Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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I have only room to put in the truest, warmest sympathy with all your
efforts and trials, and the wish that I could lift you up out of all,
and sorrow that I cannot. Mr. Hawthorne has relations and personal
friends who look to him, I think, with great desires. I can demand
nothing for mine.

Though the great Reform Bill of Lord John Russell was deferred by him
the other night to another period on account of war, yet reforms on
every point in social life are going on here, or moving to go on.
Nothing seems to escape some eye that has suddenly opened. The Earl of
Shaftesbury is one of God's Angels of Benefits. The hideous condition
of the very poor and even of tradesmen is being demonstrated to the
nation; a condition in which, a writer in the London "Athenaeum" says,
"Virtue is impossible"! From this most crying and worst evil, up
through all things, sounds the trumpet of reform.

Such abuse of the good President as there is, is sickening. I hope
those who vilify him for doing what he considers his duty have a
quarter of his conscience and uprightness. He is a brave man. . . . He
wrote Mr. Hawthorne that he had no hope of being popular during the
first part of his administration at least. He can be neither bribed,
bought, nor tempted in his political course; he will do what he thinks
constitutional and right, and find content in it. . . . I wish our
Senators had as good manners as the noble lords of Parliament. But we
are perfect savages in manners as yet, and have no self-control, nor
reverence. The dignity and serenity of maturer age will, I trust, come
at last to us. . . .

I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, because I am not
handsome enough. But I will endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and
Rosebud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks supremely handsome
here; handsomer than anybody I see; every other face looks coarse,
compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any
Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose he
were an Englishman--till he speaks. This is a high compliment from the
English. They look at him as much as they can, covertly; as much as
they can without being uncivil and staring, as if they wanted to
assure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does
not observe this; but it is nuts to me, and / observe it. The lofty,
sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought he was
born for a palace, and he shows that he was.

We have had some delightful experiences, and have seen some
interesting people, some literary celebrities, and beautiful English
life within jealous stone walls, draped with ivy inside. We see why
comfort is an essentially English word, and we understand Shakespeare
and all the old poets properly now we are on the scene.

CHAPTER X

ENGLISH DAYS: II

DOUGLAS, MONA, July 18.

MY DEAR FATHER,--I little dreamed that I should next address you from
the Isle of Man! Yet here we all are, with one grievous exception, to
be sure; for Mr. Hawthorne, after fetching us one day, and staying the
two next, went away to the tiresome old Consulate, so conscientious
and devoted is he; for his clerk assured him he might stay a little.
Yet I know that there are reasons of state why he should not; and
therefore, though I am nothing less than infinitely desolate without
him, and hate to look at anything new unless he is looking too, I
cannot complain. But is it not wonderful that I am here in this
remote and interesting and storied spot?--the last retreat of the
little people called fairies, the lurking-place of giants and
enchanters. . . . At Stonehenge we found a few rude stones for a temple.
I could not gather into a small enough focus the wide glances of
Julian's great brown, searching eyes to make him see even what there
was; and when finally he comprehended that the circle of stones once
marked out a temple, and that the Druids really once stood there, he
curled his lip, scornfully exclaiming, "Is that all?" and bounded off
to pluck flowers. I think that, having heard of Stonehenge and a Druid
temple which was built of stones so large that it was considered
almost miraculous that they were moved to their places, he expected to
see a temple touching the sky, perhaps. . . . Mr. Hawthorne came back
the next Friday, much to our joy, and on Saturday afternoon we walked
to the Nunnery with him, which was founded by St. Bridget. A few ruins
remain, overgrown with old ivy vines of such enormous size that I
think they probably hold the walls together. . . . Julian and Una were
enchanted with the clear stream, and Julian was wild for turtles; but
there are no reptiles in the Isle of Man. . . . I kept thinking, "And
this is the rugged, bare, rocky isle which I dreaded to come to,--this
soft, rich, verdant paradise!" It really seems as if the giants had
thrown aloft the bold, precipitous rocks and headlands round the edge
of the island, to guard the sylvan solitudes for the fairies, whose
stronghold was the Isle of Man. I should not have been surprised at
any time to have seen those small people peeping out of the wild
foxgloves, which are their favorite hiding-places. So poetical is the
air of these regions that mermaids, fairies, and giants seem quite
natural to it. In the morning of the day we went to the Nunnery Mr.
Hawthorne took Julian and went to the Douglas market, which is held in
the open air. . . . My husband said that living manners were so
interesting and valuable that he would not miss the scene for even
Peel Castle. One day, when Una and I went to shop in Douglas, we saw
in the market square a second-hand bookstall. I had been trying in
vain to get "Peveril of the Peak" at the library and bookstores, and
hoped this sales-counter might have it. So I looked over the books,
and what do you think I saw? A well-read and soiled copy of the
handsome edition of Mr. Hawthorne's "Blithedale Romance"! Yes, even in
Mona. We have heard of some families in England who keep in use two
copies of "The Scarlet Letter;" but I never dreamed of finding either
of these books here.

Sunday was the perfectest day in our remembrance. In the morning Mr.
Hawthorne walked to Kirk Braddon, and the afternoon we spent on
Douglas Head. It is quite impossible to put into words that afternoon.
Such softness and splendor and freshness combined in the air; such a
clearest sunshine; such a deep blue sea and cloudless blue heaven;
such fragrance and such repose. We looked from our great height upon
all the beauty and grandeur, and in Mr. Hawthorne's face was a
reflection of the incredible loveliness and majesty of the scene. Una
was a lily, and Julian a magnolia. I think that for once, at least,
Mr. Hawthorne was satisfied with weather and circumstances. Towards
sunset the mountains of Cumberland were visible, for the first time
during our visit, on the horizon, which proved that even in England
the air was clear that day. A pale purple outline of waving hills lay
on the silvery sea, which, as it grew later, became opaline in hue. . . .

