ENGLISH DAYS: II
DOUGLAS, MONA, July 18.
MY DEAR FATHER,--I little dreamed that I should next address you from
the Isle of Man! Yet here we all are, with one grievous exception, to
be sure; for Mr. Hawthorne, after fetching us one day, and staying the
two next, went away to the tiresome old Consulate, so conscientious
and devoted is he; for his clerk assured him he might stay a little.
Yet I know that there are reasons of state why he should not; and
therefore, though I am nothing less than infinitely desolate without
him, and hate to look at anything new unless he is looking too, I
cannot complain. But is it not wonderful that I am here in this
remote and interesting and storied spot?--the last retreat of the
little people called fairies, the lurking-place of giants and
enchanters. . . . At Stonehenge we found a few rude stones for a temple.
I could not gather into a small enough focus the wide glances of
Julian's great brown, searching eyes to make him see even what there
was; and when finally he comprehended that the circle of stones once
marked out a temple, and that the Druids really once stood there, he
curled his lip, scornfully exclaiming, "Is that all?" and bounded off
to pluck flowers. I think that, having heard of Stonehenge and a Druid
temple which was built of stones so large that it was considered
almost miraculous that they were moved to their places, he expected to
see a temple touching the sky, perhaps. . . . Mr. Hawthorne came back
the next Friday, much to our joy, and on Saturday afternoon we walked
to the Nunnery with him, which was founded by St. Bridget. A few ruins
remain, overgrown with old ivy vines of such enormous size that I
think they probably hold the walls together. . . . Julian and Una were
enchanted with the clear stream, and Julian was wild for turtles; but
there are no reptiles in the Isle of Man. . . . I kept thinking, "And
this is the rugged, bare, rocky isle which I dreaded to come to,--this
soft, rich, verdant paradise!" It really seems as if the giants had
thrown aloft the bold, precipitous rocks and headlands round the edge
of the island, to guard the sylvan solitudes for the fairies, whose
stronghold was the Isle of Man. I should not have been surprised at
any time to have seen those small people peeping out of the wild
foxgloves, which are their favorite hiding-places. So poetical is the
air of these regions that mermaids, fairies, and giants seem quite
natural to it. In the morning of the day we went to the Nunnery Mr.
Hawthorne took Julian and went to the Douglas market, which is held in
the open air. . . . My husband said that living manners were so
interesting and valuable that he would not miss the scene for even
Peel Castle. One day, when Una and I went to shop in Douglas, we saw
in the market square a second-hand bookstall. I had been trying in
vain to get "Peveril of the Peak" at the library and bookstores, and
hoped this sales-counter might have it. So I looked over the books,
and what do you think I saw? A well-read and soiled copy of the
handsome edition of Mr. Hawthorne's "Blithedale Romance"! Yes, even in
Mona. We have heard of some families in England who keep in use two
copies of "The Scarlet Letter;" but I never dreamed of finding either
of these books here.
Sunday was the perfectest day in our remembrance. In the morning Mr.
Hawthorne walked to Kirk Braddon, and the afternoon we spent on
Douglas Head. It is quite impossible to put into words that afternoon.
Such softness and splendor and freshness combined in the air; such a
clearest sunshine; such a deep blue sea and cloudless blue heaven;
such fragrance and such repose. We looked from our great height upon
all the beauty and grandeur, and in Mr. Hawthorne's face was a
reflection of the incredible loveliness and majesty of the scene. Una
was a lily, and Julian a magnolia. I think that for once, at least,
Mr. Hawthorne was satisfied with weather and circumstances. Towards
sunset the mountains of Cumberland were visible, for the first time
during our visit, on the horizon, which proved that even in England
the air was clear that day. A pale purple outline of waving hills lay
on the silvery sea, which, as it grew later, became opaline in hue. . . .
July 20.
. . . This morning, soon after ten, we summoned a boat, and were rowed
to St. Mary's Rock, which has a good beach on one side, and spent two
hours there. There was a delicious air and bright sunshine, and we
found innumerable pretty pearl shells among the pebbles; and Julian
bathed in the sea. Rosebud enjoyed it very much, and kept close to me
all the time. I asked her why she kept so near mamma, and she replied,
"Oh, dear mamma, I cannot help it." Once she put her little foot into
a pool, and I had to take off her sock and shoe to dry them in the
sun. Her snowy little foot and pink toes looked, on the rocks, like a
new kind of shell, and I told her I was afraid a gentleman who was
seeking shells on the other side of the island would come and take it
for a conch shell, and put it in his pocket for his little children.
She shouted at this; and then threw back her head, with a' silent
laugh, like Leatherstocking, showing all her little pearly teeth,--so
pretty with her rosy cheeks and streaming hair. I actually seem in a
dream, and not here in bodily presence. I cannot imagine myself here;
much less realize it. Through the mist Douglas looked like a vast
leviathan asleep on the sea, as we approached. It is a pity that steam
should come near such a place, for its bustle is not in harmony with
the vast repose.
I suppose the world could scarcely furnish another such stately and
salubrious spot as exactly this; for the climate of the Isle of Man is
extremely mild and genial. From my parlor windows, in the Fort Anne
Hotel, I look out on the beautiful crescent harbor from a good height.
. . . Mountains rise above high hills on the horizon in soft, large,
mellow lines, which I am never weary of gazing at. The hills are of
precious emerald stone; the sea is an opal; the distant mountains are
a pile of topazes; and the sky is turquoise and gold. But why attempt
to put into ink such a magnificent setting as this? No jewels could be
compared to it. God alone could mingle these colors and pencil these
grand lines. . . .
ROCK PARK, August 2.
DEAR ELIZABETH,--We returned last Saturday, after a delightful visit
to Mona of a fortnight. We had constantly splendid weather, and there
was one day which Mr. Hawthorne and I concluded we had never seen
equaled in any hemisphere. . . . I took Una and Julian to Glen Darragh
to see the ruins of a Druidical temple. . . . We ascended Mount
Murray . . . and a magnificent landscape was revealed to us; a fertile
valley of immense extent. . . . But before we arrived at Glen Darragh
we came to Kirk Braddon, an uncommonly lovely place. I knew that in
the churchyard were two very old Runic monuments, so we alighted. . . .
The family residence of the late Duke of Atholl is situated at the
extremity of a flat meadow; and as far as I could see, it did not seem
a very princely residence. But in this country I am often struck with
the simplicity and freedom from show which those of real rank are
contented with. They seem really to agree with Burns that "the man's
the gawd." At Knowsley, the residence of the Earls of Derby, the
inside of the mansion was very simple, and they are the proudest
nobles of England.
