Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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Evening. I have been interrupted all day, receiving and making calls.
Mr. Hawthorne has made his maiden speech, and followed it by another
to-day, when he received the Chamber of Commerce in Mrs. Blodget's
great drawing-room.

Mrs. William Rathbone sent her carriage to take us to Green Bank. The
floors of the halls are almost invariably pavements of stone,
sometimes in colored mosaic. . . . By and by came Mr. Rathbone,--a
very animated, upright, facetious old gentleman, who seems to enjoy
life and his millions quite serenely. He is a person of great energy,
and full of benevolence, and the fountain of many of the great
charities of Liverpool. Then came his son, and then a pretty lady,
Miss Stuart; remarkably pretty she was. We were summoned to tea by
what I at first thought was a distant band of music; but I believe it
was an East Indian gong, merely stirred into a delicate melody. Tea
was at one end of the table, and coffee at the other; and old Mr.
Rathbone presided at the coffee, and Mrs. Thorn at the tea. The house
was hung with pictures from ceiling to floor, every room I entered. In
walking all round the grounds before tea, we came upon a fine view of
the Welsh mountains over the sunny slopes; for it proved the loveliest
afternoon, though in the morning it rained straight down. Mrs. Thorn
spoke to me with great fervor of "The Scarlet Letter." She said that
no book ever produced so powerful an effect upon her. She was obliged
to put it away when half through, to quiet the tumultuous excitement
it caused in her. She said she felt as if each word in it was the only
word that ought to be used, and the wholeness, the unity, the
perfection of art amazed her. . . .

The Chamber of Commerce wished to pay their respects to Mr. Hawthorne;
but Mr. Hawthorne could not receive a cloud of gentlemen at our parlor
there, unless they had all "stood upon their dignity," as the witty
Miss Lynch suggested that Mr. Hawthorne should. The President of the
Chamber was a Mr. Barber, and, behold, when we came out to Rockferry
he called again, and invited us to dine at Poulton Hall, his
country-seat at Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he
resides with his two maiden sisters. He came for us in his beautiful
carriage,--a chariot it was, with a coachman as straight as a
lightning-rod,--and off we bowled to Poulton Hall. [My mother's
inexperience concerning splendid effects in luxurious life led her to
look upon them in a naive, though perfectly composed manner. One is
reminded of the New Adam and Eve, and one is glad that the patient
objects of time-honored beauty had found surprise at last.] It is four
hundred years old; and there we came upon unspoiled nature, as well as
elaborate art. It is an enchanting spot, with a lawn shaded by ancient
oaks and other forest trees; but green fields beyond and around that
had never been trimmed and repressed into thick velvet. The Hall had
belonged to the Greens, and the history of it is full of ghost stories
and awful tragedies. We entered a hall, and by the ancient oaken
staircase reposed upon the carpet a fox, in a fine attitude, with
erect head and brilliant eyes,--really a splendid specimen of a
creature. I was surprised at the quiet manner in which he reposed,
undisturbed by our entrance; but I was much more astonished to find it
was a dead fox stuffed. I could scarcely believe it after I was told.
Mr. Barber is a lover of sport, and is going with his family to-morrow
to Scotland to hunt grouse. He says that at this season the hills of
Scotland are gorgeous with heath flowers, like a carpet of rich dyes.
We were ushered into the drawing-room, which looked more like a
brilliant apartment in Versailles than what I had expected to see. The
panels were richly gilt, with mirrors in the centre, and hangings of
gilded paper; and the broad windows were hung with golden-colored
damask; the furniture was all of the same hue; with a carpet of superb
flowers; and vases of living flowers standing everywhere; and a
chandelier of diamonds (as to indefatigable and vivid shining), and
candlesticks of the same,--not the long prisms, like those on Mary's
astral, but a network of crystals diamond-cut. The two ladies were in
embroidered white muslin dresses over rose-colored silk, and black
velvet jackets, basque-shaped, with a dozen bracelets on their arms,
which were bare, with flowing sleeves. They received us with that
whole-hearted cordiality we meet everywhere. They told us some
terrible stories about the haunted house, and about a lady who was
imprisoned and tortured in one of the attic chambers on account of her
faith, and how she resisted to the end, and was starved to death. The
room bore the name of the "Martyr's Chamber." ["Dr. Grimshawe's
Secret" refers to this mansion.] We went up there, and saw the window
in the roof,--so high that the wretched lady could not look out; and
the door of solid oak, which was ruthlessly barred. We saw the spot
where one of the gentlemen of the former family cut his throat, and
was found dead; and Miss Marianne said children had been murdered in
the house, and uneasy spirits revisited the "glimpses of the moon." We
went all over the house, in which are twenty-five sleeping apartments.
One room contains a library in black letter, but that we could only
peep at through a great keyhole, because it was barred and padlocked.
I think Mr. Hawthorne would like to examine that. The ladies said
that, if we wished to go to church, we could tell the beadle of the
old Bebbington church to guide us to their pew. We passed this
venerable church on our way. Its tower is very fine, and has ivy and
golden flowers far up near its summit, and is built of reddish stone.
Both ladies spoke of "The Scarlet Letter" with admiration and wonder.
They said it had the loftiest moral of any book they had ever read.
. . . On Friday, Mr. Hawthorne dined with his worship the Mayor, the
Judges, the Grand Jury, the leading members of the bar, and some other
gentlemen, at the Town Hall. Mr. Hawthorne said the room was the most
stately and handsomest he ever saw. The city plate was superb, and
the city livery of the footmen was very splendid, and the footmen
themselves very handsome. His worship wore his robes of state, as did
the worshipful Judges, with their wigs. Speeches were made, and Mr.
Hawthorne made his third speech! Oh, how I wish I could have heard it!
. . . This morning the ferry steamers brought over two or three thousand
children--boys and girls of the Industrial School--to have a good
time. I hope they are kindly treated; but it makes me shudder, and
actually weep, to look upon the assemblage of young creatures, not one
of them able to call upon a mother; each with a distinct character,
each with a human heart. Poor little motherless children!

