Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated)

by Hawthorne, Nathaniel

  MARGARET.

  And again: —

  NEW YORK, May 22, evening.

  DEAR SOPHIA AND MR. HAWTHORNE, — I received your letter and read it with attention; then laid it aside, and thought I would not reply, for so much had been said and written about my pamphlet that I was weary of it, and had turned to other things. When my interest revives, I shall probably make reply, but I hope viva voce.

  Yes! I hope to see you once more at the clear old house, with the green fields and lazy river; and have, perhaps, sweet hours [fragment torn away] and if all works well, I hope to come. Una alone will be changed; yet still, I think, the same. Farewell, dear friends, now; for this is only meant as a hasty sign of affection from M.

  Mrs. Hawthorne writes, at the threshold of The Wayside residence: —

  June 6, 1852, Sunday.

  MY DEAREST MOTHER, — Your beautiful little note was very grateful to me. . . . We arrived at the Middlesex Hotel after one o'clock. At four o'clock I was driven to The Wayside. The cart-man had tumbled all the wet mattresses in a heap in the farthest corner of the barn, and I had them all pulled out to dry. It was very hot weather. A good deal was accomplished, when the man and woman who were working for me went to supper, and left me and Una in quiet possession of our home.

  We set forth slowly village-ward, and met Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau. Mr. Emerson was most cordial, and his beautiful smile added to the wonderful beauty of the sunset. He turned back and walked with us till we met the carriage. The next morning, Una actually nailed down the brown paper upon the dining-room and Study, and was very helpful and charming, and perfectly enchanted with her home. It is really astonishing what magical changes have been wrought inside the horrible old house by painters, paperers, and carpenters, and a little upholstery. The carpet on the Study looks like rich velvet. It has a ground of lapis lazuli blue, and upon that is an acanthus figure of fine wood-color; and then, once in a while is a lovely rose and rosebud and green leaf. I like it even better than when I bought it. The woodwork down-stairs is all painted in oak, and it has an admirable effect, and is quite in keeping with the antiquity of the dwelling. The dining-room is quite elegant, with a handsome paper having a silvery sheen, and the brown and green Brussels carpet. When Mr. Hawthorne arrived, he had quite a civilized impression of the house at first glance, and was delighted with it, not having seen it since his first visit in snow-time, when it seemed fit only for a menagerie of cattle. You will be glad to know that I have done nothing myself, having so many assistants. But it is no sinecure to keep people at work. Una was impatient of waiting for papa and Julian, and walked off to meet them. At last I heard the rumble of the carriage, and took baby out on the piazza. When Julian passed, he was at the open window of the carriage; and baby saw him and screamed for joy; and Julian shouted to see me; and the echoes were fairly roused by the ecstasy of meeting, all round.

  The other morning, at the Middlesex Hotel, Una remarked that she was going to see Mr. Emerson. I supposed she was jesting; but I missed her soon after, and in about an hour she returned, and said she had been to see him. She had rung at the door, and a servant came, and she inquired for Mr. Emerson! He came out and greeted her very kindly, and said, “I suppose you have come to see Mrs. Emerson.” “No,” replied Una, “I have come to see you” So he politely put aside his studies, and accompanied his young lady visitor over the gardens and into the Gothic summer-house [constructed of twisted branches by Mr. Alcott]. I called there on my way here, and Mr. Emerson told me that he would like Una to go in and out, just as if it were her own home. I said that he was Una's friend ever since she had heard “The Humble Bee” and “The Rhodora.”

  Una likes her native place prodigiously, and everybody near and far seems quite “angelic,” as Julian would say. . . . Last Sunday Mrs. Emerson and her three children came to make a call. The Study is the pet room, the temple of the Muses and the Delphic Shrine. The beautiful carpet lays the foundation of its charms, and the oak woodwork harmonizes with the tint in which Endymion is painted. At last I have Endymion where I always wanted it — in my husband's Study, and it occupies one whole division of the wall. In the corner on that side stands the pedestal with Apollo on it, and there is a fountain-shaped vase of damask and yellow roses. Between the windows is the Transfiguration [given by Mr. Emerson]. (The drawing-room is to be redeemed with one picture only, — Correggio's Madonna and Christ.) On another side of the Study are the two Lake Comos. On another, that agreeable picture of Luther and his family around the Christmas-tree, which Mr. George Bradford gave to Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Emerson took Julian to walk in the woods, the other afternoon. I have no time to think what to say, for there is a dear little mob around me. Baby looks fairest of fair to-day. She walks miles about the house. Ever and ever your most loving child,

  SOPHIA.