We finally arrived at Glen Darragh, and I gazed about in vain to see
the ruins of a temple. . . . We came at last to some mounds of earth,
with rough stones on their tops, but I could discover no design or
order to them, and was quite cast down. But then I saw more, at a
short distance, of better hope, and I ran to them, and found they were
stones placed in a circular form, inclosing about fourteen yards
diameter. These stones, however, were unhewn and of moderate size. And
this was all. I broke off a crumb of one of the stones, and looked
around me. It was quite desolate, for a large space. Not a tree or a
shrub grew near, but grand mountains rose up on every side. Glen
Darragh means the vale of oaks, but not an oak could be seen. The
singular destruction of trees in this be-battled, be-conquered island
is unaccountable. Why invaders should uproot such innocent adorners of
the earth is a mystery. It is said that the Druids found a great many
pine woods there, and that they up-rooted them and planted their
favorite oaks. But pines, oaks, Druids, temples, and all are gone now,
except these few stones. I wondered whether any terrible human
sacrifices had been offered on the spot where I was standing. The
mountains were the same, and the sky was the same; but all else had
changed since those fearful days. . . . Of course Rome was here, for
where did that proud queen not set her imperial foot? But the only
sign of her left is at Castletown: it is an ancient altar. I looked
out of the chamber window one night, and at twelve o'clock the golden
flush of sunset still glowed in the west, and in the east was an
enormous star. We often see Venus very large at home, but this was
three times as large as we ever see it. I do not know what this star
was. It must have been Venus, however. The star of beauty should
surely rise over such a day as this had been. Once we rowed about the
island, and it was truly superb--this circumnavigation. We were near
enough to the shore to see every house and animal and tree, but far
off from dangerous rocks. We passed St. Manghold's Head. The saint was
an Irish prince, converted by St. Patrick, and became so eminent for
sanctity that St. Bridget came from Ireland to receive the veil from
him. It is the most eastern point of the island, and its summit is
crested with rocks. Under one is a spring, called St. Manghold's
Well, which is thought to have medicinal virtues; and if any one who
drinks the waters sits at the same time in the saint's chair,--a rude
stone seat near,--they will certainly prove beneficial. We landed at
Ramsey, and walked through the town. Towns fade into utter
insignificance in that island. Nature is so grand there that houses
and streets seem impertinences, and make no account, unless some
stately castle towers up. The towns look like barnacles clinging to a
majestic ship's sides. . . . This evening Mr. Hawthorne brings me news
of the death of L. Howes! We were thinking yesterday what a mournful
change had come over that family since we used to go every Saturday
evening and see them, in most charming family group, all those bright,
intelligent, happy faces gathered round the centre-table or fireside,
beaming with life, and mind, and heart. . . .
Julian enjoyed the rocks and beaches and sea-bathing at Mona greatly,
and on his return here was homesick for it all for two days. Una grew
so homesick for Rockferry that she could hardly be kept away till I
was ready to come, though she also enjoyed the sea and the island very
much. But I think she has inhabitiveness to a great degree. As to
Rose, she was like a sunbeam from morning to night. . . . I have a
slight journal of my visit to the Isle of Man, written at the earnest
request of Mr. Hawthorne.
Rose is in no danger of forgetting you. We talk to her about you a
great deal, and she is always referring to "When I was in 'Morica."
Miss Martineau is about Liverpool, and while I was at the island Mr.
Bright took Mr. Hawthorne to see her. She was extremely agreeable and
brilliant. She has become quite infidel in her opinions. . . . It must
be either a fool or a madman who says there is no GOD. . . . I had a
delightful visit from the Cochrans, and went with them to Chester.
Martha was deeply affected by the Cathedral, especially by the
cloisters. Tears filled her eyes. After luncheon, we went to see a
Roman bath and a Roman crypt, the last discovered within a few months.
The bath is back of, and beneath, a crockery shop. We saw first a cold
bath. It was merely an oblong stone basin, built round a perpetual
spring. A high iron railing now guards it, and we looked into what
seemed almost a well, where the Romans used to plunge. . . . The
black water reflected the candle and glittered far below. It might be
the eye of one of the twentieth legion. We then went into a shop and
asked for the crypt. The men pointed to a door, which we opened, and
nearly tumbled down some stone steps. By degrees our eyes became
owlish, and we gradually saw, as if looming out of past ages, the
beautiful arches of the roof, and the columns on each side. . . .
My mother gives a glimpse of the vicissitudes of the Consulate,--that
precinct which I pictured as an ogre's lair, though the ogre was
temporarily absent, while my father, like a prince bewitched, had been
compelled by a rash vow to languish in the man-eater's place for a
term of years:--
"In the evening Mr. Hawthorne told me that there were suddenly thrown
upon his care two hundred soldiers who had been shipwrecked in the
San Francisco, and that he must clothe and board them and send them
home to the United States. They were picked up somewhere on the sea
and brought to Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne has no official authority to
take care of any but sailors in distress. He invited the lieutenant to
come and stay here, and he must take care of the soldiers, even if the
expense comes out of his own purse." [Later.] "Mr. Hawthorne sent to
Mr. Buchanan (the Ambassador) about the soldiers, and he would share
no responsibility, though it was much more a matter pertaining to his
powers than to a consul. . . . Mr. Hawthorne has supplied them with
clothes and lodgings, and has finally chartered for their passage home
one of the Cunard steamers! Such are his official reverses."
"Last Friday I received a note from the wife of the U. S. Consul at
London, inviting me and the children to go with Mr. Hawthorne to town,
to see the Queen open Parliament. It was such a cordial invitation
that it was nearly impossible to refuse; but we could not go, Mr.
Hawthorne was so busy with these soldiers, and with trials in the
police courts; so that he could not leave his post." [Still later.]
"As to shipwrecked sailors, there seems no end to them; and for all
Mr. Hawthorne's costs for them he is, of course, repaid. His hands are
full all the time. But in the history of the world, it is said, there
never were so many shipwrecks as there have been this last winter. The
coasts of Great Britain seem to have been nothing but stumbling-blocks
in the way of every ship. . . . I have seen, in an American paper, a
passage in which the writer undertakes to defend my husband from some
dirty aspersions. It seems that some one had told the absolute
falsehood that he had shirked all responsibility about the shipwrecked
soldiers, and his defender stated the case just as it was, and that
Mr. Buchanan declined having anything to do with the matter. The
government will make the chartering of the steamer good to Mr.
Hawthorne. . . . He has been very busily occupied at the Consulate
this winter and spring,--so many disasters at sea, and vagabonds
asking for money. He has already lost more than a hundred pounds by
these impostors. But he is very careful indeed, and those persons who
have proved dishonest were gentlemen in their own esteem, and it was
difficult to suspect them. But he is well on his guard now; and he
says the moment he sees a coat-tail he knows whether the man it
belongs to is going to beg! His life in the Consulate is not charming.
He has to pay a great penalty for the result of his toil. Not that he
has any drudgery, but he is imprisoned and in harness. He will not let
me take a pen in my hand when he is at home, because at any rate I see
him so little."
