ENGLISH DAYS: III
Tourist letters describe Wordsworth's house and country at Rydal:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--I had a hope that when I left Rock Park I should
be clothed with wings, and be able to write letters and journal and to
draw. But I have been particularly wingless during the whole six weeks
of our absence, and have clone literally nothing but use my eyes. At
Windermere we left Una, Rose, and Nurse at a charming, homelike house,
and Mr. Hawthorne, Julian, and I went farther north. We went first to
Rydal and Grasmere, and at Grasmere Hotel, which is nearly opposite
the grave of Wordsworth, I had set my heart upon writing you a long
letter about those sacred places, especially sacred to you, the true
lover of Wordsworth. On a most superb afternoon we took an open
carriage at Lowood Hotel, where we had been staying for several days,
and drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our luggage and then drove
back to Rydal Water. We alighted just at the commencement of the lake,
intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The lake surprised me by
its extreme smallness,--in America we should never think of calling it
a lake; but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and mountains
that embosom it, and I thought it was irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to
say he "could carry it all away in a porringer." It has several very
small islands in it, and one rather larger, which is a heronry. The
lake and all the parks and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le
Fleming, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very ancient family in
those regions. We presently came to a fine old crag by the shore, up
which were some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure that
Wordsworth had often gone up there and looked off upon his beloved
Rydal from the summit. We went up and sat down where we knew he must
have sat, and there I could have dreamed for many hours. The gleam,
the shadow, and the peace supreme were there, and I thought with an
infinite joy how human beings have the power to consecrate the earth
by genius, heroic deeds, and even homely virtues. The gorgeous
richness of the vegetation, the fresh verdure, the living green of the
lawns and woodlands, flooded and gilded by the sunshine, made me
wonder whether the Delectable Mountain could be much more beautiful,
and made me realize deeply the poetic rapture, the noble, sustained
enthusiasm of Wordsworth in his descriptions of natural scenery. It is
only for perhaps a week in June that we in America can obtain an idea
of the magnificent richness and freshness of English scenery. How can
I find language airy and delicate enough to picture to you the fields
of harebells, tossing their lovely heads on their threadlike stems,
and bringing heaven to earth in the hue of their petals! Then the pale
golden cuckoo-buds, the yellow gorse, the stately foxglove, standing
in rows, like prismatic candelabra, all along the roadside,--and ah
me, alas!--the endless trees and vines of wild eglantine, with
blossoms of every shade of pink, from carmine to the faintest blush,
wreathing themselves about and throwing out into your face and hands
long streamers of buds and blossoms, so rarely and exquisitely lovely!
One wonders whether it can be true or whether one is dreaming on the
Enchanted Plain. I loved Wordsworth as I never could have done if I
had not been in the very place that knew him, and seen how and why he
worshiped as he did, what really seems there the perpetual Morning of
Creation.
At the right of the doorstep a superb fuchsia-tree stood, and I asked
the man to pluck me one of the jewel blossoms. But he declined to
approach so near, as he feared to disturb Mrs. Wordsworth. And he did
not introduce us into her presence, because he said Lady le Fleming
had told him never to disturb her with visitors, but only show them
the outside of the house. He said Lady le Fleming built the house and
it was hers, as well as everything else round about. But we might have
gone in, we now find, and Mrs. Wordsworth likes very much to see
people. So this intelligent man led us through the pretty gardens and
grounds, up and up and up innumerable steps in successive short
flights, through many wickets, till I began to think we could never
reach our goal. Finally we came to a spot of constant shade where was
a singularly shaped rock--a kind of slab--thrusting itself out from
the wall, in which a brass plate was inserted with an inscription by
Wordsworth, which we read. It expressed that he had pleaded for this
rock as often as he had for other natural objects.
The gardener opened a wicket, after passing the deep, shady nook, and
said, "This is Mr. Wordsworth's garden." I looked about and saw
troops of flowers, and sought for the white fox-glove, which was a
favorite of his, and found it; and the air was loaded with a fine
perfume, which I discovered to be from large beds of mignonette. In
those paths he walked and watched and tended his plants and shrubs.
Presently, after so much mounting of steps, and threading of
embowered paths and lanes of flowers, we were ushered into the grounds
immediately around the actual house. And the man first took us upon
that memorable terraced lawn, in great part made by Wordsworth's own
hands. It is circular, and the turf, like thick-piled velvet, yielding
to the feet and of delicious green--smooth and soft. Perhaps it is
thirty feet in diameter, and double, with a very high step. Beneath it
is a gravel walk, and then a hedge of thick shrubs. Julian flung
himself at full length on the velvet sward, and Mr. Hawthorne and I
sat down on the even tops of two stumps of trees, evidently intended
for seats, as one meets them everywhere, arranged for that purpose.
But how am I to tell you what I saw from them?
Wordsworth must have described it somewhere. It was his beloved view.
Richer could not have been the Vale of Cashmere. The mountains take
most picturesque forms, and after throwing against the sky bold and
grand outlines, they so softly curve down into the lovely dells that
they seemed doing homage to beauty, lordly and gentle. And far away at
the end of the valley, Windermere, Queen of the Lakes, reposed,
gleaming silvery blue. This fair, open eye completed the picture. In
that was the soul revealed. I wished I had had my sketch-book to draw
just the outlines, but was not too sorry, because I intended to go
again, and then I would have it. Now I was content to gaze alone.
