symmetrical columned gallery! He says it
shall be lighted up, so that we shall walk in a diamond corridor. Mr.
Jerdan said that salt used to be the medium of traffic in those
districts; and I think Lord de Tabley [1] is a beauty for having his
mines cut in the form of art, instead of hewed and hacked as a Vandal
would have done. Mr. Jerdan said that on account of some circumstance
he was called Lord de Tableau for a pseudonym, and in the sense I have
heard people exclaim to a good child, "Oh, you picture!"
[1] Mr. Hawthorne's severe taste is annoyed by that expression, but I
must let it go for the sake of what follows.
In the "North British Review" this week is a review of Mr. Hawthorne's
three last romances. It gives very high praise.
December 18.
I went to Liverpool yesterday for a Christmas present for you, and got
a silver pen in a pearl handle, which you will use for Una's sake.
While I was gone, Mr. Martineau and Mrs. Gaskell called! I was very
sorry to lose the visit. They left a note from the Misses Yates
inviting us to dine to-day and stay all night, and go to Mrs.
Martineau's evening party to-morrow! It would be a charming
visitation, if it were possible. Mr. Bright cannot find language to
express the Misses Yates' delightsomeness, and was wishing that we
knew them.
By this steamer Mr. Ticknor has sent us a Christmas present of a
barrel of apples. I wish you could see Rosebud with her bright cheeks
and laughing eyes. A lady thought her four years old, the other day!
Julian has to-day gone with his father to the Consulate. Una is in the
drawing-room reading Miss Edgeworth. Rose is on the back of my chair.
On Christmas night the bells chimed in the dawn, beginning at twelve
and continuing till daybreak. I wish you could hear this chiming of
bells. It is the most joyful sound you can imagine,--the most hopeful,
the most enlivening. I waked before light, and thought I heard some
ineffable music. I thought of the song of the angels on that blessed
morn; but while listening, through a sudden opening in the air, or
breeze blowing towards us, I found it was not the angels, but the
bells of Liverpool. One day when I was driving through Liverpool with
Una and Julian, these bells suddenly broke forth on the occasion of a
marriage, and I could scarcely keep the children in the carriage. They
leaped up and down, and Una declared she would be married in England,
if only to hear the chime of the bells. The mummers stood at our gate
on Christmas morning and sang in the dawn, acting the part of the
heavenly host. The Old Year was tolled out and the New Year chimed in
also, and again the mummers sang at the gate.
Perhaps you have heard of Miss Charlotte Cushman, the actress? The
summer before we left America, she sent a note to Mr. Hawthorne,
requesting him to sit to a lady for his miniature, which she wished to
take to England. Mr. Hawthorne could not refuse, though you can
imagine his repugnance on every account. He went and did penance, and
was then introduced to Miss Cushman. He liked her for a very sensible
person with perfectly simple manners. The other day he met her in
Liverpool, and she told him she had been intending to call on me ever
since she had been at her sister's at Rose Hill Hall, Woolton, seven
miles from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne wished me to invite her to dine
and pass the night. I invited her to dine on the 29th of December.
She accepted and came. I found her tall as her famous character, Meg
Merrilies, with a face of peculiar, square form, most amiable in
expression, and so very untheatrical in manner and bearing that I
should never suspect her to be an actress. She has left the stage now
two years, and retires upon the fortune she has made; for she was a
very great favorite on the English stage, and retired in the height of
her fame. The children liked her prodigiously, and Rose was never
weary of the treasures attached to her watch-chain. I could not
recount to you the gems clustered there,--such as a fairy tiny gold
palette, with all the colors arranged; a tiny easel with a colored
landscape, quarter of an inch wide; a tragic and comic mask, just big
enough for a gnome; a cross of the Legion of Honor; a wallet, opening
with a spring, and disclosing compartments just of a size for the
Keeper of the Privy Purse of the Fairy Queen; a dagger for a pygmy;
two minute daguerreotypes of friends, each as large as a small pea, in
a gold case; an opera-glass; Faith, Hope, and Charity represented by a
golden heart and anchor, and I forget what,--a little harp; I cannot
remember any more. These were all, I think, memorials of friends. In
the morning she sat down to 'Una's beautifully toned piano, and sang
one of Lockhart's Spanish ballads, with eloquent expression, so as to
make my blood tingle.