Such paragraphs as the one I add, from a little letter of my sister's,
often appear; but in this instance it was the glad exclamation of
release, just before we removed to Italy:--
"Papa will be with us on Monday, free from the terrors of the old
Consulate. Perhaps you can imagine what infinitely joyful news that is
to us; and to him, too, as much, if not more so; for he has had all
the work, and we have only suffered from his absence."
The letters proceed:--
MY DEAR FATHER,--It was delightful to see your handwriting this week,
written with the same firmness as ever. It gives me unspeakable
satisfaction to know that the drafts Mr. Hawthorne sent contribute to
your ease, and supply you with embellishments and luxuries, which in
sickness are necessaries. I only wish I could put strength into your
limbs, as well as provide you with a stuffed chair to repose them
upon. Mr. Hawthorne has wished, you see, to prevent your having any
anxiety about little wants. It will be all right for the present, and
future too. . . . I suppose the War will affect everything in a
disastrous manner, except the End, and that God will take into His own
hands for good, no doubt, though not as either party proposes.
Here in England we are wholly occupied with the War. No one thinks or
talks of anything else. Every face is grave with sorrow for the
suffering and slaughter, and then triumphant with pride and joy at the
incredible heroism of the troops. . . . In his sermon before the last,
Mr. Channing brought out my dearest, inmost doctrines and faith; the
sovereignty of good; the unfallen ideal in man; the impossibility of
God's ever for one moment turning from man, or being averse to him;
the essential transitoriness of evil. . . . I deeply regret that Una and
Julian cannot hear the sermons for the little people, for I think it
would do much towards saving their souls.
My mother's loss in the death of her father was a great grief, which
fell upon her at this time. She wrote to my aunt:--
DEAR ELIZABETH,--If anything could have softened such a blow, it would
have been the divine way in which my husband told me. If a seraph can
look more radiant with love--a flaming love, veiled with most tender,
sorrowing sympathy--than he did, I am sure I cannot conceive of it,
and am quite contented not to. I saw and felt in a moment how beyond
computation and desert I was still rich,--richest. Father's sincerity,
his childlike guilelessness, his good sense and rectitude, his
unaffected piety,--all and each of his qualities made him interesting
to my husband. I really do not believe any one else ever listened to
his stories and his conversation with as much love and interest.
Whatever is real and simple and true attracts my husband both as a
poet and as a man. Genuine nature he always springs to. Father was
entirely unspoiled by the world--as pure of it as a dewdrop. This
indeed made him a rare person. He seems to stand meekly in the
presence of God. Where more arch-angelic intellect--divine
genius--would tremble and faint, simple goodness will feel quite at
home, with its one talent become two talents, and its faith
and hope blossomed into reality. By and by I shall perhaps have a
vivid sense of his presence, as I did of mother's, six weeks after her
departure.
We have been out, for the first time, walking in the garden. The
morning was beautiful. The budding shrubbery was on every side, and
daisies and wallflowers and auriculas blooming even while a thin veil
of snow lay in some places.
Una, in writing home to America, portrays the family peace, and the
little landscapes of the quieter corners of our "Old Home:"--
"We have got to England at last. It does not seem as if we were in
England, but in Boston or Salem. There is not so much noise here as
there was in Boston.
"Mamma has told you about Mr. Rathbone's place, but I do not think she
has told you about one place by the wall. The wall is run over with
all sorts of vines, and there are summer-houses close up by the wall,
and a little brook rippling in front, and a great many mighty trees in
front, so that not a ray of the sun could peep through.
"On Sunday, the great Easter Sunday, we went to the Chapel of the
Blind, and stayed through the Communion service. Mamma received the
sacrament. The sermon was very tiresome. It was about the skins that
Adam and Eve wore. . . . I was very much interested in Chester, and
all the old things I saw there, especially the Cathedral. As we
walked round the cloisters you could almost fancy you saw the monks
pacing slowly round, and looking now and then on the beautiful dewy
green grass which is in the middle of the cloisters. On Monday my
dear godpapa [Mr. O'Sullivan] went to London. Mamma got up at
half past four and set on the table some chicken-pie, some oranges,
and what she thought to be stout, and some flowers which I had
gathered in the morning, and gave all these to him.
"Rose is sitting on papa's knee, and through her golden hair I can see
her little contented face. She has got down now, and is engaged in a
lively discussion with Julian about her name. Julian has been dancing
round with the heat, for he thought dancing round would keep him cool.
Rose is sitting in mamma's lap now, and she looks so jolly. Her very
rosy round face and her waving flowing hair make her look so pretty.
She is very sharp, and she has a great deal of fun in her. She has
learnt 'Hark, the lark,' 'The Cuckoo,' and 'Where the bee sucks, there
suck I.' She says them very prettily, and she has a sweet, simple way
of saying what she knows."
Thoughts of her own country recall the joys of Lenox:--
"I have been nutting a great many times in Berkshire. Papa and mamma,
Julian and I, all took large baskets and went into the woods, and
there we would stay sometimes all day, picking walnuts and chestnuts.
Perhaps where we were there were mostly walnuts; but still there were
a good many chestnuts. We had a very large oven in which we put as
many of our nuts as we could, and the rest we put into large bags. We,
and the rats and mice, had nice feasts on them every winter.
"Papa bought Julian a pop-gun to console him when we were going away
to visit the Brights, for he had not been invited. He was very good
about it indeed, and fired off his pop-gun in honor of mamma's going
away.
"Papa gave Julian a new boat a little while ago, a yacht, and mamma
has painted it beautifully in oils. I am going to make the sails for
it.
"Please call me Primrose in your letters. Rose is called Periwinkle.
Papa bought her an image of Uncle Tom and Eva, sitting on a bank, and
Uncle Tom is reading the Bible. Eva has on a plaid apron, and has
yellow cheeks, and is not very pretty. Uncle Tom is not either. Baby
was very much pleased."
To return to my mother's records:--
RHYL, NORTH WALES.
Dr. Drysdale thought we needed another change of air, and so we came
south this time. . . . The sun sinks just beside Great Orme's Head,
after turning the sea into living gold, and the heights into heaps of
amethyst. On the right is only sea, sea, sea. . . . I intended to go to
the Queen's Hotel, and knew nothing about the manner of living in the
lodging fashion. So we have to submit to German silver and the most
ordinary table service. . . . Ever since our marriage we have always
eaten off the finest French china, and had all things pretty and
tasteful; because, you know, I would never have second-best services,
considering my husband to be my most illustrious guest. But now! It is
really laughable to think of the appointments of the table at which
the Ambassador to Lisbon and the American Consul sat down last
Saturday, when they honored me with their presence. And we did laugh,
for it was of no consequence,--and the great bow window of our parlor
looked out upon the sea. We did not come here to see French china and
pure silver forks and spoons, but to walk on the beach, bathe in the
ocean, and drive to magnificent old castles,--and get rid of
whooping-cough. I had the enterprise to take all the children and
Mary, and come without Mr. Hawthorne; for he was in a great hurry to
get me off, fearing the good weather would not last. He followed on
Saturday with Mr. O'Sullivan, who arrived from Lisbon just an hour
before they both started for Rhyl. . . . Julian's worship of nature
and natural objects meets with satisfaction here. . . .