The attractions of London are fully admitted by Mrs. Hawthorne, in
various letters, from which I gather these sentences:--
"At last I have found myself in London society. I suppose Ellen and
Mary [her nieces] would like to know what I wore on one occasion. I
had on a sky-blue glace silk, with three flounces, which were
embroidered with white floss, making a very silvery shine. The dress
had low neck and short sleeves; but I wore a jacket of starred blonde
with flowing sleeves; and had round me also a shawl of Madeira lace,
which, though very airy, fleecy, and cloud-looking, is warm and soft.
My headdress was pearl, in the shape of bunches of grapes and leaves,
mingled with blue ribbon, with a wreath of pearl-traced leaves round
my hair, which was rolled in coronet fashion. Was not that a pretty
dress?
"Mr. Hawthorne was invited to Monckton Millies' to a dejeuner, and met
there Macaulay, Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Lord Stanley, the Marquis of
Lansdowne, Lord Goderich, etc. He enjoyed it very much; and the
venerable old Marquis seemed bent on doing him honor and showing him
respect. He insisted upon Mr. Hawthorne's taking precedence of himself
on every occasion. It is an immense disappointment to me that we
cannot spend some months within daily reach of London, because I want
Mr. Hawthorne to take a very full draught of it. But I shall persuade
him to go up to the grim, glorious old city by himself, if possible."
My mother had been so seriously attacked by bronchitis as to endanger
her lungs, which led to a visit of six months to Lisbon and Madeira,
my father remaining at the Consulate. While in exile, she writes to
him:--
"I am all the time tumbling into fathomless reveries about going home.
"Dearest, I have an idea! Next winter, if you wish to remain in
England, and my coughing continues, I will tell you how I might do,
and be most happy and comfortable. I might remain in my chamber all
winter, and keep it at an even temperature, and exercise by means of
the portable gymnasium. I am sure the joy of your presence would be
better than any tropic or equator without you. And I hate to be the
means of your resigning from the Consulate."
We also went to Southport for my mother's health. Here she writes:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--The Doctor will not let me walk more than thirty
minutes at a time. Here there are no carriages with horses, but with
donkeys, sometimes two or three abreast. They will go out to the edge
of the deep sea. The donkeys walk, unless they take it into their
heads to run a little. One day I mounted Una and Julian on donkeys,
while Rose and I were in the carriage. One little girl belabored the
two saddled donkeys, and one guided my two. They were weather-beaten,
rosy girls, one with a very sweet young face. The elder conversed with
me awhile, and said the young gentleman's donkey was twenty years old
and belonged to her brother, who would surely die if they bartered it,
"because it is his, you know." She smiled reluctantly when I smiled at
her, as if she had too much care to allow herself to smile often, but
evidently she was a sound-hearted, healthy, contented child, ready to
shine back when shone upon.
Mr. Hawthorne now knows what has been my danger, and he is watchful of
every breath I draw; and I would not exchange his guardianship for
that of any winged angel of the hosts. God has given him to me for my
angel, only He makes him visible to my eye, as He does not every one's
angel. It seems as if even / never knew what felicity was till now. As
the years develop my soul and faculties, I am better conscious of the
pure amber in which I find myself imbedded.
The Doctor shows me that it is my DUTY to be self-indulgent, and I can
be so with a quiet conscience, and shall soon be all right in body, as
I am all right in mind and heart. Mr. Hawthorne never has anything. I
do not believe there is another spirit so little disturbed by its body
as his.
. . . Mr. Hawthorne, you may be sure, will take care of me. I should
think he would suppose you thought he had no interest in the matter;
but he thinks of nothing else, and would give up the Consulate to-day
if he saw it was best for me.
After so hard a beginning, I long for him to repose from anxiety for
the future of our life. I only wish that for others as well as for
ourselves the fables about this Consulate had been truths. Because
what my husband would like would be to find always his right hand
(unknown to his left) full of just what his fellow mortals might need,
with no more end of means than there is of will to bestow. In him is
the very poetry of beneficence, the pure, unalloyed fountain of
bounty. It has been well tested here, where every kind of woe and
want have besieged him.
That provoking Consular bill has been in force nearly two years,
depriving us of our rights to the amount now of about $35,000, because
ever since it became the law the times have been more prosperous. The
year before that the business was miserable. I think it was unjust
that the actual incumbents of the office should not have been allowed
to fulfill their terms with the conditions upon which they commenced
them. It was a bill hoisted in on the shoulders of the ministerial
bill, which very strangely does not come in play till 1857.
December u.
