July 5.
MY DEAR MARY, — You mistake much when you say you will not hear from me after I have gone to my own home. I shall tell those who are dear to me that I love them still. I feel to-day like a rising Phoenix.
Mr. Hawthorne has been here, looking like the angel of the Apocalypse, so powerful and gentle. It seems as if I were realizing the dreams of the poets in my own person. Just think of the felicity of showing him my inscriptions with pencil and sculpturing-tool — and he so just and severe a critic! He is far the best critic I ever had. The agent of Heaven in this Concord plan was Elizabeth Hoar; a fit minister on such an errand, for minister means angel of God. Her interest has been very great in every detail. . . . Yours affectionately,
SOPHIA.
The following note is descriptive of the real happiness in the marriage, which was felt and often uttered by friends: —
DEAR SOPHIA, — I am not much used to expressing to others what I feel about them, but I will give way to the feeling which prompts me to tell you how much I think about you now. An event like your marriage with Mr. Hawthorne is, like the presence of a few persons in this world, precious to me as an assurance of the good we all long for. I do not know your husband personally, but I care for him so much that I could well do the thought of him a passing reverence, like the young man who, I was told, uncovered his head as he passed Mr. Hawthorne's house. Perhaps you are too much absorbed to recognize now, even in thought, the greeting of a friend; perhaps we shall meet very little hereafter, as indeed we have hardly been intimate heretofore; but I shall remember you with interest. Affectionately yours,
E. S. HOOPER.
Mrs. Hawthorne's letters and journals while at the Old Manse now portray a beautiful existence: —
CONCORD, December 18, 1842.
MY DEAR MARY [Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem], — I hoped I should see you again, before I came home to our Paradise. I intended to give you a concise history of my elysian life. Soon after we returned, my dear lord began to write in earnest; and then commenced my leisure, because, till we meet at dinner, I do not see him. I have had to sew, as I did not touch a needle all summer, and far into the autumn, Mr. Hawthorne not letting me have a needle or a pen in my hand. We were interrupted by no one, except a short call now and then from Elizabeth Hoar, who can hardly be called an earthly inhabitant; and Mr. Emerson, whose face pictured the promised land (which we were then enjoying), and intruded no more than a sunset, or a rich warble from a bird.
One evening, two days after our arrival at the Old Manse, George Hillard and Henry Cleveland appeared for fifteen minutes, on their way to Niagara Falls, and were thrown into raptures by the embowering flowers and the dear old house they adorned, and the pictures of Holy Mothers mild on the walls, and Mr. Hawthorne's Study, and the noble avenue. We forgave them for their appearance here, because they were gone as soon as they had come, and we felt very hospitable. We wandered down to our sweet, sleepy river, and it was so silent all around us and so solitary, that we seemed the only persons living. We sat beneath our stately trees, and felt as if we were the rightful inheritors of the old abbey, which had descended to us from a long line. The treetops waved a majestic welcome, and rustled their thousand leaves like brooks over our heads. But the bloom and fragrance of nature had become secondary to us, though we were lovers of it. In my husband's face and eyes I saw a fairer world, of which the other was a faint copy. I fast ceased to represent Lilias Fay, under the influence of happiness, peace, and rest. We explored the woods. Sarah the maid was very tasty, and we had beautiful order; and when we ran races down the avenue, or I danced before my husband to the measures of the great music-box, she declared it did her heart good to see us as joyful as two children.