The following was also written from Rhyl:--
"While the carriage stopped I heard the rapturous warble of the
skylark, and finally discovered him, mounting higher still and higher,
pressing upwards, and pouring out such rich, delicious music that I
wanted to close my eyes and shut out the world, and listen to nothing
but that. Not even Shelley's or Wordsworth's words can convey an
adequate idea of this song. It seems as if its little throat were the
outlet of all the joy that had been experienced on the earth since
creation; and that with all its power it were besieging heaven with
gratitude and love for the infinite bliss of life. Life, joy, love.
The blessed, darling little bird, quivering, warbling, urging its way
farther and farther; and finally swooning with excess of delight, and
sinking back to earth! You see I am vainly trying to help you to an
idea of it, but I cannot do it. I do not understand why the skylark
should not rise from our meadows as well, and the nightingale sing to
our roses."
Society and the sternness of life were, however, but a hair's-breadth
away:--
"Monday evening Mr. Hawthorne went to Richmond Hill to meet Mr.
Buchanan. The service was entirely silver, plates and all, and in a
high state of sheen. The Queen's autograph letter was spoken of (which
you will see in the 'Northern Times' that goes with this); and as it
happens to be very clumsily expressed, Mr. Hawthorne was much
perplexed by Mr. Buchanan's asking him, before the whole company at
dinner, 'what he thought of the Queen's letter.' Mr. Hawthorne replied
that it showed very kind feeling. 'No,' persisted the wicked
Ambassador; 'but what do you think of the style?' Mr. Hawthorne was
equal to him, or rather, conquered him, however, for he said, 'The
Queen has a perfect right to do what she pleases with her own
English.' Mr. Hawthorne thought Miss Lane, Mr. Buchanan's niece, a
very elegant person, and far superior to any English lady present. The
next evening Mr. Hawthorne went to another dinner at Everton; so that
on Wednesday, when we again sat down together, I felt as if he had
been gone a month. This second dinner was not remarkable in any way,
except that when the ladies took leave they all went to him and
requested to shake hands with him!
"No act of the British people in behalf of the soldiers has struck me
as so noble and touching as that of the reformed criminals at an
institution in London. They wished to contribute something to the
Patriotic Fund. The only way they could do it was by fasting. So from
Sunday night till Tuesday morning they ate nothing, and the money
saved (three pounds and over) was sent to the Fund! Precious money is
this."
In Rockferry, my first remembered home, the personality of my father
was the most cheerful element, and the one which we all needed, as the
sunshine is needed by an English scene to make its happiness apparent.
If he was at all "morbid," my advice would be to adopt morbidness at
once. Perhaps he would have been a sad man if he had been an ordinary
one. Genius can make charming presences of characters that really are
gloomy and savage, being so magical in its transmutation of dry fact.
People were glad to be scolded by Carlyle, and shot down by Dr.
Johnson. But I am persuaded by reason that those who called Hawthorne
sad would have complained of the tears of Coriolanus or Othello; and,
with Coriolanus, he could say, "It is no little thing to make mine
eyes to sweat compassion." It was the presence of the sorrow of the
world which made him silent. Who dares to sneer at that? When I think
of my mother,--naturally hopeful, gently merry, ever smiling,--who,
while my father lived, was so glad a woman that her sparkling glance
was never dimmed, and when I have to acknowledge that even she did not
fill us children with the zest of content which he brought into the
room for us, I must conclude that genius and cheer together made him
life-giving; and so he was enchanting to those who were intimate with
him, and to many who saw him for but a moment. Dora Golden, my
brother's old nurse, has said that when she first came to the family
she feared my father was going to be severe, because he had a way of
looking at strangers from under bent brows. But the moment he lifted
his head his eyes flashed forth beautiful and kindly. She has told me
that my mother and she used to think at dusk, when he entered the room
before the lamps were lit, that the place was illuminated by his face;
his eyes shone, his whole countenance gleamed, and my mother simply
called him "our sunlight."
My sister's girlish letters are evidence of the enthusiasm of the
family for my father's companionship, and of our stanch hatred for the
Consulate because it took him away from us so much. He read aloud, as
he always had done, in the easiest, clearest, most genial way, as if
he had been born only to let his voice enunciate an endless procession
of words. He read "The Lady of the Lake" aloud about this time, and
Una wrote expressing our delight in his personality over and above
that in his usefulness: "Papa has gone to dine in Liverpool, so we
shall not hear 'Don Quixote' this evening, or have papa either."
Little references to him show how he was always weaving golden threads
into the woof of daily monotony. Julian, seven years old, writes to
his grandfather, "Papa has taught Una and me to make paper boats, and
the bureau in my room is covered with paper steamers and boats." I can
see him folding them now, as if it were yesterday, and how intricate
the newspapers became which he made into hulls, decks, and sails. At
one time Una bursts out, in recognition of the unbroken peace and good
will in the home, "It will certainly be my own fault if I am not
pretty good when I grow up, for I have had both example and precept."
The nurse to whom I have just referred has said that when Julian was
about four, sometimes he would annoy her while she was sewing; and if
his father was in the room, she would tell Julian to go to him and ask
him to read about Robbie, who was Robinson Crusoe. He would sit
quietly all the time his father read to him, no matter for how long.
But her master finally told Dora not to send Julian to him in this way
to hear "Robinson Crusoe," because he was "tired of reading it to
him." The nurse was a bit of a genius herself, in her way, and not to
be easily suppressed, and when her charge became fidgety, and she was
in a hurry, she made one more experiment with Robbie. Her master
turned round in his chair, and for the first time in four years she
saw an angry look on his face, and he commanded her "never to do it
again." At three years of age Julian played pranks upon his father
without trepidation. There was a "boudoir" in the house which had a
large, pleasant window, and was therefore thought to be agreeable
enough to be used as a prison-house for Una and Julian when they were
naughty. Julian conveyed his father into the boudoir, and shut the
door on him adroitly. It had no handle on the inner side, purposely,
and the astonished parent was caged. "You cannot come out," said
Julian, "until you have promised to be a good boy." Through the
persistent dignity with which Hawthorne behaved, and with which he was
always treated by the household, Julian had felt the down of playful
love.
