Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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During our European life he frequently wore a soft brown felt hat and
a brown talma of finest broadcloth, whose Greek-like folds and
double-decked effect were artistic, but did not tempt him to pose or
remember his material self. He was as forgetful of his appearance as
an Irishman of the true quality, who may have heard something about
his coat or his hair, but has let slip from his mind what it was, and
cares not, so long as the song of his comrades is tender and the
laughter generous. In some such downright way, I was convinced, my
father regarded the beauty and stateliness which were his, and for
which he had been praised all through his existence. He forgot himself
in high aims, which are greater than things seen, no matter how fine
soever.

We made a very happy family group as we gladly followed and looked
upon him when he took ship to start for the Liverpool Consulate; and
of this journey and the new experiences which ensued my mother writes
to Dr. Peabody as follows:--

STEAMER NIAGARA, ATLANTIC OCEAN,

July 7, 1853.

MY DEAREST FATHER,--It is early morning. Wrapped in furs and blanket
shawl, in the sun and close against the vast scarlet cylinder of
scalding hot steam, I have seated myself to greet you from Halifax,
where we shall arrive to-night. I was glad to leave the sight of you
while you were talking with Mr. Fields, whose cheerful face (and
words, no doubt) caused you to smile. I was so glad to leave you
smiling happily. Then came the cannonade, which was very long. And why
do you suppose it was so long? Mr. Ticknor says that always they give
a salute of two guns; but that yesterday so many were thundered off
because Mr. Hawthorne, the distinguished United States Consul and
author, was leaving the shore, and honoring her Majesty's steamship
with his presence. While they were stabbing me with their noise I was
ignorant of this. Perhaps my wifely pride would have enabled me to
bear it better if I had known that the steamer were trembling with
honor rendered to my husband. After this we were quiet, enough, for
we were moving magically over a sea like a vast pearl, almost white
with peace. I never saw anything so fair and lovely as the whole
aspect of the mighty ocean. Off on the horizon a celestial blue seemed
to meet the sky. Julian sat absorbed. He did not turn his head, but
gazed and gazed on this, to him, new and wondrous picture. Seeing a
point of land running out, he said, "That, I suppose, is the end of
America! I do not think America reaches very far!" I managed to change
his beaver and plume for his great straw Fayal hat, but he would not
turn his head for it. It was excessively hot. An awning was spread at
the stern, and then it was very comfortable. I heard that the British
minister was on board, and I searched round to find him out. I decided
upon a fine-looking elderly gentleman who was asleep near the
helm-house. Afterwards the mail-agent came to Mr. Hawthorne and said
the minister wished to make his acquaintance; and behold, here was my
minister, a stately, handsome person, with an air noble and of great
simplicity and charm of manner. Mr. Hawthorne introduced me, but I had
no conversation then. Later, I had a very delightful interview. . . .
Near by stood a gentleman whom I supposed his attache; and with him I
had a very long and interesting conversation. We had a nice talk
about art and Rome, and America and England, and architecture. I do
not yet know his name, but only that his brother was joint executor
with Sir Robert Peel on the estate of Hadley, the artist. This unknown
told me that the minister was an exquisite amateur artist, and his
portfolio was full of the finest sketches. This accounted for the
serene expression of his eyes, that rest contemplatively upon all
objects. Mr. Silsbee looks so thin and pale that I fear for him; but I
will take good care of him. At table, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have the
seats of honor, on either hand of the captain. He is a very
remarkable man. The minister told me that he sailed with him five
years ago, when the captain was very young, and he was then astonished
at his skill and power of command; that the captains of these great
English steamers are picked men, trained in the navy, and eminent for
ability and accomplishment, and that Captain Leitch is remarkable
among the best. It was good to see his assured military air, as he
walked back and forth while we moved out of the beautiful harbor. He
made motions with his hand with such an air of majesty and conscious
power. His smile is charming, and his voice fine. The enunciation of
Mr. Crampton, the minister, is also wonderfully fine. Mr. Crampton
says that these steamers have run for seventeen years, and that not
one accident has happened, and not a man been lost, except that once a
steamer was lost in a fog, but all the passengers and crew were safely
got off. Una enjoys herself very much, and reads the "Tanglewood
Tales," and walks and races on the upper deck with Julian, this fine
cold morning. It is glorious, glorious,--this blue surrounding sea,
and no land.