December 30. Sweet, dear Mary, nearly a fortnight has passed since I wrote the above. I really believe I will finish my letter to-day, though I do not promise. That magician upstairs is very potent! In the afternoon and evening I sit in the Study with him. It is the pleasantest niche in our temple. We watch the sun, together, descending in purple and gold, in every variety of magnificence, over the river. Lately, we go on the river, which is now frozen; my lord to skate, and I to run and slide, during the dolphin-death of day. I consider my husband a rare sight, gliding over the icy stream. For, wrapped in his cloak, he looks very graceful; perpetually darting from me in long, sweeping curves, and returning again — again to shoot away. Our meadow at the bottom of the orchard is like a small frozen sea, now; and that is the present scene of our heroic games. Sometimes, in the splendor of the dying light, we seem sporting upon transparent gold, so prismatic becomes the ice; and the snow takes opaline hues, from the gems that float above as clouds. It is eminently the hour to see objects, just after the sun has disappeared. Oh, such oxygen as we inhale! Often other skaters appear, — young men and boys, — who principally interest me as foils to my husband, who, in the presence of nature, loses all shyness, and moves regally like a king. One afternoon, Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau went with him down the river. Henry Thoreau is an experienced skater, and was figuring dithyrambic dances and Bacchic leaps on the ice — very remarkable, but very ugly, methought. Next him followed Mr. Hawthorne who, wrapped in his cloak, moved like a self-impelled Greek statue, stately and grave. Mr. Emerson closed the line, evidently too weary to hold himself erect, pitching headforemost, half lying on the air. He came in to rest himself, and said to me that Hawthorne was a tiger, a bear, a lion, — in short, a satyr, and there was no tiring him out; and he might be the death of a man like himself. And then, turning upon me that kindling smile for which he is so memorable, he added, “Mr. Hawthorne is such an Ajax, who can cope with him!”
After the first snowstorm, before it was so deep, we walked in the woods, very beautiful in winter, and found slides in Sleepy Hollow, where we became children, and enjoyed ourselves as of old, — only more, a great deal. Sometimes it is before breakfast that Mr. Hawthorne goes to skate upon the meadow. Yesterday, before he went out, he said it was very cloudy and gloomy, and he thought it would storm. In half an hour, oh, wonder! what a scene! Instead of black sky, the rising sun, not yet above the hill, had changed the firmament into a vast rose! On every side, east, west, north, and south, — every point blushed roses. I ran to the Study, and the meadow sea also was a rose, the reflection of that above. And there was my husband, careering about, glorified by the light. Such is Paradise.
In the evening we are gathered together beneath our luminous star, in the Study, for we have a large hanging astral lamp, which beautifully illumines the room, with its walls of pale yellow paper, its Holy Mother over the fireplace, and pleasant books, and its pretty bronze vase, on one of the secretaries, filled with ferns. Except once Mr. Emerson, no one hunts us out in the evening. Then Mr. Hawthorne reads to me. At present we can only get along with the old English writers, and we find that they are the hive from which all modern honey is stolen. They are thick-set with thought, instead of one thought serving for a whole book. Shakespeare is preeminent; Spenser is music. We dare to dislike Milton when he goes to heaven. We do not recognize God in his picture of Him. There is something so penetrating and clear in Mr. Hawthorne's intellect, that now I am acquainted with it, merely thinking of him as I read winnows the chaff from the wheat at once. And when he reads to me, it is the acutest criticism. Such a voice, too, — such sweet thunder! Whatever is not worth much shows sadly, coming through such a medium, fit only for noblest ideas. From reading his books you can have some idea of what it is to dwell with Mr. Hawthorne. But only a shadow of him is found in his books. The half is not told there. Your true friend,
SOPHIA A. HAWTHORNE.
P. S. Mr. Hawthorne sends his love to your husband.
CONCORD, April 6, 1843.
MY DEAREST MARY, — I received your letter of April 2 late last evening. It is one, I am sure, which might call a response out of a heart of adamant; and mine, being of a tenderer substance, it answers with all its chords. Dear, sweet, tender, loving Mary, you are mor
e like Herder's Swan than anything else I can think of. The spirits of your translated babes bring you airs from heaven. What a lovely trinity of souls; what a fair star they form, according to Swedenborg's beautiful idea. I doubt not there is a path of descent, like that of Jacob's ladder, from their Father's bosom to your heart, and they ascend and descend, like those angels of his dream.
Dear Mary, just imagine my husband in reality, as faintly shadowed in his productions. Fresh as a young fountain, with childlike, transparent emotions; vivid as the flash of a sword in the sun with sharp wit and penetration; of such an unworn, unworldly observance of all that is enacted and thought under the sun; as free from prejudice and party or sectarian bias as the birds, and therefore wise with a large wisdom that is as impartial as God's winds and sunbeams. His frolic is like the sport of Milton's “unarmed youth of heaven.” But I will not pretend to describe his intellect; and I have by no means yet searched it out. I repose in it as upon some elemental force, which always seems just created, though we cannot tell when it began to be. Of his beautiful, genial, tender, and great nature I can still less adequately discourse. His magnanimity, strength, and sweetness alternately, and together, charm me. He fascinates, wins, and commands.
