Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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A. BRONSON ALCOTT.

Emerson in the same year responded to a gift of some drawings which my
mother had made for him, in these kind and thoughtful sentences:--

MY DEAR MISS SOPHIA,--I beg you to accept my thanks for the beautiful
drawings you have sent me. . . . I shall keep them as a treasure to be
shown to all my friends who have good or capable eyes, that they may
rejoice with me in the power of the artist. From these fair forms I
hope to receive many a wise suggestion, many a silent reproof. . . .

Your obliged friend and servant, R. WALDO EMERSON.

And later:--

CONCORD, January 20, 1838.

You make me heartily ashamed, my kind friend, by the excess of your
praise of two such little books. I could not possibly recognize
anything of me in your glowing and pictorial words. So I take it for
granted that as a true artist you have the beauty-making eye, which
transfigures the landscape and the heads it looks upon, and can read
poetry out of dull prose. I am not the less glad to have been the
occasion to you of pleasant thoughts, and I delight in the genuine
admiration you express of that ideal beauty which haunts us ever and
makes actual life look sometimes like the coarsest caricature. I like
very well what you say of Flaxman, and shall give him the greater
heed. And indeed who can see the works of a great artist without
feeling that not so much the private as the common wealth is by him
indicated. I think the true soul--humble, rapt, conspiring with all,
regards all souls as its lieutenants and proxies--itself in another
place--and saith of the Parthenon, of the picture, of the poem,--It is
also my work. I can never quarrel with your state of mind concerning
original attempts in your own art. I admire it rather. And I am pained
to think of the grievous resistance which your genius has been so long
tasked to overcome, of bodily suffering.

You ask for my lectures. I wish they were fit to send. They should go
immediately to Salem if they were. I have not allowed one of them to
go in manuscript out of my family. The first one of the course, which
is the most presentable, I will cheerfully lend you whenever I can get
time to patch his coat a little. It is, however, already promised to
two persons.

I thank you for the beautiful little drawing you sent me of Perseus.
It is admired of all beholders. Tell your sister Elizabeth that her
account of Mr. Very interested me much, and I have already begged Mr.
Whiting to bring him to our Lyceum, and he promised his good offices
to get him here.

R. W. EMERSON.

A letter mentions a medallion which Mrs. Hawthorne had made of Charles
Emerson, after his death:--

CONCORD, May 18, 1840.

MY DEAR Miss SOPHIA,--I have begged Mr. Garey to call on you to-day
for the medallion to go to Waterford, and the one for New York, if
ready . . . one of which I wish to send to Mr. Abel Adams.

Elizabeth [Hoar] is very well content with the cast, though she thinks
it has lost some of the precision, as well as the agreeable tint, of
the clay. All our friends find the likeness--some of them slowly--but
all at last. We all count it a beautiful possession; the gift of a
Muse, and not the less valuable that it was so unexpected. You must
now gratify us all by fixing a time when you will come to Concord and
hear what we have to say of it.

Will you not come hither the last week of this month, or the second
week in June? If neither of these dates suits you, you shall choose
any day thereafter, only do not fail us.

Your friend and servant,

R. W. EMERSON.

When arranging to escort the young artist to Concord for the proposed
visit, he proceeds:--

. . . In regard to certain expressions in your letter, I ought to say,
you will presently be undeceived. Though I am fond of writing, and of
public speaking, I am a very poor talker and for the most part very
much prefer silence. Of Charles's beautiful talent in that art I have
had no share; but our common friend, Mr. Alcott, the prince of
conversers, lives little more than a mile from our house, and we will
call in his aid, as we often do, to make amends for our deficiency,
when you come. . . . Will you say to your sister Elizabeth that I
received her kind letter relating to certain high matters, which I
have not yet been in the vein to answer,--indeed, I dream that she
knows all my answer to that question,--has it ready in her rich
suggestion, and only waits for mine to see how well they will tally. I
have laid the letter by, shall presently read it again, and if I have
anything material, I will write. With great regard, yours,

R. W. EMERSON.

CONCORD, April 20, 1841.

MY DEAR Miss SOPHIA,--Will you accept from my sister Elizabeth Hoar
and me the few accompanying prints?