Hospitality was quite frequent now in our first English home, as many
letters affirm. The delightful novelty to my small self of a peep at
the glitter of little dinner-parties was as surprising to me as if I
could have had a real consciousness of its contrast to all the former
simplicity of my parents' life. Down the damask trooped the splendid
silver covers, entrancingly catching a hundred reflections from
candle-flame and cut-glass, and my own face as I hovered for a moment
upon the scene while the butler was gliding hither and thither to
complete his artistic arrangements. On my father's side of the family
there had been a distinct trait of material elegance, appearing in
such evidences as an exquisite tea-service, brought from China by my
grandfather, with the intricate monogram and dainty shapes and
decoration of a hundred years ago; and in a few chairs and tables that
could not be surpassed for graceful design and finish; and so on. As
for my mother's traits of inborn refinement, they were marked enough,
but she writes of herself to her sister at this time, "You cannot
think how I cannot be in the least tonish, such is my indomitable
simplicity of style." Her opinion of herself was always humble; and I
can testify to the distinguished figure she made as she wore the first
ball-dress I ever detected her in. I was supposed to be fast asleep,
and she had come to look at me before going out to some social
function, as she has told me she never failed to do when leaving the
house for a party. Her superb brocade, pale-tinted, low-necked, and
short-sleeved, her happy, airy manner, her glowing though pale face,
her dancing eyes, her ever-hovering smile of perfect kindness, all
flashed upon me in the sudden light as I roused myself. I insisted
upon gazing and admiring, yet I ended by indignantly weeping to find
that my gentle little mother could be so splendid and wear so
triumphant an expression. "She is frightened at my fine gown!" my
mother exclaimed, with a changed look of self-forgetting concern; and
I never lost the lesson of how much more beautiful her noble glance
was than her triumphant one. A faded bill has been preserved, for the
humor of it, from Salem days, in which it is recorded that for the
year 1841 she ordered ten pairs of number two kid slippers,--which was
not precisely economical for a young lady who needed to earn money by
painting, and who denied herself a multitude of pleasures and comforts
which were enjoyed by relatives and friends.
In our early experience of English society, my mother's suppressed
fondness for the superb burst into fruition, and the remnants of such
indulgence have turned up among severest humdrum for many years; but
soon she refused to permit herself even momentary extravagances. To
those who will remember duty, hosts of duties appeal, and it was not
long before my father and mother began to save for their children's
future the money which flowed in. Miss Cushman's vagary of an amusing
watch-chain was exactly the sort of thing which they never imitated;
they smiled at it as the saucy tyranny over a great character of great
wealth. My father's rigid economy was perhaps more un broken than my
mother's. Still, she has written, "I never knew what charity meant
till I knew my husband." There are many records of his having heard
clearly the teaching that home duties are not so necessary or loving
as duty towards the homeless.
Julian came home from Liverpool with papa one afternoon with four
masks, with which we made merry for several days. One was the face of
a simpleton, and that was very funny upon papa,--such a
transformation! A spectacled old beldame, looking exactly like a
terrific auld wife at Lenox, was very diverting upon Julian, turning
him into a gnome; and Una was irresistible beneath the mask of a
meaningless young miss, resembling a silly-looking doll. Julian put on
another with a portentous nose, and then danced the schottische with
Una in her doll's mask. Hearing this morning that a gentleman had sent
to some regiments 50 pounds worth of postage stamps, he said he
thought it would be better to have an arrangement for all the
soldiers' letters to go and come free. I do not know but he had better
send this suggestion to the "London Times."
March 12.