Here are letters written to me while I was in Portugal with my mother,
in 1856:--
MY DEAR LITTLE ROSEBUD,--I have put a kiss for you in this nice, clean
piece of paper. I shall fold it up carefully, and I hope it will not
drop out before it gets to Lisbon. If you cannot find it, you must ask
Mamma to look for it. Perhaps you will find it on her lips. Give my
best regards to your Uncle John and Aunt Sue, and to all your kind
friends, not forgetting your Nurse. Your affectionate father,
N. H.
MY DEAR LITTLE ROSEBUD,--It is a great while since I wrote to you; and
I am afraid this letter will be a great while in reaching you. I hope
you are a very good little girl; and I am sure you never get into a
passion, and never scream, and never scratch and strike your dear
Nurse or your dear sister Una. Oh no! my little Rosebud would never do
such naughty things as those. It would grieve me very much if I were
to hear of her doing such things. When you come back to England, I
shall ask Mamma whether you have been a good little girl; and Mamma (I
hope) will say: "Yes; our little Rosebud has been the best and
sweetest little girl I ever knew in my life. She has never screamed
nor uttered any but the softest and sweetest sounds. She has never
struck Nurse nor Una nor dear Mamma with her little fist, nor
scratched them with her sharp little nails; and if ever there was a
little angel on earth, it is our dear little Rosebud!" And when Papa
hears this, he will be very glad, and will take Rosebud up in his arms
and kiss her over and over again. But if he were to hear that she had
been naughty, Papa would feel it his duty to eat little Rosebud up!
Would not that be very terrible?
Julian is quite well, and sends you his love. I have put a kiss for
you in this letter; and if you do not find it, you may be sure that
some naughty person has got it. Tell Nurse I want to see her very
much. Kiss Una for me.
Your loving PAPA.
The next letter is of later date, having been written while the rest
of the family were in Manchester:--
MY DEAR LITTLE PESSIMA,--I am very glad that Mamma is going to take
you to see "Tom Thump;" and I think it is much better to call him
Thump than Thumb, and I always mean to call him so from this time
forward. It is a very nice name, is Tom Thump. I hope you will call
him Tom Thump to his face when you see him, and thump him well if he
finds fault with it. Do you still thump dear Mamma, and Fanny, and
Una, and Julian, as you did when I saw you last? If you do, I shall
call you little Rose Thump; and then people will think that you are
Tom Thump's wife. And now I shall stop thumping on this subject.
Your friend little Frank Hallet is at Mrs. Blodget's. Do you remember
how you used to play with him at Southport, and how he sometimes beat
you? He seems to be a better little boy than he was then, but still he
is not so good as he might be. This morning he had some very nice
breakfast in his plate, but he would not eat it because his mamma
refused to give him something that was not good for him; and so, all
breakfast-time, this foolish little boy refused to eat a mouthful,
though I could see that he was very hungry, and would have eaten it
all up if he could have got it into his mouth without anybody seeing.
Was not he a silly child? Little Pessima never behaved so,--oh no!
There are two or three very nice little girls at Mrs. Blodget's, and
also a nice large dog, who is very kind and gentle, and never bites
anybody; and also a tabby cat, who very often comes to me and mews for
something to eat. So you see we have a very pleasant family; but, for
all that, I would rather be at home.
And now I have written you such a long letter that my head is quite
tired out; and so I shall leave off, and amuse myself with looking at
some pages of figures.
Be a good little girl, and do not tease Mamma, nor trouble Fanny, nor
quarrel with Una and Julian; and when I come home I shall call you
little Pessima (because I am very sure you will deserve that name),
and shall kiss you more than once. N. H.
If he said a few kind words to me, my father gave me a sense of having
a strong ally among the great ones of life; and if I were ill, I was
roused by his standing beside me to defy the illness. When I was
seriously indisposed, at the age of three, he brought me a black doll,
which I heard my mother say she thought would alarm me, as it was very
ugly, and I had never seen a negro. I remember the much-knowing smile
with which my father's face was indefinitely lighted up as he stood
looking at me, while I, half unconscious to most of the things of
this world, was nevertheless clutching his gift gladly to my heart.
The hideous darky was soon converted by my nurse Fanny (my mother
called her Fancy, because of her rare skill with the needle and her
rich decorations of all sorts of things) into a beautifully dressed
footman, who was a very large item in my existence for years. I
thought my father an intensely clever man to have hit upon Pompey, and
to have understood so well that he would make an angel. All his
presents to us Old People, as he called us, were either unusual or of
exquisite workmanship. The fairy quality was indispensable before he
chose them. We children have clung to them even to our real old age.
The fairies were always just round the corner of the point of sight,
with me, and in recognition of my keen delight of confidence in the
small fry my father gave me little objects that were adapted to them:
delicate bureaus with tiny mirrors that had reflected fairy faces a
moment before, and little tops that opened by unscrewing them in an
unthought-of way and held minute silver spoons. Once he brought home
to Julian a china donkey's head in a tall gray hat such as negroes and
politicians elect to wear, and its brains were composed entirely of
borrowed brilliancy in the shape of matches. We love the donkey still,
and it always occupies a place of honor. He brought me a little
Bacchus in Parian marble, wearing a wreath of grapes, and holding a
mug on his knee, and greeting his jolly stomach with one outspread
hand, as if he were inwardly smiling as he is outwardly. This is a
vase for flowers, and the white smile of the god has gleamed through
countless of my sweetest bouquets.
My father's enjoyment of frolicking fun was as hilarious as that
accorded by some of us to wildest comic opera. He had a delicate way
of throwing himself into the scrimmage of laughter, and I do not for
an instant attempt to explain how he managed it. I can say that he
lowered his eye-lids when he laughed hardest, and drew in his breath
half a dozen times with dulcet sounds and a murmur of mirth between.
Before and after this performance he would look at you straight from
under his black brows, and his eyes seemed dazzling. I think the
hilarity was revealed in them, although his cheeks rounded in ecstasy.
I was a little roguish child, but he was the youngest and merriest
person in the room when he was amused. Yet he was never far removed
from his companion,--a sort of Virgil,--his knowledge of sin and
tragedy at our very hearthstones. It was with such a memory in the
centre of home joys that the Pilgrim Fathers turned towards the door,
ever and anon, to guard it from creeping Indian forms.
On Sundays, at sundown, when the winter rain had very likely dulled
everybody's sense of more moderate humor, the blue law of quietness
was lifted from the atmosphere; and between five and six o'clock we
spread butterfly wings again, and had blind man's buff. We ran around
the large centre-table, and made this gambol most tempestuously merry.
If anything had been left upon the table before we began, it was
removed with rapidity before we finished. There was a distinct
understanding that our blindfolded father must not be permitted to
touch any of us, or else we should be reduced forthwith to our
original dust. The pulsing grasp of his great hands and heavy
fingers, soft and springing in their manipulation of one's shoulders
as the touch of a wild thing, was amusingly harmless, considering the
howls with which his onslaught was evaded as long as our flying legs
were loyal to us. My father's gentle laughter and happy-looking lips
were a revelation during these bouts. I remember with what awe I once
tied the blinding handkerchief round his head, feeling the fine
crispness of his silky hair, full of electricity, as some people's is
only on frosty days; yet without any of that crinkly resistance of
most hair that is full of energy. But there were times when I used to
stand at a distance and gaze at his peaceful aspect, and wonder if he
would ever open the floodgates of fun in a game of romp on any rainy
Sunday of the future. If a traveler caught the Sphinx humming to
herself, would he not be inclined to sit down and watch her till she
did it again?