On Sunday afternoon we took a delightful walk. I think we made a
circuit of five miles, if not more. We went over Dacre Hill, from
which a sweet, tranquil landscape is seen; and onwards, down a lovely
lane. These lanes are all bordered with hedges of hawthorn, ivy, and
holly; and one of them abounded in lovely harebells, with stems so
delicate that I found it very difficult to see and seize them, so as
to pluck them. These hedges had not walls before them, and were not
too high, so that we could look over into the fields. A well-worn path
led from the harebell lane along the edge of a field; and very
convenient stone steps led over the walls. When we got to the street,
it seemed a very ancient place. This region was once the kingdom of
Mercia. The road seemed hewn out of stone. I cannot tell you how much
the cottages seemed like the first dwellings that ever were made. . . .
When I called on Mrs. Squarey, we found her a pleasant lady, and
Una thought she looked like Miss Maria Mitchell, and therefore Una
liked her. Our call was extremely agreeable. Mr. Hawthorne insists
upon calling her Mrs. Roundey. When Mr. Hawthorne came home this
afternoon, he said he met on the other side the children of the
Industrial School just landed. He saw them face to face, and he said
their faces were uncomely to the last degree. He said he never
imagined such faces,--so irredeemably stupid and homely. I do not
think I have realized the sin of the Old World in any way so much as
in a few faces I saw in Liverpool. It made me shiver and contract to
look at them,--so haggard, so without hope or faith, or any sign of
humanity. . . . Mr. Hawthorne had a letter from Kossuth to-day.

August 26.

MY DEAR FATHER,--I am just as stupid as an owl at noonday, but it is a
shame that a steamer should go without a letter from me to you, and it
shall not. Mr. Hawthorne wishes to escape from too constant
invitations to dinner in Liverpool, and by living in Rockferry will
always have a good excuse for refusing when there is really no reason
or rhyme in accepting, for the last steamer leaves Liverpool at ten in
the evening; and I shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all
company which I do not very much covet. I have no particular fancy for
Liverpool society, except the Rathbones' and Brights'.

Mr. Hawthorne was obliged the other day to bury an American captain
who died at his boarding-house. He paid for the funeral out of his
private purse, though I believe he expects some brother captains will
subscribe a part of the amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral,
and in one of those plumed carriages he followed the friendless
captain. The children are delighted with the aspect of things, and
with the house, which they think very stately and elegant. I have been
racing round the lawn and shrubberies with them. The flowers rejoice.
The scarlet geraniums, the crimson and rose-colored fuchsias, the deep
garnet carnations, the roses, and the enormous variously colored
pansies (pensees) look radiantly in the sun. There are many other
kinds of flowers besides; and the beautiful light green, smooth-shaven
lawn is a rest to the eyes.