Your affectionate daughter,

SOPHIA.

WATERLOO HOUSE, LIVERPOOL, July 17, Sunday morning.

Here we are, dear father, in England; and I cannot realize it, because
a moment ago we were in Boston Harbor, and how can I be three thousand
miles afar? If we had had more difficulty, storms, and danger, I could
realize it better; but it seems like a pleasure excursion on a lake. I
sit in a parlor, with one great, broad window from ceiling to floor, a
casement opening upon a balcony, which commands a handsome street. It
does not look like Boston, and, Mr. Hawthorne says, not like New York,
but--like Liverpool. People are going to church, and the bells are
chiming in a pleasant jangle. Every gentleman has an umbrella under
his arm; for it is bright sunshine one moment, and a merry little
shower the next.

I spoke in my note from Halifax of Mr. Crampton, and a gentleman whom
I thought his attached Mr. Crampton we lost at Halifax, but the
supposed attache remained; and I was glad, for he was the most
interesting person in the steamer. We in vain tried to discover his
name, but at last found it to be Field Talfourd, brother of Sir Thomas
Talfourd, author of "Ion." I had very charming conversations with him.
He was a perfect gentleman, with an ease of manner so fascinating and
rare, showing high breeding, and a voice rich and full. Whenever he
spoke, his words came out clear from the surrounding babble and all
the noise of the ship, so that I could always tell where he was. He is
one of the primitive men, in contradistinction to the derivative (as
Sarah Clarice once divided people). He seemed never at a loss on any
subject soever; and when the passengers were trying feats of skill and
physical prowess to pass the time, I saw Mr. Talfourd exhibit
marvelous power as a gymnast in performing a feat which no one else
would even attempt. His education was all-sided, body and mind,
apparently; and, with all, this charm of gentlemanliness,--not very
often met with in America. It seems to require more leisure and a
deeper culture than we Americans have yet, to produce such a lovely
flower. . . .

July 19. We all have colds now, except Mr. Hawthorne, with whom
earth's maladies have nothing to do. Julian and Una are homesick for
broad fields and hilltops. Julian, in this narrow, high room, is very
much like an eagle crowded into a canary-bird's cage! They shall go to
Prince's Park as soon as I can find' the way; and there they will see
water and green grass and trees. They think of the dear Wayside with
despair. As soon as possible we shall go into the country. Yesterday
the waning consul, Mr. Crittendon, called. Mr. Hawthorne likes him
much. Mr. Silsbee and Mr. Wight called. The latter talked a great deal
of transcendental philosophy to me, on the Niagara; and I was
sometimes tempted to fling him to the fishes, to baptize him in
realities.

July 21. An Oxford graduate, who went to see Mr. Hawthorne in Concord,
called to see him, and brought his father, a fine-looking gentleman.
Their name is Bright. Mary Herne thought the son was Eustace Bright
himself! To-day the father came to invite us all out to West Derby to
tea on Saturday, and the son is coming for us. There the children
will see swans and gardens and green grass, and they are in raptures.
Young Henry Bright is a very enthusiastic young gentleman, full of
life and emotion; and he very politely brought me from his gardens a
radiant bouquet of flowers, among which the heliotrope and moss-roses
and all other roses and mignonette make delicious fragrance. Yesterday
Miss Lynch sent me a bunch of moss-rose buds--nine! Just think of
seeing together nine moss-rose buds! Henry Bright brought the
"Westminster Review" to Mr. Hawthorne, and said he should bring him
all the new books. Mrs. Train called to see me before she went to town
[London], and Mr. Hawthorne and I went back with her to the Adelphi,
and walked on to see a very magnificent stone building, called St.
George's Hall. It is not quite finished; and as far as the mist would
allow me to see, it was sumptuous. . . . We have strawberries as large
as small peaches, one being quite a feast, and fine raspberries. The
head of the Waterloo House, Mr. Lynn, is a venerable-looking person,
resembling one's idea of an ancient duke,--dressing with elaborate
elegance, and with the finest ruffled bosoms. Out of peculiar respect
to the Consul of the United States, he comes in at the serving of the
soup, and holds each plate while I pour the soup, and then, with great
state, presents it to the waiter to place before each person. After
this ceremony he retires with a respectful obeisance. This homage
diverts Mr. Hawthorne so much that I am afraid he will smile some day.
The gravity of the servants is imperturbable. One, Mr. Hawthorne calls
our Methodist preacher. The service is absolutely perfect. Your
affectionate child,

SOPHIA.