  July 4.

  MY DEAREST MOTHER, — Here is another Sunday again, with seemingly no time between, so fast does, the old Father hasten on. Last week was memorable in the children's life by the occurrence of a party. Mrs. Emerson, with magnificent hospitality, invited all the children in town, from babyhood upwards (and their mothers), for a great festival. Rose and I were prevented from going by the arrival of three gentlemen from Boston, who stayed to tea, one being the brilliant Mr. Whipple. On that day we had five gentlemen, among them another Whipple, a man of genius and a colonel of brave renown, whose hair stands up straight upon his brow, over fine eyes and a swarthy face. He invited us to go to his beautiful home on the borders of Winnipiseogee Lake. A great many gentlemen come to see Mr. Hawthorne all the time from foreign parts. That morning the first arrival was General Solomon McNeil, a veteran of nearly seven feet in height, whose head was amazingly near the ceiling of our low dining-room, and who stooped low to go out of the door. He had an extraordinary face. His gray hair stood up straight, as well as Colonel Whipple's, and was full of demonic energy; and his gray eyes flashed beneath overhanging brows. As he entered the room, I advanced to meet him. He said, “Mrs. Hawthorne, I presume. I have scarcely seen your husband; but I have known him well for fifteen years.” (At this, he raised his hand and arm as if he were wielding a sword, with intent to do battle.) “And I told his friend, when I read his book, — his friend who said that he was perfect, except for a want of confidence in his power, — I told him, Never fear; he will go it!” (Another sweep with the sword.) “He will go it! I found ideas there — ideas!” I vanished, to call my husband. Mr. Hawthorne then came in, and we found the old gentleman intently gazing at my husband's portrait, — so intently that he did not observe our entrance, till Mr. Hawthorne spoke. He turned, and placed his hand with such force upon my husband's shoulder that you would have supposed he had dubbed him knight. They left the room to go to the Study, the General brandishing the sword tremendously at every sentence he uttered on the way. It was really good to see such a man; so mighty in physique, with such a strong character, such resolute will, and such a gleam of loving-kindness in his eyes, to temper the force.

  I have wandered off from the party. The children had a charming time, and brought back word that each had behaved perfectly. The next day I went to tell Mrs. Emerson why Rose and I did not appear. I found Mr. Emerson, sitting on the side doorstep, with Edith on his knee and Edward riding about the lawn on his pony. Mr. Emerson said that “the show of children was very pretty. But Julian! He makes his mark everywhere; there is no child so fine as Julian!” Was not that pleasant to hear from him? I told him how singular it was that Julian should find in Concord the desire of his imagination for two years — a pony [Mr. Emerson had already superintended the little boy's mounting, and falling off from, Edward's pony]; and he smiled like Sirius. “Well, that is good. Send him this afternoon.” He then called Edward, and bade him go home with me, mount Julian, and bring him back; and this was accordingly done. But first, Mr. Emerson invited me to go up with him to the hilltop, opposite his house, where there is a fine view. His house is in a thick bower of evergreen and horse-chest
nut trees. The grove is Academe, and could not have been more musical or deep; and Plato's disciple walks there.

  Last week I drew The Wayside for George Putnam, who is going to have it engraved. I must also make sketches of Mr. Emerson's and the Old Manse. To-morrow Una goes to a picnic at Mrs. Pratt's [mother-in-law of a daughter of Mr. Alcott's] with Ellen and Edith Emerson. We expect Louisa Hawthorne this week. She has been coming for a good while, but was delayed by the severe illness of Mrs. Robert Manning.

  Yesterday Mr. Hawthorne went to Boston to meet Mr. Atherton. A daguerreotypist seized him, and took three pictures of him, from which the man politely asks me to choose. They are somewhat good. Julian had a tooth out the other day, and laughed instead of crying. Edward was so unfortunate a day or two since as to have four teeth drop out at once; and Mr. Emerson says he must be put under a barrel until the others grow.

