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Affectionate child, SOPHIA.

CHAPTER VII

FROM LENOX TO CONCORD

The following letters were evoked by one of those entanglements
concerning the petty matters of existence which will sometimes occur
in the most enchanting web and woof of good feeling and high thought.
A luxuriant fruit garden, attached to the "red house," seems to have
suddenly cast a spell over its original mistress, and around this
humorous tragedy my father throws some gleams of mirth and sense, as
follows:--

September 5.

DEAR MRS. TAPPAN,--As questions of disputed boundary are very ticklish
ones, whether between nations or individuals, I think it best to take
the diplomatic correspondence, on our part, into my own hands; and I
do it the more readily as I am quite an idle man nowadays, and shall
find it rather agreeable than otherwise; whereas Sophia is exceedingly
busy, and moreover is averse to any kind of a dispute. You will be
kind enough to give me credit for writing in a spirit of undisturbed
good humor and friendly courtesy; and this being the case, I shall
feel myself safe in writing with likewise the most perfect frankness.

In the first place permit me to notice the question which you put to
Sophia, whether she would not prefer to receive kindness rather than
assume rights. I do not know what would be her reply; but, for myself,
in view of the infirmities of human nature in general and my especial
infirmities, and how few people are fit even to receive kindnesses,
and how far fewer are worthy to do them, I infinitely prefer a small
right to a great favor. It was this feeling that made me see the
necessity of a sum stipulated in the way of rent, between Mr. Tappan
and myself. The little difficulty, in which we now find ourselves,
merely serves to confirm me in my principle, and will instruct me in
all future cases, to have my rights more sharply defined than they are
now.

Undoubtedly, by consenting to receive money from me, Mr. Tappan did
invest me with certain rights, and among the most evident of them, I
consider the property in the fruit. What is a garden without its
currant bushes and fruit trees? Last year, no question of this nature
was raised: our right seemed to be tacitly conceded, and if you
claimed or exercised any manorial privileges, it never came to my
knowledge. This season when Mr. Tappan inquired what part of the
garden I wanted to cultivate, I supposed that he wished to know in
order that he might send Cornelius to plough it--as he very kindly
did. It never came into my mind that I should lose the most valuable
part of the demesne by failing to plant it. If the fruit trees have
suffered by my neglect, this was reasonable ground for remonstrance on
Mr. Tappan's part, but would hardly justify him in so summary a
measure as that of taking the property out of my hands, at once, and
without a word of explanation, or even informing me of the fact. Nor
do I conceive that he had any purpose of doing so.

At all events, Sophia and I supposed ourselves to be in full
possession of that part of the garden, and in having a right of
property over its products, more extensive than that of Adam and Eve
in Eden, inasmuch as it excluded not a single tree. Such being our
view of the matter, you meet Mary Beekman, carrying a basket of fruit.
You stop her, look at the contents of the basket, and inquire as to
its destination. You ask her (at least so she averred to Mrs. Peters,
although she has since qualified her statement) whether it had been
given away or sold. You conduct this examination in such a mode, as to
make it evident to our servant-girl that you consider Sophia and Mrs.
Peters as combining in a depredation on your property.

You follow this up with a note of remonstrance to Sophia, in which you
take her to task not merely for giving away some of the fruit, but for
presuming to choose her own time to gather it for our own use. Now let
us suppose the perfectly parallel case, that Mrs. Ward should take
upon herself to pursue the same course in regard to the fruit of
Highwood. Would Mrs. Tappan have responded to Mrs. Ward by a gentler
assertion of right than Sophia's to yourself? I think not. I do not
see how you could. And if you did so, it would be purely out of your
own abundant grace and good nature, and would by no means be due to
any propriety in the supposed behavior of Mrs. Ward.

Finally in your note of last evening, you give us very clearly to
understand that you look upon us as having no rights here whatever.
Allow me to say that this is precisely the crisis which I contemplated
when I felt it essential to be understood that I had bought my rights,
even from persons so generously disposed as yourself and Mr. Tappan.
The right of purchase is the only safe one. This is a world of bargain
and sale; and no absurdity is more certain to be exposed than the
attempt to make it anything else.

As regards the apples of discord (meaning thereby the plums, pears,
peaches, and whatever besides) we sincerely hope you will take as many
of them as you please, and on such grounds as may cause them to taste
most agreeably. If you choose to make a raid, and to seize the fruit
with the strong hand, so far from offering any armed resistance, we
shall not so much as remonstrate. But would it not be wiser to drop
the question of right, and receive it as a free-will offering from us?
We have not shrunk from the word "gift," although we happen to be so
much the poorer of two parties, that it is rather a suspicious word
from you to us. Or, if this do not suit you, you can take the fruit in
humble requital of some of the many favors bestowed in times past and
which we may perhaps remember more faithfully than you do.