The Brights, especially Henry Bright, appear frequently in the
"Note-Books," and their names occur very often in my mother's letters.
The young Oxford graduate I remember most distinctly. He was thin,
and so tall that he waved like a reed, and so shining-eyed that his
eyes seemed like icebergs; they were very prominent. His nose was one
of your English masterpieces,--a mountainous range of aristocratic
formation; and his far-sweeping eyebrows of delicate brown, his red,
red lips and white doglike teeth, and his deeply cleft British chin
were a source of fathomless study. In England a man can be
extraordinarily ordinary and material; but the men of culture are, as
a rule, remarkably forcible in unique and deep-cut characteristics,
both of face and of mind, with a prevailing freedom from
self-analysis--except privately, no doubt.

The strong features of Henry Bright, at any rate, made a total of
ravishing refinement. He and my father would sit on opposite sides of
the fire; Mr. Bright with a staring, frosty gaze directed unmeltingly
at the sunny glow of the coals as he talked, his slender long fingers
propping up his charming head (over which his delicately brown hair
fell in close-gliding waves) as he leaned on the arm of his
easy-chair. Sometimes he held a book of Tennyson's poetry to his
near-sighted, prominent eyes, as closely as two materials could remain
and not blend into one. He recited "The Brook" in a fine fury of
appreciation, and with a sure movement that suggested well the
down-tumbling of the frolicking element, with its under-current of
sympathizing pathos, the life-blood of the stream. "For men may come,
and men may go, but I go on for ever!" rang in my empty little head
for years, and summed up, as I guessed, all of Egyptian wisdom and
spiritual perpetuity in a single suggestive fact. Mr. Bright had a way
of laughing that I could never cease to enjoy, even in the faint echo
of retrospect. It always ended in a whispered snort from the great
mountain range of his nose. He laughed often, at his own and my
father's remarks, and at the close of the tumbling diction of "The
Brook;" and he therefore frequently snorted in this
sweeping-of-the-wind fashion. I listened, spellbound. He also very
gently and breezily expressed his touched sensibility, after some
recitation of his of rare lines from other poems, but in the same odd
manner. My father stirred this beloved friend with judicious,
thought-developing opposition of opinion concerning all sorts of
polite subjects, but principally, when I overheard, concerning the
respective worth of writers. The small volume of Tennyson which Mr.
Bright held in his two hands caressingly, with that Anglo-literary
filliping of the leaves which is so great a compliment to any book,
contained for him a large share of Great Britain's greatness. His
brave heart beat for Tennyson; I think my father's did not, though his
head applauded. My mother, for her part, was entranced by the
goldsmith's work of the noble poet, and by the gems enclasped in its
perfection of formative art,--perfections within the pale of
convention and fashion and romantic beauty which make lovely
Tennyson's baronial domain. Henry Bright wrote verses, too; and he was
beginning to be successful in a certain profound interest which
customarily absorbs young men of genuine feeling who are not yet
married; and therefore it was worth while to stir the young lover up,
and hear what he could say for "The Princess" and "The Lord of
Burleigh." My mother, in a letter written six months after we had
reached England, and when he was established as a household friend,
draws a graphic picture of his lively personality:--

ROCK PARK, December 8.

. . . We had a charming visit from Henry Bright a fortnight ago. He
stayed all night, and he talks--I was going to say, like a storm; but
it is more like a breeze, for he is very gentle. He is extremely
interesting, sincere, earnest, independent, warm and generous hearted;
not at all dogmatic; full of questions, and with ready answers. He is
highly cultivated, and writes for the "Westminster." . . . Eustace
Bright, as described in "The Wonder-Book," is so much like him in
certain things that it is really curious: "Slender, pale, yet of a
healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his
shoes." He is also near-sighted, though he does not wear spectacles.
His eyes are large, bright, and prominent, rather, indicating great
facility of language, which he has. He is an Oxford scholar, and has
decided literary tastes. He is delicately strung, and is as
transparent-minded and pure-hearted as a child, with great enthusiasm
and earnestness of character; and, though a Liberal, very loyal to his
Queen and very admiring of the aristocracy. This comes partly by
blood, as his mother has noble blood in her veins from various
directions, even the Percys and Stanleys, and is therefore a native
aristocrat. He enjoyed his visit to America extremely, and says
Boston is the Mecca of English Unitarians, and Dr. Channing is their
patron saint. I like to talk with him: he can really converse. He goes
to the Consulate a good deal, for he evidently loves Mr. Hawthorne
dearly. I wish my husband could always have visitors so agreeable. The
other day a woman went to him about a case in Chancery. Mr. Hawthorne
thought she was crazy; and I believe all people are who have a suit in
Chancery.