Mr. Hawthorne is dining in the suburbs of Liverpool this evening, with
a Mr. William Browne, M. P., to meet Baron Alderson. It is only the
second dinner he has been obliged to sacrifice himself to since we
have been in Southport. This Mr. Browne is a venerable gentleman, who
takes the trouble to go to the Consulate, and bend his white head in
entreaty, and he can no more be refused, all things considered, than
two and two can refuse to be four. So, at the present moment, there
sits my lord at the gorgeous board, shining like a galaxy with plate
and crystal. There was lately a banquet in honor of Mr. Browne,
which went off magnificently. All Liverpool and part of the county
shared in it; and the town was hung with banners from end to end, and
business was suspended. It was a superb day of bright sunshine and
perfectly dry streets, and the procession of the selected guests, and
then of subscribers, was immensely long. I believe fifteen hundred
collated at St. George's Hall; and on an elevated dais the twenty
invited guests sat. Mr. Hawthorne was one of these. He had received
notice that Monckton Milnes was to give him a toast, and a speech
would be expected. You may see by some papers that Mr. Milnes gave
"The United States;" but this is a mistake. It was "Nathaniel
Hawthorne." He was very cordial and complimentary; but he did not say,
as the reporter of the "Post" wrote, "that the 'Scarlet Letter' stuck
to the hearts of all who came in contact with it," as if it were a
kind of adhesive plaster; but that it "struck to the hearts of all who
read it." When Mr. Hawthorne rose there was such a thunder of applause
and cheers that, after a while, he actually sat down till quiet was
restored. Mr. Channing told me, day before yesterday, that his speech
was admirable, and delighted all who knew him, and made the Americans
proud of him. He sat beneath, but very near him. Was it not a burning
shame that I was not there? Many ladies were present in the galleries,
and one of them sent a footman to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting a flower
or a leaf as a memento. The modest and generous Mr. Browne [who had
just made a public bequest] was overwhelmed with the reverberations of
gratitude on every side. Mr. Hawthorne said he liked Lord Stanley,
though he was rather disappointed in his appearance. The latter had
to respond to "The House of Stanley." Lord Derby was to come, but was
unable. Before the banquet, the corner-stone was laid. What a wise
way this is--for rich men to make bequests during life. I hope many
will do likewise.
Yes, I have read about a thousand times over of Mr. Peabody's gift to
Baltimore. We have a great many American papers, and the English
papers repeat everything of importance. Mr. Browne has done the same
thing in Liverpool.
December 18. Mr. Hawthorne had a stupid time enough at Mr. Browne's
dinner at Richmond Hill. Mr. Browne himself is always stupid, and Mrs.
Browne never says a word. The judges were dumb and lofty with their
own grandeur, and communicated no ideas. Do you know how very grand
the judges are when in acto? Do you know that they are then kings, and
when the Queen is present they still have precedence? So Imperial is
Law in this realm. In going down to dinner, therefore, at Mr. Browne's
(whose dinner they kept waiting exactly an hour) they led the way,
followed humbly by the High Sheriff of the county, who is always the
first dignitary except where the judges lead. Then went the Mayor,
attended by one of his magnificent footmen in the Town livery, which
is so very splendid and imposing that "each one looks like twenty
generals in full military costume," as Mr. Hawthorne says; with
scarlet plush vests, innumerable cordons and tassels of gold,
small-clothes, and white hose, and blue coats embroidered with gold
flowers. No crowned emperor ever felt so blindingly superb, and how
they ever condescend to put down their feet on the floor is a wonder.
Mr. Hawthorne followed next to the Mayor. There being no conversation,
there was ample time to look at the truly gorgeous appointments of the
table, upon which no china appeared, but only massive plate. The
epergne was Phoebus Apollo in his chariot of the sun, with four horses
galloping perpetually along the table without moving. The
dessert-plates were bordered with wreaths of flowers and fruits in
high relief, all of silver. Perhaps Mr. Browne's wits have turned to
silver, as Midas's surroundings into gold. Mr. Hawthorne has gone to
another dinner this evening at the Mayor's. It is a state dinner to my
lords the judges. Baron Alderson nearly expires with preeminence on
these occasions, and perhaps he will cease to breathe to-night. These
are heavy hours to Mr. Hawthorne. London society has put him even
more out of patience than usual with Liverpool dinners, and I know he
is wishing he were at home at this moment. Last evening he was reading
to me the rare and beautiful "Espousals" of Coventry Patmore. Have you
seen "The Angel in the House" yet? It takes a truly married husband
and wife to appreciate its exquisite meaning and perfection; but with
your miraculous power of sympathy and apprehension, I think you will
enjoy it, next to us.
This evening, as I wrote, Prince Rose-red entered, holding aloft a
clay head which he had been modeling. It was a great improvement upon
the first attempts, and resembled Chevalier Daddi, Una's music-teacher
in Lisbon. He put it upon the grate to bake, and then lay down on the
rug, with his head on a footstool, to watch the process. But before
it was finished I sent him to bed. It is after ten now, and the
Chevalier has become thoroughly baked, with a crack across his left
cheek. In all sorts of athletic exercises, in which a young Titan is
required, Julian is eminent. Monsieur Huguenin, the gymnast, said
that in all his years of teaching athletics, he had never met but once
with his equal. Yet he moves in dancing in courtly measures and
motions, and when he runs, he throws himself on the wind like a bird,
and flits like a greyhound. Julian's great head is a delicately
organized one. I am obliged to have all his hats made expressly for
him, and my hatter, Mr. Nodder, says he never saw such a circumference
in his life. I always look upon his head as one of the planets.