And then the recollection of this slight acidity of sentiment, between
friends of some years' standing, may impart a pleasant and spirited
flavor to the preserves and jams, when they come upon your table. At
any rate, take what you want and that speedily, or there will be
little else than a parcel of rotten plums to dispute about.

With kind regards to Mr. Tappan,

Very truly yours, N. H.

Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her sister, Miss E. P. Peabody:--

I send you Mr. Tappan's answer, so noble and beautiful. Mr. Hawthorne
wrote him a beautiful note in reply, in which he said: "My dear sir, I
trust you will not put more weight than it deserves upon a letter
which I wrote rather to relieve Sophia of what might have disturbed
her, than because I look upon the affair in a serious light. Your own
letter is of a character to make one ashamed of any narrower or
ignobler sentiment than those of universal beneficence and good will;
and I freely confess that the world will not deserve to be called a
world of bargain and sale so long as it shall include men like
yourself. With much regard truly yours, N. H."

Two letters to Mrs. Peabody describe the Lenox scene:--

September 7, Sunday.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--It is heaven's day, to-day, and the Lord's day,
and now baby sleeps and Una is at Highwood and Julian at play, and I
will begin at least to answer your sweet, patient, wise, and tender
letters. Yesterday and to-day have been tropical in heat and richness
and expansiveness, and I feel as if it is on such days only that we
really live and know how good is GOD. I wish I knew that you enjoy
such warmth and are not made languid by it. You will perhaps remember
that I am always strongest at 98 degrees Fahrenheit. I delight to
think that you also can look forth as I do now upon a broad valley and
a fine amphitheatre of hills, and are about to watch the stately
ceremony of sunset from your piazza. But you have not this lovely
Lake, nor I suppose the delicate purple mist which folds these
slumbering mountains in airy veils.

Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sunshine, slightly fleckered
with the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have been making him
look like the mighty Tan by covering his chin and breast with long
grass-blades, that looked like a verdant and venerable beard. I walked
down to them a moment, leaving baby asleep, and while there Una
exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish Georgie was here!" [George C. Mann, her
cousin.] Thus the dear little boy harmonizes with the large and dreamy
landscape, so that his presence would only help the beauty of this
peerless day. I never heard Una wish for any one before, when enjoying
Elemental life, and her father. Baby Rose has had a carriage for a
week or more, and we took her one day down to the Lake. I wish you
could have seen her in the wood, when I held her in my arms. She
smiled and smiled and smiled, at the trees and the Lake and the
wood-land sounds, till she transported mamma almost out of the
proprieties. "To kiss her all to pieces," "to hug her to death," "to
devour her," were processes to which she rendered herself fearfully
liable. How wonderful is this love for which there is no mortal
expression, but which we can only shadow forth by death and
destruction. Julian has begun to speak to the baby now. He exclaims,
"Oh, you darling!" and holds her on his lap, with such a look of
bountiful and boundless tenderness and care as would charm you to see.
I should as soon expect an angel from the sky to descend to a rough
scuffle with a desperado as for Julian to disturb or annoy the little
Rosebud. Sometimes we go down to the wood near, and baby sleeps in
the carriage to the music of pine-tree murmurs and cricket-chirpings,
and once in a while of birds, while Una and Julian build piles of tiny
sticks for the fairies' winter fuel, and papa and mamma sit and muse
in the breathless noon. But it is seldom warm enough. These last two
days are warm enough, and my soul seems to "expand and grow like corn
and melons," and I remember all beautiful behavior and noble deeds and
grand thoughts and high endeavors'; and the whole vast Universe seems
to blend in one single, unbroken recognition of the "Higher Law." Can
there be wrong, hate, fraud, injustice, cruelty, war, in such a
lovely, fair world as this before my eyes? Cannot cities be abolished,
so that men may realize the beauty of love and peace by contemplating
the broad and genial spaces where there is no strife? In the country
they would see that sunbeams do not wrangle, that forests of trees
agree together, that no flower disturbs another flower. I have written
and the sun has set; and the moon has risen, and reveals the fine
sculpture of nature. Una and Julian and Baby Rose are all in profound
repose. Not a sound can be heard but my pen-strokes, and the ever
welcome voice of the cricket, which seems expressly created to
announce silence and peace. . . . It is very singular how much more
we are in the centre of society in Lenox than we were in Salem, and
all literary persons seem settling around us. But when they get
established here I dare say we shall take flight. . . . Our present
picture is Julian, lying on an ottoman in the boudoir, looking at
drawings of Grecian gems; and just now he is filled with indignation
at the man who sent Hercules the poisoned shirt, because he is
contemplating that superb head of the "Suffering Hercules." He says he
hopes that man is dead; and I assure him that he is dead, dead, dead,
and can send no more poisoned shirts to anybody. It happened to be a
woman, however, sad to tell, but I thought I would not reveal to him
the terrible story of Dejanira and the wicked Nessus. Una is
whittling, but at this instant runs off to help Mary Beekman to do
something. Mr. Hawthorne has retired to his Study. Baby sleeps.
Good-by, dear mother. Love to your household. Your loving child,
SOPHIA.