I have referred to his large hand. I shall never see a more reassuring
one than his. It was broad, generous, supple. It had the little
depressions and the smoothness to be noticed in the hands of truest
charity; yet it had the ample outlines of the vigorously imaginative
temperament, so different from the hard plumpness of coarseness or
brutality. At the point where the fingers joined the back of the hand
were the roundings-in that are reminiscent of childhood's simplicity,
and are to be found in many philanthropic persons. His way of using
his fingers was slow, well thought out, and gentle, though never
lagging, that most unpleasant fault indicative of self-absorbed
natures. When he did anything with his hands he seemed very active,
because thoroughly in earnest. He delighted me by the way in which he
took hold of any material thing, for it proved his self-mastery.
Strength of will joined to self-restraint is a combination always
enjoyable to the onlooker; but it is also evidence of discomfort and
effort enough in the heroic character that has won the state which we
contemplate with so much approval. I remember his standing once by
the fire, leaning upon the mantelpiece, when a vase on the shelf
toppled over in some way. It was a cheap, lodging-house article, and
yet my father tried to save it from falling to the floor as earnestly
as he did anything which he set out to do. His hand almost seized the
vase, but it rebounded; and three times he half caught it. The fourth
time he rescued it as it was near the floor, having become flushed and
sparkling with the effort of will and deftness. For years that moment
came back to me, because his determination had been so valiantly
intense, and I was led to carry out determinations of all sorts from
witnessing his self-respect and his success in so small a matter.
People of power care all the time. It is their life-blood to succeed;
they must encourage their precision of eye and thought by repeated
triumphs, which so soothe and rejoice the nerves.
He was very kind in amusing me by aid of my slate. That sort of
pastime suited my hours of silence, which became less and less broken
by the talkative vein. His forefinger rubbed away defects in the
aspect of faces or animals with a lion-like suppleness of sweep that
seemed to me to wipe out the world. We also had a delicious game of a
labyrinth of lines, which it was necessary to traverse with the pencil
without touching the hedges, as I called the winding marks. We
wandered in and around without a murmur, and I reveled in delight
because he was near.
Walking was always a great resource in the family, and it was a
half-hearted matter for us unless we were at his side. His gait was
one of long, easy steps which were leisurely and not rapid, and he
cast an occasional look around, stopping if anything more lovely than
usual was to be seen in sky or landscape. It is the people who love
their race even better than themselves who can take into their thought
an outdoor scene. In England the outdoor life had many enchantments
of velvet sward upon broad hills and flowers innumerable and fragrant.
A little letter of Una's not long after we arrived in Rockferry
alludes to this element in our happiness:--
"We went to take a walk to-day, and I do not think I ever had such a
beautiful walk before in all my life. Julian and I got some very
pretty flowers, such as do not grow wild in America. I found some
exquisite harebells by the roadside, and some very delicate little
pink flowers. And I got some wild holly, which is very pretty indeed;
it has very glossy and prickery leaves. I have seen a great many
hedges made of it since I have been here; for nothing can get over it
or get through it, for it is almost as prickery as the Hawthorne [the
bush and the family name were always the same thing to us children],
of which almost all the hedges in Liverpool, and everywhere I have
been, are made; and there it grows up into high trees, so that nothing
in the world can look through it, or climb over it, or crawl through
it; and I am afraid our poor hedge in Concord will never look so well,
because the earth round it is so sandy and dry, and here it is so very
moist and rich. It ought to be moist, at any rate, for it rains
enough." But later she writes on "the eighteenth day of perfect
weather," and where can the weather seem so perfect as in England?
After breakfast on Christmas we always went to the places, in that
parlor where Christmas found us (nomads that we were), where our
mother had set out our gifts. Sometimes they were on the large
centre-table, sometimes on little separate tables, but invariably
covered with draperies; so that we studied the structure of each mound
in fascinated delay, in order to guess what the humps and hubbies
might indicate as to the nature of the objects of our treasure-trove.
The happy-faced mother, who could be radiant and calm at once,--small,
but with a sphere that was not small, and blessed us grandly,--
received gifts that had been arranged by Una and the nurse after
all the other El Dorados were thoroughly veiled, and our hearts
stood still to hear her musical cry of delight, when, having directed
the rest of us to our presents, she at last uncovered her own. Our
treasures always exceeded in number and charm our wildest hopes,
although simplicity was the rule. Whatever my mother interested
herself about, she accomplished with a finish and spirit that
distinguished her performance as a title on a reputation distinguishes
common clay. She threw over it the faithful ardor which is akin to
miracle: the simplest twig in her hand budded; her dewdrops were
filled with all the colors of the rainbow, because with her the sun
always shone. She writes a description of our happy first Christmas in
England, in which are these passages: "We had no St. Nicholas or
Christmas-tree; and so, after all had gone to bed, I arranged the
presents upon the centre-table in the drawing-room. . . . From a vase
in the middle a banner floated with an inscription upon it: 'A Merry
Christmas to all!' Una had given Rose a little watch for her footman
Pompey; Mrs. O'Sullivan had sent her a porcelain rosary, which was put
in a little box; and Mr. Bright had sent her an illuminated edition of
'This is the House that Jack Built.' Julian found a splendid flag from
Nurse. This flag was a wonder. . . . The stripes were made of a rich
red and white striped satin, which must have been manufactured for the
express purpose of composing the American flag. The stars were
embroidered in silver on a dark blue satin sky. On the reverse, a rich
white satin lining bore Julian's cipher, surrounded with silver
embroidery. . . . The children amused themselves with their presents
all day. But first I took my new Milton and read aloud to them the
Hymn of the Nativity, which I do every Christmas." "How easy it is,"
my mother writes of a Christmas-tree for poor children, "with a small
thing to cause a great joy, if there is only the will to do it!" But
most deeply did we delight in the presents given to our beloved
parents, whom we considered to be absolutely perfect beings; and there
was nothing which we ever perceived to make the supposition
unreasonable. In one of Una's girlish letters she declares: "I will
tell you what has given me almost--nay, quite as great pleasure as any
I have had in England; that is, that Mamma has bought a gold
watch-chain. She bought it yesterday at Douglas." We had such
thorough lessons in generosity that they sometimes took effect in a
genuine self-effacement, like this. A letter from my mother joyfully
records of my brother:--
"Julian was asking Papa for a very expensive toy, and his father told
him he was very poor this year, because the Consulate had not much
business, and that it was impossible to buy him everything that struck
his fancy. Julian said no more; and when he went to bed he expressed
great condolence, and said he would not ask his father for anything if
he were so poor, but that he would give him all his own money
(amounting to five-pence halfpenny). When he lay down, his face shone
with a splendor of joy that he was able thus to make his father's
affairs assume a brighter aspect. This enormous sum of money which
Julian had he intended, at Christmas-time, to devote to buying a toy
for baby or for Una. He intended to give his all, and he could no
more. In the morning, he took an opportunity when I was not looking to
go behind his father, and silently handed him the fivepence halfpenny
over his shoulder. My attention was first attracted by hearing Mr.