Our house has been robbed by two notorious thieves. They had much
better have risked their lives in stealing the Hungarian Baron
Alderson, whose full dress is incrusted with forty thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds and emeralds. We have met with a greater loss than
these robbers caused us. Mrs. Blodget has all our luggage at her house
in Liverpool; and one of her servant-men opened two of my trunks,
which were in the cellar, and stole almost every piece of plate we
possess--all the forks and spoons, and so on. He has confessed, while
ill in a hospital. But Mr. Hawthorne will not prosecute him.
Have you read Froude's history, just published, from the period of the
fall of Wolsey to the death of Elizabeth? His style is wholly unlike
that of the stately, but rather tiresome unchangeable canter of
Macaulay's. Macaulay takes care of his style, but Froude is only
interested in his theme. I do not suppose any one historian has yet
climbed up to the pinnacle of perfect impartiality,--unless my darling
Herodotus, who has the simplicity of a child, and no theories at all.
But Macaulay's style tires me. He is so ferociously lucid that he
confuses me, as with too much light. It is the regular refrain of his
brilliant sentences that finally has the effect of a grand jangle of
musical instruments.
The Manchester Exhibition framed a particularly rare spectacle:--
MANCHESTER.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--We are now at Old Trafford, close by the Palace of
Art Treasures, which we have come here expressly to see. There is no
confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, though there are
thousands of the second-class people there every day. If you shut
your eyes, you only hear the low thunder of movement. . . . Yesterday
we were all there, and met--now, whom do you think? Even Tennyson. He
is the most picturesque of men, very handsome and careless-looking,
with a wide-awake hat, a black beard, round shoulders, and slouching
gait; most romantic, poetic, and interesting. He was in the saloons of
the ancient masters. Was not that rare luck for us? Is it not a wonder
that we should meet? His voice is also deep and musical, his hair wild
and stormy. He is clearly the "love of love and hate of hate," and "in
a golden clime was born." He is the Morte d'Arthur, In Memoriam, and
Maud. He is Mariana in the moated grange. He is the Lady Clara Vere de
Vere and "rare, pale Margaret." There is a fine bust of him in the
exhibition, and a beautiful one of Wordsworth. . . . Ary Scheffer's
Magdalen, when Christ says, "Mary!" is the greatest picture of his I
have ever seen. Ary Scheffer himself was at the exhibition the other
day. . . .
Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the Palace all day. We went up
into the gallery of engraving to listen to the music; and suddenly Una
exclaimed, "Mamma! there is Tennyson!" He was sitting by the organ,
listening to the orchestra. He had a child with him, a little boy, in
whose emotions and impressions he evidently had great interest; and I
presumed it was his son. I was soon convinced that I saw also his
wife and another little son,--and all this proved true. It was
charming to watch the group. Mrs. Tennyson had a sweet face, and the
very sweetest smile I ever saw; and when she spoke to her husband or
listened to him, her face showered a tender, happy rain of light. She
was graceful, too, and gentle, but at the same time had a slightly
peasant air. . . . The children were very pretty and picturesque, and
Tennyson seemed to love them immensely. He devoted himself to them,
and was absorbed in their interest. In him is a careless ease and a
noble air which show him of the gentle blood he is. He is the most
romantic-looking person. His complexion is _brun_, and he looks in ill
health and has a hollow line in his cheeks. . . . Allingham, another
English poet, told Mr. Hawthorne that his wife was an admirable one
for him,--wise, tender, and of perfect temper; and she looks all this;
and there is a kind of adoration in her expression when she addresses
him. If he is moody and ill, I am sure she must be a blessed solace
to him. When he moved to go, we also moved, and followed him and his
family faithfully. By this means we saw him stop at his own
photograph, to show it to his wife and children; and then I heard them
exclaim in sweet voices, "That is papa!" Passing a table where
catalogues were sold, . . . his youngest son stopped with the maid to
buy one, while Tennyson and his wife went on and downstairs. So then I
seized the youngest darling with gold hair, and kissed him to my
heart's content; and he smiled and seemed well pleased. And I was well
pleased to have had in my arms Tennyson's child. After my raid I went
on. . . .
Of this glimpse of the great poet fortunately accorded to our family
my father writes in the "Note-Books:" "Gazing at him with all my eyes,
I liked him very well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other
wonders of the exhibition." Again my mother refers to the interesting
experience:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--My last letter I had not time to even double up
myself, as Mr. Hawthorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool before I
was aware, and everything was huddled up in a hasty manner. It was
something about Tennyson's family that I was saying. I wanted you to
know how happy and loving they all seemed together. As Tennyson is in
very ill health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes thought his wife
might look worn and sad. I was delighted, therefore, to see her serene
and sweet face. I cannot say, however, that there was no solicitude in
it, but it was a solicitude entirely penetrated with satisfied
tenderness. . . .
I did not reply to your last long letter to me about slavery. . . .
There is not a single person whom I know or ever talked with who
advocates slavery. Your letters to me would be far more appropriate to
a slaveholder. . . . I do not see how they apply to me at all. . . .
There has been the customary misinterpretation of calm justice in the
case of my father's moderation during the wild ardor of abolition.
This sort of ardor is very likely necessary in great upheavals, but it
is not necessary that every individual should join the partisans
(while they slash somewhat promiscuously) at the expense of his own
merciful discretion. My mother writes in eloquent exposition of her
husband's and her own loyalty to the highest views in regard to the
relations of all members of the human family, but she never convinced
the hot fidelity of the correspondents of her own household. I will
add a letter and note, from Hawthorne to Miss Peabody, partly upon
this subject:--
LIVERPOOL, August 13th, '57.