We have passed the winter delightfully, reading to each other, and lately studying German. I knew a little, just enough to empower me to hold the rod, and be somewhat impertinent, and I have entire preeminence in the way of pronunciation. But ever and anon I am made quite humble by being helped out of thick forests by my knight, instead of guiding him. So we teach each other in the most charming manner, and I call it the royal road to knowledge, finally discovered by us. Mr. Hawthorne writes all the morning. Do you see “The Democratic Review”? In the March number is “The Procession of Life.” Mr. Jonathan Phillips told Elizabeth he thought it a great production, and immediately undertook to read all else my husband had written. “The Celestial Railroad,” for the April number, is unique, and of deep significance. It is a rare privilege to hear him read his manuscript aloud with the true expression.
Elizabeth Hoar has taken tea with us only once this winter, and I have seen her very rarely. The walking is so bad in the country in winter that only tall boots can cope with it. Unawares one foot sinks down to the Celestial Empire, and the other anchors in the moon. I have had to confine myself principally to the avenue, through which our Flibbertigibbet [or Imp] made a clear path for me. Mr. Thoreau has been pretty often, and is very interesting. Mr. Emerson, from January, was at the South; so Sirius was not visible to the eye for nearly three months.
Among other things, I have been very much interested in teaching my Irish angel to read and write. She is as bright as Burke, and repays me an hundredfold by her progress. She is so sweet and generous and gentle, that it is pleasant to happen upon her pretty face about the house.
Mr. Hawthorne, says I must tell you that he shall be most happy to meet you in heaven; but he wishes you would as a preliminary come and spend a week with us this summer. He says this is the best way to get acquainted with him.
To Mrs. Peabody, now living in Boston, Sophia writes: —
May.
DARLING MOTHER, — I find my heart cannot rest unless I send you an enormous bunch of columbines; and so I have concluded to take my cake-box and fill it with flowers. My husband and I have gathered all these columbines since dinner, on the bank of the river, two fields off from the battle-ground. Now I think of it, it is Lizzie's favorite wildflower. I cannot bear to think of you as two prisoners in the book-room, at this time. I do not know, however, as Elizabeth would be happy to remain in the country, because men and women are her flowers, and they do not grow on hills and slopes. But you were born to live in a garden, where flowers at your tendance might gladlier grow (according to Milton). We had a letter from Louisa Hawthorne to-day, which says that the cat Beelzebub is dead. We are going to put our Pigwiggin in mourning for her cousin. [Hawthorne was, as all his family were, remarkably fond of cats. He had given Beelzebub his name.]
Another letter now goes to Mrs. Foote: —
August 11.
BELOVED MARY, — I received your long expected letter during a visit from the Hillards. I feared you were ill, but not that you had forgotten me; for I have an imperturbable faith in the love of my friends which appearances cannot affect.
No influenzas or epidemics of any kind reach our old abbey, though in the village of Concord they often prevail. I think the angel who descended with healing in his wings, and stirred the pool of Bethesda, must purify the air around us. We have had a charming summer. At the first flinging open of our doors my father made us a visit of a week, and, according to his love of order, put everything out of doors in place; moved patriarchal boards covered with venerable moss, and vividly exercised all his mechanical powers. Among other things he prepared the clay with which I mould men and heroes, so that I began Mr. Hawthorne's bust. Next came Miss Anna Shaw [Mrs. S. G. Ward], in full glory of her golden curls, flowing free over her neck and brows, so that she looked like the goddess Diana, or Aurora. Everything happened just right. The day she arrived, Mr. Emerson came to dine, and shone back to the shining Anna. He was truly “tangled in the meshes of her golden hair,” for he reported in several places how beautiful it was, afterwards. It was very warm, and after Mr. Emerson left us, we went out upon the lawn under the shady trees, and Anna extended herself on the grass, leaning her arms upon a low cricket, and “Sydnian showers of sweet discourse” distilled upon us. Towards sunset we went to the terrace on the bank of the river, and then there was a walk to Sleepy Hollow. Afterwards, we again resorted to the lawn, and the stars all came out over our heads with great brilliancy; and Anna, again upon the grass, pointed out the most beautiful constellations. Now we expect Louisa Hawthorne every day. Excepting for the three weeks and a little more occupied by our friends, we have been quite alone. The 9th of July, our wedding-day, was most heavenly, and at night there was a most lustrous moon. That night Mr. Allston died. Nature certainly arrayed herself in her most lovely guise, to bid him farewell. Mr. Hawthorne has written a little, and cultivated his garden a great deal; and as you may suppose, such vegetables never before were tasted. It is a sober fact, dear Mary, that I never ate any so good. When Apollos tend herds and till the earth, it is but reasonable to expect unusual effects. I planted flowers, which grow pretty well. We have voyaged on the river constantly, harvesting water-lilies; and lately cardinal-flowers, which enrich the borders with their superb scarlet mantles in great conclaves.