DEAREST MOTHER,--To-day I took Julian for a walk. He waited to speak
to his beloved Mr. Tappan, who was in his field. Julian picked up one
sheaf after another, and carried them to him, calling, "Mr. Tappan!
Mr. Tappan! Here are your oats!" Mr. Tappan turned at last, smiling,
and thanked him for his help. The afternoon was so beautiful that
every incident seemed like a perfect jewel on a golden crown. The load
of yellow sheaves, the rainbow child, the Castilian with his curls and
dark smiling eyes [Mr. Tappan]--every object was a picture which
Murillo could not paint. I waited for Julian till he ran to me; and
when we came into our yard, there was lady baby in her carriage, in a
little azure robe, looking like a pale star on a blue sky. We came
into the dining-room, and out of the window there was this grand and
also exquisite picture--lake, meadow, mountains; forever new, forever
changing; now so rich with this peculiar autumn sunshine, like which
my husband says there is nothing in the world. The children enjoy,
very much, this landscape, while they eat their supper. Una ate hers,
and went upstairs to see grand-mamma; and Julian sat on my lap, very
tired with play, eating a cold buckwheat cake, and gazing out. "Mamma!
Mountain! Lake!" he kept ejaculating. Wise child! What could be added,
in the way of adjective, that would enhance? "Thou eye among the
blind!" thought his mother. At last he was so weary with sport that he
slipped down upon the floor, and lay upon his back, till he finished
eating his buckwheat cake. Then I put him to bed. Me clasped his
blessed little arms so tightly around my neck, with such an energetic
kiss, that we both nearly lost breath. One merry gleam from his eyes
was succeeded by a cloud of sleepiness, and he was soon with the
angels. For he says the angels take him, when he goes to sleep, and
bring him back in the morning. Then I began this letter. Dear little
harp-souled Una--whose love for her father grows more profound every
day, as her comprehending intellect and heart perceive more and more
fully what he is--was made quite unhappy because he did not go at the
same time with her to the Lake. His absence darkened all the sunshine
to her; and when I asked her why she could not enjoy the walk as
Julian did, she replied, "Ah, he does not love papa as I do!" But when
we arrived, there sat papa on a rock, and her face and figure were
transfigured from a Niobe's to an Allegra's instantly. After I put
Julian to bed, I went out to the barn to see about the chickens, and
she wished to go. There sat papa on the hay, and like a needle to a
magnet she was drawn, and begged to see papa a little longer, and stay
with him. Now she has come, weary enough; and after steeping her
spirit in this rose and gold of twilight, she has gone to bed. With
such a father, and such a scene before her eyes, and with eyes to see,
what may we not hope of her? I heard her and Julian talking together
about their father's smile, the other day. They had been speaking of
some other person's smile--Mr. Tappan's, I believe; and presently Una
said, "But you know, Julian, that there is no smile like papa's!" "Oh
no," replied Julian. "Not like papas!" Una has such an intuitive
perception of spheres, that I do not wonder at her feeling about her
father. She can as yet hardly tell why she is so powerfully attracted;
but her mother can sympathize,--and knows very well.

Do not wait an hour to procure the two last numbers of "The Literary
World," and read a new criticism on Mr. Hawthorne. At last some one
speaks the right word of him. I have not before heard it. I have been
wearied and annoyed hitherto with hearing him compared to Washington
Irving and other American writers, and put, generally, second. At last
some one dares to say what in my secret mind I have often
thought--that he is only to be mentioned with the Swan of Avon; the
great heart and the grand intellect combined. I know you will enjoy
the words of this ardent Virginian as I do. But it is funny to see how
he does not know how this heart and this intellect are enshrined.

It was decided to return to the neighborhood of Boston, and for a
short time the family remained in West Newton:--

November 28.