A few weeks after the date of the last letters, a visit was paid to
the Brights at their family home, and my mother thus writes of it:--

ROCK PARK, February 16, 1854.

I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandheys, the domain of Mr.
Bright. He has been urging all winter that we should go and dine and
stay all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. Bright wrote
a cordial note and invited Mr. Hawthorne and Una and me to go and
meet Mr. and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. It seemed
not possible to refuse without being uncivil, though I did not like to
leave Julian and baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended
to stay but one night, and the next morning would come home and see
Julian and Rose, and take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate
with him; and we left King, that excellent butler, in the house. It
was really safe enough; only, you know, mothers have, perhaps,
unfounded alarms. We took a carriage at Pier-head (Una and I) and
drove to the Consulate, where we took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Bright.
. . . We arrived at about six o'clock, and Una and I had to dress for
dinner after our arrival. It was a party of twelve. . . . Mrs. H.
[aunt of Henry Bright] is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in
season, and out of season at Norris Green. She was dressed in crimson
velvet, with pearls and diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair
and pretty.

She was resolved to tease Mr. Hawthorne into consenting to go to her
ball. Just imagine him in the clutches of a lady of fashion! But he
always behaves so superbly under the most trying circumstances, that I
was exceedingly proud of him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she
could not tell whether he would accept or not, and said she would
leave the matter to me, with confidence that I would prevail. . . .
Just after luncheon on Tuesday, Mrs. Bright's brother came to tell her
that the Great Britain had come, and she would not believe it, because
her husband had not telegraphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in
the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come back from Australia. . . .
Mr. Martineau has a kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But
the full dress of the gentlemen now requiring a white cravat and tie,
they all looked ministerial to me, except the United States Consul,
who will hold on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. He
does not choose to do as the Romans do while in Rome. At least, he is
not yet broken in. I suppose it is useless for me to say that he was
by far the handsomest person present, and might have been taken for
the king of them all. The chandelier that poured floods of light down
on the heads beneath was very becoming to him; for the more light
there is, the better he looks always. The dinner was exceedingly
elegant, and the service as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and
crystal could make it. And one of the attendants, the coachman,
diverted me very much by the air with which he carried off his black
satin breeches, white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with
gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with silver. Not the
autocrat of all the Russias feels grander than these livery servants.
The butler, who is really above the livery servants in position,
looked meek in his black suit and white vest and cravat, though he had
a right to look down on the varlet in small-clothes. This last,
however, was much the most imposing, in figure, and fair round red
cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear me, what is man! At the
sound of a bell, when the dessert was put upon the table, the children
came in. They never dine with mamma and papa, . . . and all troop in
at dessert, looking so pretty, in full dress, . . . thin white muslin
or tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long streaming sashes.
I found the next day that it was just the same when there was no great
party at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white vest and muslin
cravat,--like a picture of the old regime. In the evening we had
music, weaving itself into the conversation.