DEAR E.,--I return this manuscript pamphlet on the Abolition question,
for I do not choose to bother Sophia with it; and yet should think it
a pity to burn so much of your thought and feeling. You had better
publish it. I speak trustingly, though not knowingly, of its merits;
for to tell you the truth, I have read only the first line or two, not
expecting much benefit even were I to get the whole by heart. No doubt
it seems the truth of truth to you; but I do assure you that, like
every other Abolitionist, you look at matters with an awful squint,
which distorts everything within your line of vision; and it is queer,
though natural, that you think everybody squints, except yourselves.
Perhaps they do; but certainly you do.
As regards Goodrich's accounts of the relations between him and me, it
is funny enough to see him taking the airs of a patron; but I do not
mind it in the least, nor feel the slightest inclination to defend
myself, or be defended. I should as soon think of controverting his
statement about my personal appearance (of which he draws no very
lovely picture) as about anything else that he says. So pray do not
take up the cudgels on my behalf; especially as I perceive that your
recollections are rather inaccurate. For instance, it was Park
Benjamin, not Goodrich, who cut up the "Story-teller." As for
Goodrich, I have rather a kindly feeling towards him, and he himself
is a not unkindly man, in spite of his propensity to feed and fatten
himself on better brains than his own. Only let him do that, and he
will really sometimes put himself to some trouble to do a good-natured
act. His quarrel with me was, that I broke away from him before he had
quite finished his meal, and while a portion of my brain was left; and
I have not the slightest doubt that he really felt himself wronged by
my so doing. Really, I half think so too. He was born to do what he
did, as maggots to feed on rich cheese.
Sophia has enjoyed herself much for some months past, and enjoyment
seems to agree with her constitution, for her health and vigour have
been very satisfactory. Neither did I ever have a better time in my
life, than during our recent tours in England and Scotland. Between
us, we might write an immense book of travels. I have six or seven
volumes of journals, written during my residence in England; but
unfortunately, it is written with so free and truth-telling a pen that
I never shall dare to publish it. Perhaps parts of it shall be read to
you, some winter evening, after we get home; but I entirely yield the
palm to Sophia on the score of fullness and accuracy of description.
[Considerably more of the letter is cut off, and the following
fragment of another letter is pasted over a portion of the first.]
LIVERPOOL, October 8th, '57.
DEAR E.,--I read your manuscript Abolition pamphlet, supposing it to
be a new production, and only discovered afterwards that it was the
one I had sent back. Upon my word, it is not very good; not worthy of
being sent three times across the ocean; not so good as I supposed you
would always write, on a subject in which your mind and heart were
interested. However, since you make a point of it, I will give it to
Sophia, and will tell her all about its rejection and return.
Pictures of Leamington and its vicinity were sent home, as follows:--
No. 10 LANSDOWNE CIRCUS, LEAMINGTON, WARWICKSHIRE, September 9, 1857.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Do not suppose that we are among horses,
mountebanks, and clowns by my date. On the contrary, we are in a
charming little paradise of gardens, with a park in the centre,
towards which all these gardens converge. It is such a paradise as
the English only know how to make out of any given flat bit of land.
Fancy a circle of houses at the end of a street. They are white
stucco houses, with balconies leading out of the drawing-rooms, in
which to sit and enjoy the gardens, made up of sunny green lawns,
bright rainbow flowers, and dark green shrubbery and trees. The park
is full of lovely trees and evergreens, with lawns and gravel-walks.
We are in profound quiet. Nothing but a bird's note ever breaks our
stillness. The air is full of mignonette, roses, and wallflowers. It
is autumn; but the grass and foliage are like those of early spring or
summer.
In Manchester, which we have lately visited, I found that the foul air
of the manufactories made me cough more, and the moment Mr. Hawthorne
perceived it, he decided to come away. Nothing but the Palace of Art
would ever have made us think of being one hour in such a nasty old
ugly place. I could never be weary of looking at some of the
masterpieces, to the end of my clays. I should think the Good Shepherd
would convert the Jew, Baron L. R., to Christianity; for it is his.
No words can possibly do justice to that, or to the Madonna in Glory.
. . .
September 12. To-day we went to Kenilworth. There was not blue sky
enough to encourage Mr. Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o'clock we
set forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air. By a short turn
out of our Circus we came into a street called Regent's Grove, on
account of a lovely promenade between noble trees for a very
long-distance, almost to the railroad station; and Una and I walked
that way, leaving Mr. Hawthorne and Julian to follow, as we wished to
saunter. They overtook us, having gone down the Parade, which is the
principal street, containing hotels and shops; and it crosses at right
angles Warwick Street, which reaches for several miles, until it
arrives at Warwick Castle itself.
The bright greens of England seem to be lined with gold; and in the
autumn, the leaves merely turn their golden linings.
The approach to the domain of Kenilworth is through roads with trees,
winding along, and also across a narrow river, which we should call a
brook, glimpses of the castle towers appearing at every turn.