There is a vast amount of latent force and energy here, but it takes a
cannon to put it in action. Of course there are exceptions enough.
Our friend Henry Bright is a slender, diaphanous young gentleman, of a
nervous temperament, with no beer or roast beef apparent in his mind
or person; and there are doubtless many like him. The English are
unfortunate in noses. Their noses are unspiritual, thick at the end;
and there is an expression about the mouth of enormous self-complacency.
The specimens of this amount to superb sometimes, when the curves of
the mouth are Apollo-like. Unfortunately there is too often a deep
stain of wine in the cheeks, or a general suffusion; and unless the
face is quite pale, one can find no other hue,--no healthy bloom either
in man or woman.

A young American was found in a deranged state, and taken before a
magistrate. There was one of two things to do,--either to put him in
the workhouse, or pay his board at the insane hospital. Mr. Hawthorne,
of course, chose the latter. It was just like him to choose it. The
young man's mother had lately married a second time, and was in
Naples. When Mrs. Blodget came to see me, a day or two since, she
exclaimed that she knew his mother, and that she was a lady of
fortune. . . .

September 30. Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Ticknor had a fine excursion to
Old Chester, and were so occupied with it that no time was left for
Eaton Hall. Julian has been parading round the garden this morning,
blowing a trumpet which papa brought him from Chester, and dragging
after him a portentous wooden cannon, which would not help to gain the
smallest battle. It is actually a sunny day! . . . A very great joy it
is to Rosebud to see the lovely little English robins come to pick up
crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They have great faith in man, and
come close to the window without fear. They have told the linnets and
thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets actually come, though
with dread and trembling; and they carry off the largest crumbs for
their families and neighbors. The English robin is very dear. . . .

Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and says he is a noble old man
and eloquent, and wins hearts in personal intercourse. His three
daughters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very attractive and
cultivated, and they are all most impatient to see Mr. Hawthorne. . . .

We are all going to Chester first on a Sunday, to attend the Cathedral
service with the children. How very singular that this dream of mine,
like so many other dreams, is coming true! For I always wished
earnestly that the children might go to church first in a grand old
cathedral, so that their impression of social worship might be
commensurate with its real sublimity. And, behold, it will be so,--for
they never yet have been to church. The echoes of those lofty vaults
are scarcely ever silent, for an anthem is sung there every day.
Afterwards we shall go on a week-day to examine the old town, said to
be older than Rome itself!

October 5. On Saturday, the ist, Mr. Hawthorne went to dine at Mr.
Aikens's with the two sons of Burns, Colonel and Major Burns. He says
they were gentlemanly persons, and agreeable, but not resembling their
father. After dinner, one of them sang one of Burns's songs, and again
another in the drawing-room. . . . Mr. Fields says, "'Tanglewood' is
going finely. Three thousand were sold at once on its appearance, and
it is still moving rapidly. The notices have been glorious everywhere;
and they ought to be, for the book is one of the most delightful which
your pen has let slip."

October 21. We are going to dine out this evening, at Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Holland's, Liscard Vale. These persons Mr. Hawthorne met a
little while ago at the house of Mr. Aikens, where he saw the sons of
Burns. For the benefit of cousin Mary Loring [the very beautiful and
spirited Mrs. George B. Loring, nee Pickman], I will say now that my
wreath is just from Paris, and consists of very exquisite flowers that
grow in wreaths. Part of it is the blackberry-vine (strange to say),
of such cunning workmanship that Julian says he knows the berries are
good to eat. The blossoms, and the black and red and green fruit and
leaves, are all equally perfect. Then there are little golden balls,
to imitate a plant that grows in Ireland,--fretted gold. Small flowers
are woven closely in, over the top of the head, and behind the ears
the long, streaming vines hang in a cluster.