Mr. Hawthorne dined at Aigbarth, one of the suburbs of Liverpool, with
Mr. Bramley Moore, an M. P. Mr. Moore took an effectual way to secure
Mr. Hawthorne, for he went one day himself to his office, and asked
him for the very same evening, thus bearding the lion in his den and
clutching him. And Mrs. H., the aunt of Henry Bright, would not be
discouraged. She could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splendid
fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and all the aristocracy of
the county . . . but wrote him a note telling him that if he wished
for her forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day when we would go
and dine with her. Mr. Hawthorne delayed, and then she wrote me a
note, appointing the 16th of March for us to go and meet the
Martineaus and Brights and remain all night. There was no evading
this, so he is going; but I refused. Her husband is a mighty banker,
and she is sister of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, W. E.
Gladstone, and they are nobly connected all round. . . . Mr. Hawthorne
does not want to go, and especially curses the hour when white muslin
cravats became the sine qua non of a gentleman's full dress. Just
think how reverend he must look! I believe he would even rather wear a
sword and cocked hat, for he declares a white muslin cravat the last
abomination, the chief enormity of fashion, and that all the natural
feelings of a man cry out against it; and that it is alike abhorrent
to taste and to sentiment. To all this I reply that he looks a great
deal handsomer with white about his throat than with a stiff old black
satin stock, which always to me looks like the stocks, and that it is
habit only which makes him prefer it. . . .
March 16.
Mr. Hawthorne has gone to West Derby to dine . . . and stay all night.
He left me with a powerful anathema against all dinner-parties,
declaring he did not believe anybody liked them, and therefore they
were a malicious invention for destroying human comfort. Mr. Bramley
Moore again seized Mr. Hawthorne in the Consulate, the other clay, and
dragged him to Aigbarth to dine with Mr. Warren, the author of "Ten
Thousand a Year" and "The Diary of a Physician." Mr. Hawthorne liked
him very well. Mr. Warren commenced to say something very
complimentary to Mr. Hawthorne in a low tone, across an intermediate
gentleman, when Mr. Bramley Moore requested that the company might
have the benefit of it, so Mr. Warren spoke aloud; and then Mr.
Hawthorne had to make a speech in return! We expected Mr. Warren here
to dine afterwards, but he has gone home to Hull.
Mrs. Sanders again sent a peremptory summons for us all to go to
London and make her a visit. I wish Mr. Hawthorne could leave his
affairs and go, for she lives in Portman Square, and Mr. Buchanan
would get us admitted everywhere. Mr. Sanders has been rejected by
the Senate; but I do not suppose he cares much, since he is worth a
half million of dollars.
Sir Thomas Talfourd, the author of "Ion," suddenly died the other day,
universally mourned. I believe his brother Field, who came to England
with us, is again in America, now. I trust the rest of the notable men
of England will live till I have seen them. This gentleman wished
very much to meet Mr. Hawthorne.
March 30.
Mr. Hawthorne went to Norris Green and dined with the H----s,
Martineaus, and Brights, and others, and stayed all night, as
appointed. He declared that, when he looked in the glass before going
down to dinner, he presented the appearance of a respectable butler,
with his white cravat--and thought of hiring himself out. He liked Mr.
H. . . . He gives away 7000 pounds a year in charity! Mrs. H. is good,
too, for she goes herself and sees into the condition of a whole
district in Liverpool, though a dainty lady of fashion. She showed Mr.
Hawthorne a miniature of the famous Sir Kenelm Digby, who was her
ancestor; and so through his family she is connected with the Percys
and the Stanleys, Earls of Derby. Everything was in sumptuous fashion,
served by gorgeous footmen. Mr. Hawthorne was chief guest. . . . Mrs.
H. has sense, and is rather sentimental, too. She has no children, and
had the assurance to tell Mr. Hawthorne she preferred chickens to
children.