The grass was very wet, and I had no india-rubbers, and Mr. Hawthorne
went off with Una to buy me some, being resolved to make them, I
believe, if he could not find any in the only shop not explored, for
we had already tried for them. He returned with the only pair in
Kenilworth that would fit me--and the last pair the shopman had left
in his box. . . . The ivy, after climbing up the sides of the Castle
in a diffusive embrace, reaches the crumbling battlements; and to
conceal the gnawing teeth of time there, it rises into perfect trees,
full and round, where it does not find it lovelier to trail over and
hang in festoons and wreaths and tassels. Ivy and time contend for the
mastery, and have a drawn battle of it. Enormous hawthorn-trees,
large as our largest horse-chestnuts, also abound around the Castle,
and are now made rich and brilliant with scarlet haws. Mr. Hawthorne
and I were filled with amazement at their size. Instead of the rich
silk hangings which graced the walls when Elizabeth entered the
banqueting-room, now waved the long wreaths of ivy, and instead of
gold borders, was sunshine, and for music and revel--SILENCE--
profound, not even a breeze breaking it. For we had again one of
those brooding, still days which we have so often been fortunate
enough to have among ruined castles and abbeys. Bare stone seats are
still left around Elizabeth's boudoir, upon which, when softly
cushioned with gold, she sat, and saw a fair prospect. The park and
chase extended twenty miles!
Nothing but music can ever equal or surpass architecture in variety of
utterance. Music is poetry to the ear, architecture to the eye, and
poetry is music and architecture to the soul, for it can reproduce
both. Music, however, seems to be freer from all shackles than any
other art; and I remember that in one of my essays for Margaret
Fuller, I made it out to my own satisfaction to be the apex of
expression. The old Glasgow verger of whom I wrote you had not got so
far as to see that it needed the "Kist of Whistles," as he called the
organ, to make his beloved Cathedral soar and glow with life and
praise to its utmost capacity. But I cannot say that it does not sing,
even without a sound, in its immortal curves, as Ruskin calls those
curves that return in no conceivable time or space. Cathedrals sing,
and they also pray, with pointed arches for folded hands. Julian
liked these ruins better than any he had seen, he said; and he climbed
up on the dismantled turret of Leicester's buildings, and settled
himself among the ivy like some rare bird with wonderful eyes. His
hair had grown very long, and clustered round his head in hyacinthine
fashion, and I think my lord would have been glad to call him his
princely boy. [Such things he never allowed himself to say.] All the
princeliness that lies in clustering curls Julian has lost to-day, for
a hair-dresser has cropped him like a Puritan.
As for myself, fine weather, flower-filled lanes, sturdy walks, and
the zest of environs that aroused the rest of the family through
association as well as loveliness, seemed to awaken in my mind a vivid
era that was exciting if laborious. I had night-vigils which were
delightfully entertained by a faculty for hearing quite splendid
music,--music that my imagination composed with a full orchestra of
admirable brilliancy; and I was also able to see in perfect
distinctness a splendid bazaar, filled with any quantity of toys,
which I could summon at will. But this pastime required a great deal
of will-power, a peculiar subtlety of condition, and could only be
kept up for a few moments at a time; and in the course of several
months the charming capacity was modified to that of being able to
evoke most clearly scenes where imaginary characters, more real than
actual companions, leaped into being, and talked and moved to any
extent. I suppose numbers of people have this faculty, and it is a
sovereign protection against ennui; or would be, if remedies could
always be relied upon. I mention these matters to prove that I
moderately possessed artistic perception. I can see, nevertheless,
quite well, that I must have been a very stupid child most of the
time, and that the befogged state of my mind was certainly a pity and
perhaps a shame. Yet there was a sort of advantage in it: fogs choose
with much good sense what they will emphasize; and the intellect
bereft of fussy clearness may have a startling grasp that reminds one
of occult methods. My observations could not pretend to so much, but
they caught truths not very often stared into capture by a little
girl; and my father interested me more, and was more frequently the
subject of my meditations, than any one else.
In Leamington there seemed to be some opportunity for quiet pursuits.
In the first place, there were great preparations for Christmas; which
means, that my sister Una made a few little hand-worked presents in
complete secrecy, and there was a breathless spending of a few
sixpences. If a good deal of money was used by my parents, it was
never distributed with freedom, but for those luxuries which would
gather the least rust; and not a little was exchanged for heavenly
treasure itself, in charity that answered appeals too pathetic to
disregard. And we children learned--though we did not learn to save
money, because our parents could not--to go without the luxuries money
oftenest brings; a lesson that comes to happy fruition in maturer
life, if there is need of it. I say happy, because we look back with
joy to the hours spent in toughening the sinews of endurance. I
remember that long and Penelope-like were my own Christmas
preparations; but what they evolved is a matter as lost to thought as
a breeze on the desert, in spite of the clearness with which I
remember the gifts from my sister and our genteel Nurse, Fanny, who
was with us again, and shone more sweetly than ever in Leamington.
The handsomest objects we had were given us by Fanfan, or Fancy, as my
mother called her. My mother writes, "Our Twelfth Cake was a superb
little illuminated Book of Ruth, which never can be eaten up, and will
be a joy forever to all our posterity after us, and to our
contemporaries."