A word of apology must go with them. Elizabeth and I sent, last
summer, by a gentleman who was going to Europe, an order for a few
prints of pictures of Raffaelle and Michel Angelo (specifying
particularly the Prophets and Sibyls of Michel), with the hope that we
might receive something fit to send you. Our agent was less acquainted
with these matters than we supposed; still, we hope they will not be
quite without value in your studio, as we have both of us found
something to admire in these stern drawings. The Transfiguration is a
more spirited copy than most that I have seen, though the principal
figure seems never to be quite well copied. Here is a Virgin of
Leonardo da Vinci and one from Correggio.

Will you have the goodness to thank your sister Elizabeth for the fine
statement she has given the Englishwoman [Miss Martineau] of the
enterprise we are all so proud of; and I can easily suppose the
colonists were content with the portrait. She has in a note
propounded to me certain questions which and the like of which I
always fancy one can answer with a word, as they arise;--but to answer
them with the pen, one must sit like Simmides from month to month,
from year to year. With great regard,

Your friend and servant,

R. WALDO EMERSON.

Elizabeth Hoar wishes to keep the Martineau letter a day or two
longer. I am also to thank your sister Elizabeth for the summons to
the torchlight exhibition, which however I could not easily obey.

A fragment, of most informal import, but exemplifying Emerson's quaint
agility of expression, written about 1843, runs:--

Do not be chagrined, and excellent lady, if I should demand interest
in advance for my loan; but if possibly I can get my errands ready, I
shall stop the passing coach, and load you with freight and
commissions; not compliments and congratulations, merely. Do not
misconceive me--but messages relative to merest chores. And so with
thanks,

Yours, R. W. E.

Margaret Fuller d'Ossoli expresses herself, at the time of my parents'
marriage, as thoughtfully as the rest. Her personality never ceased to
hover about Concord, even after her death. She is a part of its
fascination:--

MY DEAR SOPHIA,--After reading your letter I wanted to write a few
lines, as are not in such a hasty, interrupted fashion. Yet not much
have I to say, for great occasions of bliss, of bane,--tell their own
story, and we would not by unnecessary words come limping after the
true sense. If ever mortal was secure of a pure and rational
happiness which shall grow and extend into immortal life, I think it
is you, for the love that binds you to him you love is wise and pure
and religious; it is a love given not chosen, and the growth not of
wants and wishes, but of the demands of character. Its whole scope and
promise is very fair in my eyes; and in daily life as well as in the
long account I think there will be great happiness; for if ever I saw
a man who combined delicate tenderness to understand the heart of a
woman, with quiet depth and manliness enough to satisfy her, it is Mr.
Hawthorne. . . . To one who cannot think of love merely in the heart,
or even in the common destiny of two souls, but as necessarily
comprehending intellectual friendship too, it seems the happiest lot
imaginable that lies before you. . . . The whole earth is decked for a
bridal. I see not a spot upon her full and gold-bespangled drapery.
All her perfumes breathe, and her eye glows with joy. . . . My
affectionate remembrances to your friend. You rightly felt how glad I
should be to be thought of in the happy hour. As far as bearing an
intelligent heart, I think I deserve to be esteemed a friend. And
thus in affection and prayer, dear Sophia,

Yours, MARGARET F.

A year or two later my father received the following letter from
her:--

DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--You must not think I have any black design
against your domestic peace. Neither am I the agent of any secret
tribunal of the dagger and cord; nor am I commissioned by the malice
of some baffled lover to make you wretched. Yet it may look so, when
you find me once again, in defiance of my failure last summer, despite
your letter of full exposition, once more attempting to mix a foreign
element in your well compounded cup. But indeed, oh severest and most
resolute man, these propositions are none of mine. How can I help it,
if gentle souls, ill at ease elsewhere, wish to rest with you upon the
margin of that sleepy stream? How can I help it if they choose me for
an interpreter? [A suggestion is then made, for the second time, that
my parents should admit a friend into the Old Manse as a boarder. The
notion was sometimes alluded to by my mother in after-years with
unfading horror.] I should like much to hear something about
yourselves; what the genius loci says, whether through voice of ghost,
or rat, or winter wind, or kettle-singing symphony to the happy duet;
and whether by any chance you sometimes give a thought to your friend

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-chestnut
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.

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