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Here we are, in possession of Mary Mann's house
and effects. I took baby on a sledge to see her grandmother Peabody on
Thanksgiving Day, who was charmed with my smiling, fair baby. Una
reads her grandmother "The Wonder-Book," very sweetly, when she is
there. Mother says she could never tire of listening to her.

Your affectionate sister,

SOPHIA.

WEST NEWTON, December 25, 1851.

MY DEAR LOUISA [HAWTHORNE],--This very morning I intended to write to
you again, to inquire why you neither came nor responded to my letter,
and then I received yours. The children watched for you many days, and
finally gave you up. They will be delighted at your coming. Pray come
as soon as the second week of January. Grace Greenwood spent two or
three days, and was very pleasant. Mr. Fields writes from Paris that
Mr. Hawthorne's books are printed there as much as in England; that
his fame is great there [in England], and that Browning says he is the
finest genius that has appeared in English literature for many years.

Your affectionate sister,

SOPHIA.

P. S. [By Hawthorne.] I have published a new collection of tales; but
you shall not have a copy till you come for it. N. H.

P. S. [By Mrs. Hawthorne.] This new volume of "Twice-Told Tales" was
published on Thursday; and yesterday Mr. Ticknor told Nathaniel that
he had already sold a thousand copies, and had not enough bound to
supply the demand.

I give a letter which must have come like the song of a wood-thrush to
the author, its diction being as pure as his own, and yet as strong.

BROOKLYN; July 7, 1852.

MR. HAWTHORNE,--You have expressed the kind hope that your writings
might interest those who claim the same birthplace with yourself. And
as we need but slight apology for doing what inclination suggests, I
easily persuade myself that it will not be very inappropriate for me
to assure you that in one heart, at least, pride in your genius and
gratitude for high enjoyment owed to you have added to, and made still
more sacred, the strong love otherwise felt for the spot where the
precious gift of life was received.

In earlier days, with your "Twice-Told Tales," you played upon my
spirit-harp a sweet melody, the notes of which have never died
away--and years after, when my heart was just uplifting itself from a
deep sorrow, I read the introduction to your "Mosses from an Old
Manse;" and I rejoiced in your words, as a tree, borne down by the
wind and storm, rejoices in the first gentle breeze or ray of kindly
sunshine.

And now, as after repeated griefs and lengthened anxieties I think I
am come to that period of second youth of which you speak, I am
permitted to delight in the marvelous beauty and infinite delicacy of
the narration of "The Scarlet Letter," and the deep insight into human
hearts and minds shown in that and the later production. When I am
tempted to lay down the burden which, of one kind or another, mortals
must daily bear, and forget that "all human liberty is but a restraint
self-imposed or consented to," I shall call to mind the touching
moment when Hester Prynne sadly bound up her flowing tresses, but just
released, and meekly reassumed the badge of her shame. And the little
Phoebe,--with her genial sympathies and cheerful tones,--I am not
altogether without hope that she may aid me to throw off some of the
morbid tendencies which have ever clung to my life (if, perchance,
this last moral lesson should not destroy the first); and these
sorrows once overcome, existence would not lose its corresponding
exquisiteness of enjoyment.

I once lived in the "Old Hawthorne house;" whether or not you, sir,
ever crossed the threshold tradition hath not deigned to inform me.
Possibly you lived there when a child. And if the spirit renew itself
once in seven years, as the body is said to do, the soul of those
younger hours may have remained, may have shared with us our more
ethereal pleasures, while it frowned on our prosaic sports. At least,
to some such fancy as this, united with the idea of second childhood
before alluded to, must be referred the folly of which I have been
guilty in addressing a person, who, so far as bodily presence is
concerned, is to me an entire stranger, and to whom I am utterly
unknown.

However, sir, humbly begging your pardon for this same folly, and
entreating that by no accident may the shades of the Salem witches
become aware of it,

I am yours with much esteem,

MARY A. PORTER.

Upon the envelope Hawthorne has written, "Answered, July 18th." The
letter has been preserved out of many thrown aside, and Mrs. Hawthorne
has spoken to me of Mary Porter as of a real friend. Her delicacy and
good sense of expression contrast well with the over-fanciful,
unliterary quality of the letters of persons who came prominently
forward as teachers of thought and literature, and who no doubt jarred
miserably in their letters, if not in their conversation, upon the
refined skill of Hawthorne and his wife. At any rate (and though the
intercourse with these persons to whom I refer with daring comment was
received most gratefully and cordially as generally the best to be
found) Mary Porter was never forgotten.