Hawthorne say, 'No, I thank you, my boy; when I am starving, I will
apply to you!' I turned round, and Julian's face was deep red, and his
lips were quivering as he took back the money. I was sorry his father
did not keep it, however. I have never allowed the children to hoard
money. I think the flower of sentiment is bruised and crushed by a
strong-box; and they never yet have had any idea of money except to
use it for another's benefit or pleasure. Julian saw an advertisement
in the street of the loss of a watch, and some guineas reward. 'Oh,'
said he, 'how gladly would I find that watch, and present it to the
gentleman, and say, No reward, thank you, sir!'" My sister, who was
made quite delicate, at first, by the English climate, and acquired
from this temporary check and the position of eldest child a pathetic
nobility which struck the keynote of her character, writes from
Rockferry: "This morning of the New Year was very pleasant. It was
almost as good as any day in winter in America. I went out with Mamma
and Sweet Fern [Julian]. The snow is about half a foot deep. Julian
is out, now, playing. I packed him up very warmly indeed. I wish I
could go out in the new snow very much. Julian is making a hollow
house of snow by the rhododendron-tree." What not to do we learned
occasionally from the birds. "The little robins and a thrush and some
little sparrows have been here this morning; and the thrush was so
large that she ate up the crumbs very fast, and the other poor little
birds did not dare to come near her till she had done eating." My
father used to treat the Old and the New Year with the deepest
respect. I never knew the moments to be so immense as when, with
pitying gentleness, we silently attended the Old Year across the
ghostly threshold of midnight, and my father at last rose reverently
from his chair to open the window, through which, at that breath, the
first peals would float with new promise and remembering toll.
We children were expected to come into the presence of the grown
people and enjoy the interesting guests whom we all loved. My father
was skillful in choosing friends: they were rare, good men, and he and
they really met; their loves and interests and his were stirred by the
intercourse, as if unused muscles had been stretched. I could perceive
that my father and his best cronies glowed with refreshment. Mr.
Bennoch was a great favorite with us. He was short and fat, witty and
jovial. He was so different in style and finish from the tall, pale,
spiritual Henry Bright (whom my mother speaks of as "shining like a
star" during an inspiring sermon) that I almost went to sleep in the
unending effort to understand why God made so sharp a variety in
types. Mr. Bennoch wrote more poetry than Mr. Bright did, even, and
he took delight in breathing the same air with writers. But he himself
had no capacity more perfected than that of chuckling like a whole
brood of chickens at his own jokes as well as those of others. The
point of his joke might be obscure to us, but the chuckle never failed
to satisfy. He was a source of entire rest to the dark-browed,
deep-eyed thinker who smiled before him. The only anecdote of Mr.
Bennoch which I remember is of a Scotchman who, at an inn, was
wandering disconsolately about the parlor while his dinner was being
prepared. A distinguished traveler--Dickens, I think--was dashing off
a letter at the centre-table, describing the weather and some of the
odd fellows he had observed in his travels. "And," he wrote, "there
is in the room at the present moment a long, lank, red-headed,
empty-brained nincompoop, who looks as if he had not eaten a square
meal for a month, and is stamping about for his dinner. Now he
approaches me as I sit writing, and I hear his step pause behind my
chair. The fool is actually looking over my shoulder, and reading
these words"--A torrent of Scotch burst forth right here: "It's a lee,
sir,--it's a lee! I never read a worrd that yer wrort!" Screams from
us; while Mr. Bennoch's sudden aspect of dramatic rage was as suddenly
dropped, and he blazed once more with broad smiles, chuckling. I will
insert here a letter written by this dear friend in 1861:--
80 WOOD STREET, LONDON.
MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,--A few lines just received from Mr. Fields remind
me of my too long silence. Rest assured that you and yours are never
long out of our thoughts, and we only wish you were here in our
peaceful country, far removed from the terrible anxieties caused by
wicked and willful men on one side, and on the other permitted by the
incompetents set over you. How little you thought, when you suggested
to me the propriety of old soldiers only going into battle, that you
should have been absolutely predicting the unhappy course of events!
Do you remember adding that "a premium should be offered for men of
fourscore, as, with one foot in the grave, they would be less likely
to run away"? I observe that the "Herald" advises that "the
guillotine should be used in cropping the heads of a lot of the
officers, beginning at the city of Washington, and so make room for
the young genius with which the whole republic palpitates." . . .
Truly, my dear Hawthorne, it is a melancholy condition of things. Let
us turn to a far more agreeable subject! It is pleasant to learn that,
amid all the other troubles, your domestic anxieties have passed away
so far as the health of your family is concerned. The sturdy youth
will be almost a man, and Una quite a woman, while Rosebud will be
opening day by day in knowledge and deep interest. I hear that your
pen is busy, and that from your tower you are looking upon old England
and estimating her influences and the character of her people. Recent
experiences must modify your judgment in many ways. A romance laid in
England, painted as you only can paint, must be a great success. I
struggle on, and only wish I were worthy the respect my friends so
foolishly exhibit.
With affectionate regards to all, ever yours truly, F. BENNOCH.
On November 17, 1854, my mother writes:--"Last evening a great
package came from Mr. Milnes [Lord Houghton], and it proved to be all
his own works, and a splendid edition of Keats with a memoir by Mr.
Milnes. This elegant gift was only a return of favors, as Mr.
Hawthorne had just sent him some American books. He expended three
notes upon my husband's going to meet him at Crewe Hall, two of
entreaty and one of regret; but he declares he will have him at
Yorkshire. Mrs. Milnes is Lord Crewe's sister. The last note says:
'The books arrived safely, and alas! alone. When I get to Yorkshire,
to my own home, I shall try again for you, as I may find you in a more
ductile mood. For, seriously, it would be a great injustice--not to
yourself, but to us--if you went home without seeing something of our
domestic country life: it is really the most special thing about our
social system, and something which no other country has or ever will
have.'"
Another note from Lord Houghton is extant, saying:--
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--Why did not you come to see us when you were in
London? You promised to do so, but we sought you in vain. I wanted to
see you, mainly for your own sake, and also to ask you about an
American book which has fallen into my hands. It is called "Leaves of
Grass," and the author calls himself Walt Whitman. Do you know
anything about him? I will not call it poetry, because I am unwilling
to apply that word to a work totally destitute of art; but, whatever
we call it, it is a most notable and true book. It is not written
virginibus puerisque; but as I am neither the one nor the other, I may
express my admiration of its vigorous virility and bold natural truth.