The next day Mr. Bright invited Mr. Hawthorne to drive. Mr. Bright
wanted to call on his cousin, Sir Thomas Birch. And as he was the
nearest neighbor of the Earl of Derby, he took them to Knowsley, Lord
Derby's seat. At Sir Thomas's, Mr. Hawthorne saw a rookery for the
first time; and a picture of Lady Birch, his mother, painted by Sir
Thomas Lawrence, but not quite finished. It is said to be one of his
best pictures. Mr. Hawthorne was disappointed in the house at
Knowsley. It was lower than he had imagined, and of various eras, but
so large as to be able to entertain an hundred guests.
April 14, Good Friday.
MY DEAR FATHER,--This is a day of great and solemn fast in England;
when all business is suspended, and no work is done in house or
street; when there is really a mighty pause in worldly affairs, and
all people remind themselves that Christ was crucified, and died for
us. From early morning till late evening, all churches are open and
service is performed.
I wish you could be undeceived about the income of this Consulate. Mr.
Hawthorne now knows actually everything about it. . . . He goes from us
at nine, and we do not see him again till five!!! I only wish we could
be pelted within an inch of our lives with a hailstorm of sovereigns,
so as to satisfy every one's most gorgeous hopes; but I am afraid we
shall have but a gentle shower, after all. . . . I am sorry I have had
the expectation of so much, because I am rather disappointed to be so
circumscribed. With my husband's present constant devotion to the
duties of his office, he could no more write a syllable than he could
build a cathedral. . . . He never writes by candle-light. . . . Mr.
Crittendon tells Mr. Hawthorne that he thinks he may save $5000 a year
by economy. He himself, living in a very quiet manner, not going into
society, has spent $4000 a year. He thinks we must spend more. People
will not let Mr. Hawthorne alone, as they have Mr. Crittendon,
because they feel as if they had a right to him, and he cannot well
forego their claim. "The Scarlet Letter" seems to have placed him on a
pinnacle of fame and love here. . . . It will give you pleasure, I
think, to hear that Mr. Cecil read a volume of "The Scarlet Letter"
the other day which was one of the thirty-fifth thousand of one
publisher. Is it not provoking that the author should not have even
one penny a volume?
I have only room to put in the truest, warmest sympathy with all your
efforts and trials, and the wish that I could lift you up out of all,
and sorrow that I cannot. Mr. Hawthorne has relations and personal
friends who look to him, I think, with great desires. I can demand
nothing for mine.
Though the great Reform Bill of Lord John Russell was deferred by him
the other night to another period on account of war, yet reforms on
every point in social life are going on here, or moving to go on.
Nothing seems to escape some eye that has suddenly opened. The Earl of
Shaftesbury is one of God's Angels of Benefits. The hideous condition
of the very poor and even of tradesmen is being demonstrated to the
nation; a condition in which, a writer in the London "Athenaeum" says,
"Virtue is impossible"! From this most crying and worst evil, up
through all things, sounds the trumpet of reform.
Such abuse of the good President as there is, is sickening. I hope
those who vilify him for doing what he considers his duty have a
quarter of his conscience and uprightness. He is a brave man. . . . He
wrote Mr. Hawthorne that he had no hope of being popular during the
first part of his administration at least. He can be neither bribed,
bought, nor tempted in his political course; he will do what he thinks
constitutional and right, and find content in it. . . . I wish our
Senators had as good manners as the noble lords of Parliament. But we
are perfect savages in manners as yet, and have no self-control, nor
reverence. The dignity and serenity of maturer age will, I trust, come
at last to us. . . .
I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, because I am not
handsome enough. But I will endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and
Rosebud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks supremely handsome
here; handsomer than anybody I see; every other face looks coarse,
compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any
Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose he
were an Englishman--till he speaks. This is a high compliment from the
English. They look at him as much as they can, covertly; as much as
they can without being uncivil and staring, as if they wanted to
assure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does
not observe this; but it is nuts to me, and / observe it. The lofty,
sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought he was
born for a palace, and he shows that he was.
We have had some delightful experiences, and have seen some
interesting people, some literary celebrities, and beautiful English
life within jealous stone walls, draped with ivy inside. We see why
comfort is an essentially English word, and we understand Shakespeare
and all the old poets properly now we are on the scene.