  Monday P. M. Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and Julian have gone to the picnic. This morning I went to the post-office, for I did not like to send Una when boys were firing crackers in every direction. Julian always is my shadow — so he went with me. I stopped at Mrs. Emerson's, to ask her when and how her children were going. I found a superb George Washington in the dining-room, nearly as large as life, engraved from Stuart's painting. We saw no one of the family, but finally a door opened, and the rich music of Mr. Emerson's voice filled the entry. Julian ran out at the sound, and Ellen and her father came into the room. Mr. Emerson asked me if that head (pointing to Washington) were not a fine celebration of the Fourth of July. “He would seem to have absorbed into that face all the serenity of these United States, and left none elsewhere, excepting” (and he laid his hand on Julian) — ”excepting what is in Julian. Washington is the Great Repose, and Julian is the Little Repose — hereafter to become also the Great Repose!” He asked if Julian were going to the picnic; and I told him “no,” as I was not going. “Oh, but if Una is going, that would be a divided cherry, would it not?” Finding that Mrs. Emerson was to go, and that they were all to ride, I of course had no objection. And then Mr. Emerson wanted Mr. Hawthorne to go with him, at five o'clock. My lord consented, and so they are all gone. Last evening, Mrs. Emerson came to see us with her sister, loaded with roses, and she was delighted with our house. Rosebud walked all round with us, in perfect sobriety, listening to our conversation. Is not this hot weather delightful? It is to me luxury and strength. Mr. Hawthorne has sold the grass for thirty dollars. He has cut his bean-poles in his own woods. We find The Wayside prettier and prettier. Baby keeps pulling my arm.

  Your child, SOPHY.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE

  The letters to Mrs. Peabody sketch on: —

  DEAREST MOTHER, — We have had an Englishman here, an artist, whom George Putnam [a cousin] sent to take sketches. He came here with his carpet-bag, and there seemed nothing to be done but to ask him to stay with us while in town. I was the more glad to do so, hoping thereby to save George some pennies, as I was obliged to disappoint him about making the drawings myself. This artist is from the North of England. He seems very good and simple-hearted, and he talks like the Cataract of Lodore. He has the magnetic influence upon Mr. Hawthorne which produces sleepiness.

  He is enchanted with The Wayside.

  You know Mr. Hawthorne is a sort of load-stone, which attracts all men's confidences without a word of question, and scarcely any answer; and so Mr. Miller tells his whole life and thoughts. If he has the national reservedness generally, it certainly vanishes in my husband's presence, for it seems as if he could not tell enough. On Monday and Tuesday we expected to have Mr. Ticknor here, whom Mr. Hawthorne wished to see about his book, but he did not come.

  Mr. Hawthorne feels better now, and looks natural, with living color. [He had been terribly shocked and overcome by the death, by drowning from a burning vessel, of his sister Louisa.] Poor, dear Louisa! It is harder and harder for me to realize that I shall not see her again. And she had such a genuine joy in the children. But it is a positive bliss to me to contemplate Louisa and her mother together. If there is anything immortal in life it is the home relations, and heaven would be no heaven without them. God never has knit my soul with my husband's soul for such a paltry moment as this human life! I have not loved my mother for one short day! My children do not thrill my heart-strings with less than an eternal melody. We know that God cannot trifle! This is all more real to me than what my human eye rests on. I heard one of the truly second-sighted say once, that in a trance he saw the spiritual world; and while gazing enraptured on its green pastures, a spirit whispered to him, “Out of this greenness your earthly pastures are green.”