I will insert here an account of how perfect the smoothness of English
mechanism may be:--
13 CHARLES STREET, BATH.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--We asked the porter at the depot to tell us of a
good hotel, and he sent us to York House. After being deposited in it,
with our stones round our necks (as I call our luggage), we found it
was not only the first hotel in Bath, but one famous throughout the
land. A terrible fear came over me that a year's income would scarcely
defray our expenses even for one day and night; but as we did not
arrive till five, we could not leave till the next day. So we had
nothing to do but to take it grandly. We were put in possession of a
lordly sitting-room, hung with crimson. There was nothing gaudy, but a
solid richness. Papa and Mamma were the Duke and Duchess of Maine [in
remembrance of a lordly claim at Raymond], Julian was Lord Waldo, and
Una, Lady Raymond. The finest cut crystal, and knives and forks with
solid silver handles, and spoons too heavy to lift easily, delicate
rose and gold china, and an entire service of silver dishes, came upon
the table. Our attendants were the Sublime and the Pensive, in the
form of two men. The Sublime had a bosom full of linen lilies in
peculiarly wide bloom; while the Pensive was adorned rather with
snowdrops. Their footfalls were descending snowflakes, their manners
devout, solemn, and stately. It was really quite delicious, just for a
short time; and it was impossible not to be convinced that we at least
came over with William the Conqueror; or we might be descended in a
straight line from Prince Bladud, who flourished in Bath eight hundred
years before the Christian era. At all events, we were the noblest in
the land, and received the salaams of the Sublime and the Pensive as
obviously due to our exalted rank. As I looked at my husband, so
kingly in aspect by nature, of such high courtesy in manner; and at
Una, princesslike, with her sweet dignity, I did not at all wonder at
the stolen glances of our waiters; that looking without looking for
which a thorough-bred English waiter is so remarkable. Lord Waldo also
"bore it well;" and as to the Lady Rose, she might have bloomed in a
royal conservatory. Sumptuous wax candles, in richly chased silver
candlesticks, lighted us up in the evening. Whenever I left the
sitting-room for my chamber, the Sublime was suddenly at the door to
open and shut it for me, bowing down with all his lilies. Ah, me! But
how can I describe the York House table! Such Apician food, so
delicately touched with fire! And who can ever sing adequately the
graceful curves in which the Pensive swept off the covers, at the
sound of some inaudible music--inaudible except to his ear--as soon as
we were all seated! I felt so grand that I was ready to shout with
laughter--having gone full circle from the sublime to the ridiculous
several times. I felt the ducal coronet on my brow, flashing fine
flames from diamonds and emeralds. His Grace's diadem put my eyes out
(as it often does, even when not in York House, and we not all in full
dress). The weather was dull and cold, and a glorious fire blazed in
the large grate, fed and tended by a third noiseless apparition, the
Soft, in the shape of a boy, who gently deposited black boulders of
coal without raising any dust, and with a brush delicately invited
away the ashes from the bars and the hearth, and poked as one would
kiss a sleeping babe. The eyes of the Soft did not wander; they were
kept snug beneath their lids with well-trained reverence; and this
genius of the fire always appeared as soon as the glow began to fade,
as if by inspiration. In my large chamber, draped with white muslin
over rose color and drab damask, a superb fire glowed. I must make an
end of this nonsense.
The next day I drove about Bath to get apartments,--the first hour in
vain; and everybody said the city was full, and we should not succeed.
The children cried out to stay in York House, enjoying the luxury. But
again I took a Bath chair, and with Fanny the nurse at my side to talk
for me, and Rosebud to look out for signs of "To Let," we tried again,
and found this modest house; where, such is the simplicity of my
nature, I am ten times as comfortable and at home as at even York
House, with its shaded grandeur. Yet I am very fond of splendor, I
have to confess; and, moreover, our surprise was great when, upon
demanding the account, the Sublime brought on a silver salver charges
actually more moderate than those of many inferior hotels all about
England.
I will proceed here with our visit to Redcar, though that occurred in
1859, when we had returned from Rome.
Redcar is in the midst of a stately region, grand with an outline of
hard-bosomed, endless beach and vast sky, of sea and sand-hills, where
my father stands forth very distinctly in my memory. When he went out
at fixed hours of the day, between the hours for writing, he walked
over the long, long beach, and very often with my brother and myself;
stopping now and then in his firm, regal tread to look at what nature
could do in far-stretching color and beckoning horizon line. Along the
sand-hills, frolicking in the breeze or faithfully clinging in the
strong wind to their native thimbleful of earth, hung the cerulean
harebells, to which I ardently clambered, listening for their chimes.
In the preface to "Monte Beni," the compliment paid to Redcar is well
hidden. My father speaks of reproducing the book (sketched out among
the dreamy interests of Florence) "on the broad and dreary sands of
Redcar, with the gray German Ocean tumbling in upon me, and the
northern blast always howling in my ears." Nothing could have pleased
him better as an atmosphere for his work; all that the atmosphere
included he did not mean to admit, just then. And London was not so
very far away.