There are things in it that read like the old Greek plays. It is of
the same family as those delightful books of Thoreau's which you
introduced me to, and which are so little known and valued here.
Patmore has just published a continuation of "The Angel in the House,"
which I recommend to your attention. I am quite annoyed at having
been so long within the same four seas with you, and having seen you
so little. Mrs. Milnes begs her best remembrances. I am yours very
truly,
RICHD. MONCKTON MILNES.
16 UPPER BROOK STREET, June 30.
It is a perpetual marvel with some people why some others do not wish
to be looked at and questioned. Dinner invitations were constantly
coming in, and were very apt to be couched in tones of anxious
surprise at the difficulty of securing my father. An illustration may
be found in this little note from Mr. Procter (father of Adelaide
Procter):--
32 WEYMOUTH STREET, Tuesday morning.
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--It seems almost like an idle ceremony to ask you
and Mrs. Hawthorne to dine here on Friday; but I cannot help it. I
have only just returned from a circuit in the country, and heard this
morning that you were likely to leave London in a few days. Yours
always sincerely,
B. W. PROCTER.
It was desirable to meet such people as Mr. Procter, and I have heard
enthusiastic descriptions, with which later my mother amused our quiet
days in Concord, of the intellectual pleasures that such friendships
brought, and of the sounding titles and their magnificent accessories,
with human beings involved, against whom my parents were now sometimes
thrust by the rapid tide of celebrity. But my father was never to be
found in the track of admiring social gatherings except by the deepest
scheming. In her first English letters my mother had written: "It is
said that there is nothing in Liverpool but dinners. Alas for it!"
The buzz of greeting was constant. It must have been delightful in
certain respects. She sent home one odd letter as a specimen of
hundreds of similar ones which came to my father from admirers. Yet
very soon individuals make a crowd, and the person who attracts their
attention is more nearly suffocated than the rest quite realize. His
attempts at self-preservation are not more than half understood, and,
if successful, are remembered with a dash of bitterness by the
onlookers.
To her husband in Liverpool, Mrs. Hawthorne writes:--
LONDON, September 19.
MY DEAREST,--At half past three Mrs. Russell Sturgis came in her
sumptuous barouche. We drove all through the fashionable squares and
Streets and parks, and all through Kensington, even to the real
Holland House. But Leigh Hunt's book went all out of my head when I
tried to think what he said about it. Mrs. Sturgis knows him very
well, and often visits him in his humble cottage. Oh, dear me! Such
superb squares and terraces as I saw! Mrs. Sturgis told me where Sir
E. B. Lytton, and many noted and noble persons, lived. We drove
through Mayfair, but I did not see Miss Cushman's house, I Bolton Row.
We certainly had a fine time. At five we got back, and I found the
Ambassador's card, and Miss Lane's, inviting us there this evening.
September 20. I was just hurrying off with Mr. Bright when I wrote the
two lines of post-script in my letter this morning, in answer to your
note,--so like you; so tender and kind. Since I must go away, I ought
not to have said a word; but you must ascribe what I said and say to
infinite love only; for it is only because of this that I do not look
forward with delight to a winter in Lisbon with the O'Sullivans. I
could not be happy if you made any sacrifice for me; and as our
interests are indissoluble, it would be my sacrifice, too. So I will
be good, and not distress you with more regrets. I once thought that
no power on earth should ever induce me to live without you, and
especially thought that an ocean should never roll between us. But I
am over-powered by necessity; and since my life is of importance to
you, I will not dare to neglect any means of preserving it.
This morning baby was dressed in a beautiful embroidered white frock
and blue sash, blue kid shoes, laced with blue ribbon, and blue silk
sack fastened with a blue girdle, and a hat trimmed with blue and
gray. Her long curls streamed out beneath: She was thus arrayed to
visit Portland Place and the Sturgis children. Una looked very lovely
in her summer cloud-muslin.
Mr. Bright came at twelve o'clock, bringing five or six superb
photographs of Cologne; I never saw any so splendid. Then we started
for the Crystal Palace. It has been one of the divinest days--one of
our days, like that at Stratford-on-Avon.' When we got into the cab,
however, Mr. Bright proposed to go to the Houses of Parliament first,
and then at last concluded to give up the Crystal Palace, and see the
sights of London instead. So we drove to the old St. James's Palace
Yard. But a police-officer said we could only go in on Saturday, and
then by a ticket from the Lord Chamberlain. I knew that, but supposed
Mr. Bright had some other means of gaining admittance. He had not,
nevertheless. He took us (Julian was with me) over Westminster Bridge.
. . . We went into the Photographic Exhibition of persons and places
at the Crimea, which was just like taking up groups of the army and
putting them before one's eyes. It must be of wonderful interest to
the relatives and friends of those who are there. The room was full of
fine-looking, aristocratic people. From this we drove to Kensington
Gardens; and I must say, my dear lord, that I never imagined any place
so grand and majestic, so royal and superb, as those grounds. The
trees--oh, the trees--every one of them kings, emperors, and Czars; so
tall, so rich, and the lawn beneath them so sunny-velvet green, all
made illustrious by the clearest warm sunshine, and a soft, sweet air.
The magnificent groves of trees all round; and far off in the
terminus, the towers and pinnacles of the Parliament Houses, and
Westminster Abbey towers, rise into the clear sky over the blue waters
of the Serpentine. A pretty yacht, with one white wing, slowly moved
along. Large, princely lambs grazed on the sunny lawns. I think that
thou wouldst have asked no more in the way of a park. We sat down on a
felled tree and talked awhile. I would almost give a kingdom to sit on
the tree again, with thee. Was not Mr. Bright good and lovely to
devote his only whole day in London to me? He certainly is the most
amiable and hospitable of mortals. THY DOVE.
My mother writes of Miss Bacon, who put Lord Bacon in that place in
her heart where Shakespeare should have been:--
MY DEAREST,--I have been reading Miss Bacon's manuscript this
afternoon, and it is marvelous. She reveals by her interpretation of
Lord Bacon more fully to me what I already divined dimly of the power
of Christ over nature; and it is the first word that I have found
spoken or written which is commensurate with my actual idea. I felt as
if I wanted to take this manuscript and all the others, and run off to
some profound retreat, and study it all over, and reproduce it again
with my own faculties. Oh, that I could read them with you! I almost
begin to love the pain with which I delve after the thoughts presented
in such a close and difficult handwriting.
To Miss Peabody:--
"Miss Bacon cannot speak out fairly [upon the subject of Bacon and
Shakespeare], though there is neither the Tower, the scaffold, nor the
pile of fagots to deter her. But she is a wonder and a benefactor,--
and let us not criticise her style; or rather, it is no matter whether
we did or not, so much remains for her. I did not see her. I was just
going to take Una and call upon her, when she went to Stratford.
"I hope Mr. Plumly has not forgotten his project of beneficence
[towards her]. It must be a foretaste of heaven to have money to give
away."