October 23. At sunset the clouds cleared off and the sun shone, so
that our drive of six miles to Liscard Vale was much more pleasant
than we expected. It was rather dreary; uncultivated moors and
sea-nipped foliage. Finally we began to hasten, at a greatly
accelerated pace, down, down, and then entered a gate. It was too dark
to see distinctly; but, as far as I could discover, the land seemed
formed of low hills and vales, with trees in thin groves; and the
mouth of the Mersey, and Liverpool glittering with a thousand lights,
were visible through the vistas. Mrs. Holland is ladylike, and
therefore simple in her manners. Mr. Holland has the figure and air of
an American gentleman, rather thin and pale. The drawing-room was
beautiful. It was of very great size, and at one end was a window in
semicircular form, larger than any but a church window. Depending from
the lofty ceiling were several chains, in different parts of the room,
holding vases filled with richly colored flowers with long vines
streaming. Mr. Hawthorne as chief guest--there were twelve--took Mrs.
Holland, and sat at her right hand. The table was very handsome; two
enormous silver dish-covers, with the gleam of Damascus blades,
putting out all the rest of the light. After the soup, these covers
were removed, revealing a boiled turbot under one, and fried fish
under the other. The fish was replaced by two other enormous dishes
with shining covers; and then the whole table was immediately covered
with silver dishes; and in the centre was a tall silver stand holding
a silver bowl of celery. It would be useless to try to tell you all
the various dishes. A boiled turkey was before Mrs. Holland, and a
roasted goose before Mr. Holland; and in the intermediate spaces,
cutlets, fricassees, ragouts, tongue, chicken-pies, and many things
whose names I did not know, and on a side-table a boiled round of beef
as large as the dome of St. Peter's. The pastry of the chicken-pie
was of very elaborate sculpture. It was laid in a silver plate, an oak
vine being precisely cut all round, and flowers and fruits moulded on
the top. It really was a shame to spoil it. All these were then swept
off in a very noiseless manner. Grouse and pheasants are always served
with the sweets in England, and they appeared at either end of the
table. There were napkins under the finger-bowls, upon each of which a
castle or palace was traced in indelible ink, and its name written
beneath. The wines were port, sherry, madeira, claret, hock, and
champagne. I refused the five first, but the champagne was poured into
my glass without any question. So now you have the material elements
of the dinner-party. Perhaps I cannot give the spiritual so well. Mr.
Littledale was a gentleman with a face in full bloom, a very white
cravat coming out even with his chin; and within it he bridled with
the unmistakable English sense of superiority to the rest of mankind.
He is a specimen of the independent, rich country gentleman of
England. His conservatories were the best in the world, . . . and so
on through all things appertaining to him. One could see directly that
any attempt to convince him to the contrary would be utterly futile.
His ears were not made to admit any such remarks. . . . He declared that
the weather of the last twelve months was unprecedented. I meekly
suggested Bulwer's testimony, but he scoffed at it. . . . He discussed
with Mrs. Holland the probable merits of a pudding before her, and
concluded he would not try it. There was something peremptory,
petulant, and whimsical about him. . . . He was precisely a character
such as I have read about in English novels, and entertained me very
much. He was evidently of the war party of Britain, and thought
Kossuth's last letter to the people of Straffan "exceedingly clever."
In speaking of contested elections, he referred to one which cost
100,000 pounds; and some one asked Mr. Hawthorne if an election ever
cost so much as that in America. Upon this question, a young
gentleman, a fair-haired Egbert, with an aristocratic face and head,
observed that he supposed 100,000 pounds would purchase all America!
Was not that impertinent? Mr. Hawthorne gravely replied that from the
number of elections it was impossible that any such purchasing could
be made. Opposite me sat a Mrs. Mann;--an old lady with an
extraordinary cap, trimmed with pink ribbon, and a magnificent
necklace of rubies round her neck, and bracelets of the same. She had
a very intelligent face. There was a Mrs. Miller, who floated in fine,
white, embroidered muslin, with a long scarlet sash, and a scarlet net
upon the back of her head, confining her dark hair in a heavy clump,
very low. She was a very romantic, graceful-looking person, slender
and pale and elegant; and I had a good deal of conversation with her.
She is one of Mr. Hawthorne's profound admirers. . . . She smiled
very brightly; but a look of unspeakable sadness alternated with her
smile that expressed great suffering of some kind. She spoke of
having been ill once, when her friends called her the White Lady of
Avenel; and that is just her picture now. Her dress made her fairness
so apparent,--the gossamer tissue, the bright scarlet, and raven hair
and dark eyes and lashes. The tones of her voice were very airy and
distant, so that I could scarcely catch her words; and this I have
observed in several English ladies. "Where could Zenobia have found
her ever-fresh, rich flower?" asked Mrs. Holland. It is singular to
observe how familiar and like a household word Mr. Hawthorne is to all
cultivated English people. People who have not heard of Thackeray
here, know Mr. Hawthorne. Is not that funny? We ladies had a very good
time together in the drawing-room. Coffee was served in exquisite
little china cups all flowers and gold. . . . Mr. Holland asked me
whether Mr. Hawthorne was mobbed in "the States," and said that if he
should go to London it would be hard work for him, for he would
inevitably be mobbed. He then remarked that he did not like
"Blithedale" so well as the other books. He spoke of Bulwer, and said
that when he saw him he concluded it was better never to see an
author, for he generally disappointed us; that Bulwer was an entirely
made-up man in appearance, effeminate and finical,--flowing curls and
curling mustachios, and elaborate and formal manners. I told him I
should expect just such a looking person in Bulwer, from reading all
his first novels, so very inferior to "The Caxtons" and "My Novel."