That my mother and father enjoyed their next home at The Wayside there
are immediate letters to prove; but if they had not feasted their eyes
upon a vision of beautiful spaces, it might have been less delightful
to return to the haunts of friends, and a hollow among hills. One
grandeur of the distance they did not leave behind at Lenox: the
sunsets to be seen over the meadows between The Wayside and the west
are spaciously revealed and splendidly rich. Economy had a restless
manner of drifting them from place to place. Now, however, a home was
to be bought (the title-deed exists, with Mr. Emerson's name, and that
of his wife, attached); so that the drifting appeared to be at an end.
I have reserved until now several letters from Concord friends, of an
earlier date, in order to show to what the Hawthornes looked forward
in the matter of personalities, when re-establishing themselves in the
distinguished village.

Mr. Alcott was prominent. In her girlhood, Mrs. Hawthorne, hearing
from Miss Peabody that Mr. James Freeman Clarke had talked with some
amusement of the school prophet's ideas, etc., had written:--

"Mr. Alcott's sublime simplicity and depth of soul would make it
impossible for me to make jest of him. I cannot imagine why persons
should not do themselves justice and yet be humble as a little child.
I do not believe he is in the least self-elated. I should think it
impossible, in the nature of things, for him to arrive at the kind of
truths he does without entire simplicity of soul. I should think they
could not be accessible to one of a contrary character."

But, nevertheless, Mr. Alcott's official post seems to have been that
of visionary plenipotentiary, and one which was a source of most
excellent entertainment. He writes in 1836:--

August 23.

DEAR FRIEND,--I have just returned, and find your two letters waiting
for me. I have read them with a double sentiment. The interest which
you express in my thoughts, and their influence over you, I can
explain in no other way than as arising from similarity of temperament
and of taste, heightened exceedingly by an instinctive tendency--
almost preternatural--to reverence whatever approaches, either in
Spirit or Form, your standard of the Ideal. Of minds of this
class it is impious to ask for tempered expressions. They admire,
they marvel, they love. These are the law of their being, and to
refuse them the homage of this spiritual oneness with the object of
their regard, is death! Their words have a significance borrowed from
their inmost being, and are to be interpreted, not by ordinary and
popular acceptation, but by the genius of the individual that utters
them. These have a significance of their own. They commune not with
words, but in spite of them. Ordinary minds mistake them. . . . You
inquire whether portions of "Psyche" are to be copied for the press.
Mr. Emerson has not returned the manuscript. But should I find
anything left (after his revisions) worthy of attention, I will send
it to you, . . . I send you some numbers of the "Reformer," among others
is the one containing Mr. [Orestes] Brownson's notice of the "Story
Without An End." The allegories which you copied while with us are
also among them. I read your allegory to Mr. Brownson, who was
interested in it, and took it for the "Reformer." It is a beautiful
thing, and will be useful. . . . Write me as often as you feel
inclined. I would write often, were I at all given to the practice. My
mind flows not freely and simply in an epistle.

Very truly yours,

A. BRONSON ALCOTT.

P. S. I have read Carlyle's "Schiller." You re-utter my conceptions at
the time. You are very kind to propose copying the Young Christ [for
Mr. Alcott's schoolroom]. The original is a borrowed one, and a copy
would be useful.

September 12, 1836.

DEAR FRIEND,--I was glad to hear from you again, for I find my
thoughts often dwelling on you. The sympathy of spirits is the heart's
undersong, and its warblings are heard in the quiet hours of solitude,
as if they were from the soft voices of celestial choirs. Music
reaches us from the distance, amid the discordant noises of the
External. Your remarks on de Maistre have interested me in the book.'
Mr. Brownson [afterwards famous as a Catholic writer] takes it to-day,
and I shall have the interesting passages from him. If you have a copy
of the "Valley of Solitude" [one of my mother's original allegories]
will you send it? I am under the impression that you preserved
portions of the "Valley," and intended to recall and write out the
remainder at your leisure. Now, don't attempt this, because Mr.
Thacher wants it for his "Boston Book," but simply tell me how much is
preserved. . . . Have you seen Mr. Emerson's "Nature"? If you have
not, let me send you a copy. It is a divine poem on the External. It
is just to your taste. . . . It reminds me more of Sampson Reid's
"Growth of the Mind" than any work of modern date. But it is unlike
any other work. I send you Mr. Brownson's notice of it. Mr. Brownson
gave us two splendid discourses lately. Surely this man is a terror to
pseudo-ministers and would-be philosophers. He is one of the most
eloquent preachers. He grapples with the highest truths and deepest
wants of our being, and spreads these before the reason as with a
light from heaven. He will write to you soon. With great regard,

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