I have just finished Ranke's “History of the Popes.” I stumbled quite accidentally upon ecclesiastical history, lately. I asked my husband to bring me any book that he chanced to touch upon from his Study, one day, and it proved to be “Luther, and the Reformation.” So I have gone on and backwards, upon the same subject. I read several volumes of the Theological Library, fretting all the time over the narrow spirit in which great men were written about. Finally I took Ranke. He is splendid and whole-sided, and has given me an idea of the state of Europe from the first times.
Elizabeth Hoar came while Susan Hillard was here, looking as usual like the Rose of Sharon, though thinner than ever. Ellery Channing and E. live in a little red cottage on the road, with one acre attached, upon which Ellery has worked very hard. E. keeps a small school for little children. They are very happy, and Ellery is a very charming companion. He talks very agreeably.
October 15.
BELOVED MARIE, — I received your requiem for Mrs. Peabody [not a near connection of Mrs. Hawthorne's, but of Mr. George Peabody's, the philanthropist] yesterday, and cannot delay responding to it. We talk a great deal about the reality of Heaven and the shadowiness of earth, but no one acts as if it were the truth. It seems as if the benign and tender Father of men, in whose presence we rejoice and confide, became suddenly changed into a dark power, and curtained Himself with gloom, the instant death laid its hand upon our present bodies, and freed the soul for another condition. And this, too, although Je
sus Christ at the hour when His spirit resigned the clay rent the veil from top to bottom, and revealed to all eyes the golden cherubim and the Holy of Holies. God alone knows whether I could act my belief in the greatest of all possible earthly separations. But before I loved as I now do heaven was dim to me in comparison. I cannot conceive of a separation for one moment from my transfigured soul in him who is transfused with my being. I am in heaven now. Oh, let me not doubt it, if for a little while a shadow should wrap his material form from my sight.
I am in rejoicing and most vigorous health. After breakfast I paint for two or three hours. I am now copying Mr. Emerson's divine Endymion. After dinner we walk till about five.
The following letter refers to Sophia's sister Mary, who had become
Mrs. Horace Mann: —
DEAREST MARY, — I do not know whether you were ever aware of the peculiar love I have felt from childhood for my precious sister, who is now so blest. It has always been enthusiastic and profound. Her still and perfect disinterestedness, her noiseless self-devotion, her transparent truthfulness and all-comprehensive benevolence through life! No words can ever express what a spear in my side it has been to see her year after year toiling for all but herself, and growing thin and pale with too much effort. Not that ever her heroic heart uttered a word of complaint or depreciation. But so much the more did I feel for her. I saw her lose her enchanting gayety, and become grave and sad, yet could do nothing to restore her spirits. I was hardly aware, until it was removed, how weighty had been the burden of her unfulfilled life upon my heart. At her engagement, all my wings were unfolded, and my body was light as air.
Mrs. Mann had been to Europe for her wedding-tour, and was thus welcomed home: —
November 7.
BELOVED MARY, — Yesterday noon my dear husband came home from the village but a few seconds — it seemed even to me — after he left me, shining with glad tidings. They were, that the steamer had arrived with you in it! Imagine my joy, for I cannot tell it. You will come and see me, I am sure. I am especially commissioned by Mr. Emerson to request my dear and honorable brother, Mr. Mann, to come to Concord to lecture at the Lyceum as soon as he possibly can. He says that Mr. Hoar told him he had never heard such eloquence from human lips as from Mr. Mann's. “Therefore,” says he, “this is the place of all others for him to come and lecture.” Tell me beforehand whether your husband eats anything in particular, that I may have it all ready for him. I am in the greatest hurry that mortal has been in since Absalom ran from his pursuers. Your own
Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) Page 663