Mrs. Bright is . . . a person of delicate and fine taste; . . . she has
eight children, but in her face one does not find wearing care. . . . It
is a face of great sensibility. . . . Her smile breaks out like real
sunshine, revealing a happy and satisfied spirit, a fresh and unworn
nature. Her children seem to regard her as a precious treasure. Her
husband, with a white head and perfectly Eastern face, is exceedingly
pleasant; and when he comes home to dinner he goes to his wife and
takes her hand, as if he had been gone many months, and asks her
particularly how it is with her, in a tender and at the same time
playful way, which causes a great deal of sunshine. Then he runs
upstairs to dress, and comes back in an incredibly short time, as nice
as a new pin, and overflowing with the kindest hospitality. It is such
a pretty scene: the elegant drawing-room, the recess a bow window of
great size, filled with such large and clear plate glass that it seems
wide open, looking out upon the verdant lawn and rich green--
evergreen--shrubbery; two superb cranes, with stately crests,
walking about with proud steps, or with outspread wings half flying,
and uttering a short, sharp cry; oval and circular plots of ground
surrounded now with snowdrops, about twice as large as those we have
in America. Everything is lovely outside. Inside, innumerable gems of
art and mechanism cover the tables. . . . In the evening . . . the
group of airily dressed children; the tender mother in her rich
brocade and lace mantle; the happy father; the agreeable governess
(Miss Cumberland is a remarkably accomplished person, and has been
with the family fifteen years); the music, talk, and aesthetic
tea,--it is a charming picture. . . . The grave butler brings in a
tray with cups and saucers and an urn, and leaves the room. H. makes
tea, pours it out, and takes it to each person, with a little morsel
of spread bread. S. and A. look about for empty cups, and return them
to the tray. There is no fuss; it is all enfamille; and the tray is
borne off again by the butler, stepping with noiseless feet. There is
no noise at any time anywhere in the house, except the angry squall of
the cockatoo, who gets into a violent rage once in a while with some
invisible foe, and tears his cage, and erects the long feathers on his
head like so many swords drawn out of their scabbards. . . . The
Brights treated me in the sweetest way, as if they had always known
me, and I felt quite at home. H. is to go to her aunt's fancy ball as
a mermaid; and on Tuesday I helped sprinkle her sea-green veil with
pearls.

This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is the lady of ladies; her
children are all clever (in an English sense), and one son a prodigy.
. . . They are all good as well as clever; well educated,
accomplished, and most entirely united. It is all peace and love and
happiness there, and I cannot discover where the shadow is. Health,
wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces and virtues--I
cannot see the trail of the serpent anywhere in that Paradise.

. . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little talks. She told me
elaborately how she admired and loved Mr. Hawthorne's books; how she
had found expressed in them what she had found nowhere else; with what
rapture one of her sisters read, re-read, and read again "The
Wonder-Book;" . . . how Mrs. H. thought him peerless; and so on. There
is not the least extravagance about Mrs. Bright, but remarkable
sobriety; and so what she said had double force. We talked . . .
while we sprinkled pearls over the mermaid's sea-green veil. On
Wednesday the sun shone! If you lived here [in or near Liverpool] you
would hardly credit such a phenomenon.

CHAPTER IX

ENGLISH DAYS: I

In order to give a full idea of Henry Bright and his home, I have
anticipated dates somewhat, but at this point will go back a little to
the summer of our arrival in England, since the atmosphere which
surrounded Hawthorne and the aspect of typical personalities which he
enjoyed are thus easily caught.

August 5, 1853.

. . . We have been so hospitably received that very little clear
leisure has been left for my own private use. . . . The children have
suffered very much from confinement within doors and bad air without,
and almost "everduring" rain. We find it will not do to remain in the
city any longer, and to-morrow we go across the Mersey to Rock-ferry,
a fine watering-place, twenty minutes off by steam, where the air is
pure and healthy.

We had a call from a certain Mrs. R. S. Ely and her mamma. She said
she herself was an American. On the afternoon of the same day we
received a formal invitation from this lady for a dinner-party. But
Mr. Hawthorne was engaged for that day to dine with Mr. Crittendon. As
she was a very fine lady, and resides in a very aristocratic street, I
was glad to be obliged to refuse, because my brocade was not yet
appointed, and I could wear nothing less in state. At the Waterloo we
received a call from Mrs. William Rathbone and her daughter, Mrs.
Thorn. It was a sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathbone, who wrote that
exquisite book, "The Diary of Lady Willoughby." She resides in London.
Mr. William Rathbone is a millionaire. His wife is a cordial and
excellent lady, who seemed to take us right into her heart, just as
the Brights did. . . . We have been to make our promised call at
Sandheys. Before we drove there, Mr. Bright took us to Norris Green,
the estate of his uncle. How can I convey to you an adequate idea of
it? I do not know what we are to do with the regal paradises of
England if I cannot cope with this. . . . Here in all directions
spread out actual velvet lawns, upon which when I trod I seemed to
sink into a downy enchantment; and these lawns were of such a tint, of
the most delicate pea-green, with a lustre upon it! . . .

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