  Yesterday afternoon Mr. Miller left us. Oh, dear, how the little man talked! I do not know as the Cataract of Lodore is an adequate exemplification, for that has some airy, fairy jets and overfalls. But the good faith and earnestness with which Mr. Miller coined the air into words were more like the noise and pertinacity of a manufactory. He was certainly a new phase of man to me. When he finally vanished, with his portfolio under his arm, my wings sprang up as if an iron band had been holding them down. It was with a truly divine patience that my husband gave ear to this personated Paper-Mill, because he saw that he was good and true and honest. (I might have only said “good.”) Into those depths of misty gray light which stand for eyes under my husband's brow, the little man was drawn as by a line. Miss Bremer said to me of Mr. Hawthorne's eyes, “Wonderful, wonderful eyes! They give, but receive not.” But they do draw in. Mr. Miller kept his face turned to him, as the sunflower to the sun; and when I spoke, and he tried to turn to me, his head whirled back again. It really is marvelous, how the mighty heart, with its charities, and comprehending humanity, which glows and burns beneath the grand intellect, as if to keep warm and fused the otherwise cold abstractions of thought, — it is marvelous how it opens the bosoms of men. I have seen it so often, in persons who have come to him. So Mr. Melville, generally silent and incommunicative, pours out the rich floods of his mind and experience to him, so sure of apprehension, so sure of a large and generous interpretation, and of the most delicate and fine judgment. Thus only could the poetic insight and far-searching analytic power be safely intrusted to him. To him only who can tenderly sympathize must be given the highest and profoundest insight.

  How wonderfully it is arranged, that in the very person who most imperiously demands absolute beauty and perfection (for so does Mr. Hawthorne), in this very person is found the subtlest and widest appreciation of human shortcomings, and the pleadings of weakness and failure. In “Blithedale” I think one feels this tender humanity. It will come out more and more.

  Shall I tell you where I am? I am sitting in our acacia grove, on the hill, with a few pines near enough for me to hear their oceanic murmur. It is only necessary for me to shut my eyes, to hear every variety of water sounds. The pine gives me the long, majestic swell and retreat of the sea waves; the birch, the silvery tinkle of a pebbly brook; the acacia, the soft fall of a cascade; and all mingled together, a sound of many waters most refreshing to the sense. I thank heaven that we possess a hilltop. No amount of plains could compete with the value of this. To look down on the world actually is typical of looking down spiritually, and so it is good. Una and Julian are wandering around; Una having been reading to Julian. Rosebud is asleep. Oh, she enjoys a summer day so much! This morning I set her down on the green grass. Without looking at me, the happiest smile began to dawn over her face; and then she suddenly waved her hands like wings, and set forth. To fall down seemed a new joy. Julian undertook to be her escort. It was a charming picture — the two figures grouped together; the fair little blue-eyed face turned up to the great brown, loving eyes, and all sorts of dulcet sounds responding to one another. I could not help smiling to read in your letter that you would have a rug spread for her. I should as soon think of keeping an untamed bird on a rug as baby. I assure you that since she has had the use of her feet she does not pause in the race of life. . .
. It is good to see such an expression of immense satisfaction as dwells upon her face. Most lovingly your child,

  SOPHIECHEN.

  September 19.

  MY DEAR MOTHER, — On Friday Mr. Hawthorne returned from nearly a three weeks' visit to the Isles of Shoals. I did not tell you about it while he was there, because your heart is so tender I knew you would have no peace, and you would all the time be thinking that he was separated from us by water. But here he is, looking in splendid health, all safe and sound. General Pierce, and some other dignitaries with their wives, met Mr. Hawthorne for a day or two; and the rest of the time he had all to himself. I must tell you a story, by which you will be enabled to see into political slander. An officer of the army, resident at Baltimore, told the editor of a paper friendly to General Pierce, that while in Mexico General Pierce was at a gambling-table with another officer; and, a squabble ensuing, this officer struck General Pierce in the face, and that the General took it without a word. He told the editor also that the officer who offered this insult was in California, making it difficult to have a word from him upon the subject. The editor, in perplexity, sent the paragraph to General Pierce, who was at a loss how to prove the utter falsity of the whole story. But, behold, the next thing which he laid his hand upon, on his table, was a letter postmarked “California.” He opened it, and it was from the very officer who was said to have insulted him so foully, and was an expression of the highest admiration and respect, and congratulations upon his present position. This was an unanswerable denial; and so he sent the letter to Baltimore. This story, fabricated out of nothing but malice, was meant to injure in two ways, by proving him a gambler, and also pusillanimous. The slanderous officer will probably cease to be one, as I believe falsehood is not considered a military grace.