On September 9, 1859, my mother says in her diary, "My husband gave me
his manuscript to read." There are no other entries on that clay or
the next, except, "Reading manuscript." On the 11th she says, "Reading
manuscript for the second time." The diary refers to reading the
manuscript on the third day, but on the two following days, in which
she was to finish as much of the romance as was ready, there are
wholly blank spaces. These mean more than words to me, who know so
well how she never set aside daily rules, and how unbrokenly her
little diaries flow on. She writes home:--
"Mr. Hawthorne has about finished his book. More than four hundred
pages of manuscripts are now in the hands of the publishers. I have
read as much as that, but do not yet know the denouement. He is very
well, and in very good spirits, despite all his hard toil of so many
months. As usual, he thinks the book good for nothing, and based upon
a very foolish idea which nobody will like or accept. But I am used to
such opinions, and understand why he feels oppressed with disgust of
what has so long occupied him. The true judgment of the work was his
first idea of it, when it seemed to him worth the doing. He has
regularly despised each one of his books immediately upon finishing
it. My enthusiasm is too much his own music, as it were. It needs the
reverberation of the impartial mind to reassure him that he has not
been guilty of a betise.
"Mr. Hawthorne had no idea of portraying me in Hilda. Whatever
resemblance one sees is accidental."
On November 8 (we were then in Leamington once more) she records in
very large script, "My husband to-day finished his book, 'The Romance
of Monte Beni.'"
My mother was especially fortunate in finding the smallest rose-tinted
and most gleaming among the shells which we came across upon the
sands, and of these a few superlative but almost invisible specimens
were long the cherished possession of her English work-box. She often
went with me to the sands, spending much time there; her diary saying:
"Superb, calm day. I went on sands with Rosebud to gather shells.
Stayed three hours." Or: "Most superb day possible. I went on the
sands with Rose, and sat all the morning in a sand-chair, reading,
while Rose played. It was a divine day; the air like rose petals, the
sky cerulean, the sea sapphire. I felt so serene and quiet;--a great
calm." Then comes the inevitable contrast: "Tremendous sea. Rose and I
went on the sands to gather shells." These shells, which we could none
of us find in so perfect a state as my mother could, were
object-lessons to me in the refinements of art, as the harebells were
in the refinements of nature; for were not the dancing flowers alive,
and the stirless shells the passive work of thought?
Sometimes she read Disraeli's "Sibyl," while I built a sand fortress
round her; or she read "Venetia," "Oliver Twist," "The Life of Mary
II.," "Romany Rye," and "The Lives of the Last Four Popes." She
remembered Pio Nono with unflagging interest, and mentions his serious
illness, and then his recovery. She read "a queer biography of
Wordsworth by Hood," and she regarded Carlyle's diction in the "French
Revolution" as "rubbishy."
Besides the pilgrimages in search of shells, another pursuit was
inaugurated by my mother, in her breathlessly calm way, which was the
finding of multitudinous seaweeds of every eccentricity of style. The
Yankee elm, the English oak, the kitchen-garden herb, or Italian
stone-pine, the fern, and tresses, as they seemed, of women's fair or
dusky hair, were all so cleverly imitated by the seaweeds that one
might have supposed them to be the schoolbooks of the sea; or the
latest news there, regarding the nature of the dry world. Many spare
moments were given to mounting these pretty living pictures of
growths. My lack of success in producing a single very neat specimen
was, I grieve to admit, hardly bettered by any of us; my father
joining in the scientific excess only so far as to turn his luminous
eyes upon our enthusiasm, with his genial "h'm-m" of permission.
Excursions were made to Whitby, Wilton Castle, and other places; and I
made an excursion on my own account, which kept me lame for some time.
"Rose fell and hurt her knees and elbow, following a monkey." But my
most considerate mother would never have let me perceive the humorous
and possibly unintelligent aspect of my adventurous spirit; and the
next day she tenderly inscribes the historical fact, "Poor baby lame."
Here are a few words of testimony, from my sister, to the charm of
this shore:--
REDCAR, October 4, 1859.
Our last day in Redcar, dearest aunt Lizzie; and a most lovely one it
is. The sea seems to reproach us for leaving it. But I am glad we are
going, for I feel so homesick that I want constant change to divert my
thoughts. How troublesome feelings and affections are! When one ought
to forget, they are strongest.
Your loving niece,
U. H.
I thought that the petty lodging in which we were established was an
odd nook for my father to be in. I liked to get out with him upon the
martial plain of sand and tremendous waves, where folly was not, by
law of wind and light of Titan power, and where the most insignificant
ornament was far from insignificant: the whorl of an exquisite shell,
beautiful and still, as if just dead; or the seaweeds, that are so
like pictures of other growths. I felt that this scene was a worthy
one for the kind but never familiar man who walked and reflected
there. We enjoyed a constant outdoor life. But in those uninspired
hours when there was no father in sight, and my mother was resting in
seclusion, I played at grocer's shop on the sands with a little girl
called Hannah, whom I then despised for her name, her homely neat
clothes, her sweetness and silence, and in retrospect learned to love.
As we pounded brick, secured sugary-looking sands of different tints,
and heaped up minute pebbles, a darkly clad, tastefully picturesque
form would approach,--a form to which I bowed down in spirit as,
fortunately for me, my father. He would look askance at my utterly
useless, time-frittering amusement, which I already knew was withering
my brain and soul. In his tacit reproach my small intellect delighted,
and loftier thoughts than those of the counter would refresh me for
the rest of the day; and I thankfully returned to the heights and
lengths of wide nature, full of color and roaring waves.