Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated)

by Hawthorne, Nathaniel

  . . . 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 tha
t 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.