November 6.

MY DEAREST FATHER,--Last Sunday was a day that seemed to be dropped
from heaven. I immediately thought that this was the Sunday for
Chester. . . . So we sent to Mr. Squarey, who returned word that he
would meet us at the depot at nine. We did not pick him out from all
others for a companion to the Cathedral, but his wife first requested
us to go with them, and so we were, in a certain way, bound not to go
without, them. It was very affecting to me when I came suddenly upon
the Cathedral. . . . Every "Amen" was slow, solemn, full music, which
had a wonderful effect. It was like the melodious assent of all
nature and mankind to the preceding prayer,--"So be it!" . . . Una and
Julian, especially Julian, suffered much ennui during the sermon; and
Una wrote the other day in one of her letters that "it was very
tegeuse" (her first attempt at spelling "tedious") "for there was
hardly anything in it." Julian inadvertently gaped aloud, which so
startled Mr. Hawthorne that he exclaimed, "Good God!" thus making the
matter much worse; but as even I, who sat next him, did not hear him,
I presume that the same great spaces which took up the canon's voice
disposed of Mr. Hawthorne's exclamation. I am sorry the children were
obliged to stay through the sermon, as it rather spoiled the effect of
the preceding service. It would have been far better to have had
another of David's Psalms chanted. While listening to those of the
morning lesson, I thought how marvelous it was that these Psalms, sung
by the Jewish king and poet to his harp three thousand years ago,
should now be a portion of the religious service of nearly all
Christendom; so many organs grandly accompanying thousands of voices
in praising God in his very words, as the worthiest which man has yet
uttered. And they are indeed worthy; and in this stately old Cathedral
with its manifold associations they sounded grander, more touching,
more eloquent than ever, borne up from the points of the flaming
pinnacles, on solemn organ-tones, to God. This united worship affected
me very deeply, it is so long since I have been to church,--hardly
once since Una was born! You know I always loved to go to church,
always supplying by my imagination what I did not find. . . . I think
that the English Church is the merest petrifaction now. It has not the
fervor and unction of the Roman Catholic even (that is dead enough,
and will be dead soon). The English Church is fat, lazy, cold, timid,
and selfish. How natural that some strong souls, with warm hearts and
the fire of genius in them, should go back to Romanism from its icy
presence!

November 8. Yesterday afternoon was beautiful, and we (Una, Julian,
and I) were quite rejoiced to find Mr. Hawthorne in the ferry-boat
when we returned from Liverpool. It was beautiful,--up in the sky, I
mean; for there never was anything so nasty as Liverpool. Thousands of
footsteps had stirred up the wetness and earth into such a mud-slush
as one can have no idea of in America. It was necessary to look aloft
into the clean heavens to believe any longer that mud was not eternal,
infinite, omnipresent. . . . I left you introduced into the Cathedral
cloisters in Chester, but I suppose you do not wish to stay there any
longer. We went upon the walls afterwards, as we had three hours upon
our hands. I had a great desire to plant my foot in Wales, and so we
crossed the river Dee. I stopped to look at the river Dee. It is a
mere brook in comparison to our great rivers, though the Concord is no
wider in some places. It was flowing peacefully along; and I
remembered that Edgar the Peaceable was rowed in triumph by eight
kings from his palace on the south bank to the monastery in 973. It
was too late to walk far into the immense grounds of Eaton Hall, the
seat of the Marquis of Westminster. He is a Norman noble. I told Mr.
Squarey that my father was of Welsh descent, and he asked me why I did
not fall down and kiss my fatherland.

November.

Mr. Hawthorne's speeches are never "reported," dear father, or I would
send them to you. They remain only in the ear of him who hears them,
happy man that he is.

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