July 20.

. . . This morning, soon after ten, we summoned a boat, and were rowed
to St. Mary's Rock, which has a good beach on one side, and spent two
hours there. There was a delicious air and bright sunshine, and we
found innumerable pretty pearl shells among the pebbles; and Julian
bathed in the sea. Rosebud enjoyed it very much, and kept close to me
all the time. I asked her why she kept so near mamma, and she replied,
"Oh, dear mamma, I cannot help it." Once she put her little foot into
a pool, and I had to take off her sock and shoe to dry them in the
sun. Her snowy little foot and pink toes looked, on the rocks, like a
new kind of shell, and I told her I was afraid a gentleman who was
seeking shells on the other side of the island would come and take it
for a conch shell, and put it in his pocket for his little children.
She shouted at this; and then threw back her head, with a' silent
laugh, like Leatherstocking, showing all her little pearly teeth,--so
pretty with her rosy cheeks and streaming hair. I actually seem in a
dream, and not here in bodily presence. I cannot imagine myself here;
much less realize it. Through the mist Douglas looked like a vast
leviathan asleep on the sea, as we approached. It is a pity that steam
should come near such a place, for its bustle is not in harmony with
the vast repose.

I suppose the world could scarcely furnish another such stately and
salubrious spot as exactly this; for the climate of the Isle of Man is
extremely mild and genial. From my parlor windows, in the Fort Anne
Hotel, I look out on the beautiful crescent harbor from a good height.
. . . Mountains rise above high hills on the horizon in soft, large,
mellow lines, which I am never weary of gazing at. The hills are of
precious emerald stone; the sea is an opal; the distant mountains are
a pile of topazes; and the sky is turquoise and gold. But why attempt
to put into ink such a magnificent setting as this? No jewels could be
compared to it. God alone could mingle these colors and pencil these
grand lines. . . .

ROCK PARK, August 2.

DEAR ELIZABETH,--We returned last Saturday, after a delightful visit
to Mona of a fortnight. We had constantly splendid weather, and there
was one day which Mr. Hawthorne and I concluded we had never seen
equaled in any hemisphere. . . . I took Una and Julian to Glen Darragh
to see the ruins of a Druidical temple. . . . We ascended Mount
Murray . . . and a magnificent landscape was revealed to us; a fertile
valley of immense extent. . . . But before we arrived at Glen Darragh
we came to Kirk Braddon, an uncommonly lovely place. I knew that in
the churchyard were two very old Runic monuments, so we alighted. . . .
The family residence of the late Duke of Atholl is situated at the
extremity of a flat meadow; and as far as I could see, it did not seem
a very princely residence. But in this country I am often struck with
the simplicity and freedom from show which those of real rank are
contented with. They seem really to agree with Burns that "the man's
the gawd." At Knowsley, the residence of the Earls of Derby, the
inside of the mansion was very simple, and they are the proudest
nobles of England.

We finally arrived at Glen Darragh, and I gazed about in vain to see
the ruins of a temple. . . . We came at last to some mounds of earth,
with rough stones on their tops, but I could discover no design or
order to them, and was quite cast down. But then I saw more, at a
short distance, of better hope, and I ran to them, and found they were
stones placed in a circular form, inclosing about fourteen yards
diameter. These stones, however, were unhewn and of moderate size. And
this was all. I broke off a crumb of one of the stones, and looked
around me. It was quite desolate, for a large space. Not a tree or a
shrub grew near, but grand mountains rose up on every side. Glen
Darragh means the vale of oaks, but not an oak could be seen. The
singular destruction of trees in this be-battled, be-conquered island
is unaccountable. Why invaders should uproot such innocent adorners of
the earth is a mystery. It is said that the Druids found a great many
pine woods there, and that they up-rooted them and planted their
favorite oaks. But pines, oaks, Druids, temples, and all are gone now,
except these few stones. I wondered whether any terrible human
sacrifices had been offered on the spot where I was standing. The
mountains were the same, and the sky was the same; but all else had
changed since those fearful days. . . . Of course Rome was here, for
where did that proud queen not set her imperial foot? But the only
sign of her left is at Castletown: it is an ancient altar. I looked
out of the chamber window one night, and at twelve o'clock the golden
flush of sunset still glowed in the west, and in the east was an
enormous star. We often see Venus very large at home, but this was
three times as large as we ever see it. I do not know what this star
was. It must have been Venus, however. The star of beauty should
surely rise over such a day as this had been. Once we rowed about the
island, and it was truly superb--this circumnavigation. We were near
enough to the shore to see every house and animal and tree, but far
off from dangerous rocks. We passed St. Manghold's Head. The saint was
an Irish prince, converted by St. Patrick, and became so eminent for
sanctity that St. Bridget came from Ireland to receive the veil from
him. It is the most eastern point of the island, and its summit is
crested with rocks. Under one is a spring, called St. Manghold's
Well, which is thought to have medicinal virtues; and if any one who
drinks the waters sits at the same time in the saint's chair,--a rude
stone seat near,--they will certainly prove beneficial. We landed at
Ramsey, and walked through the town. Towns fade into utter
insignificance in that island. Nature is so grand there that houses
and streets seem impertinences, and make no account, unless some
stately castle towers up. The towns look like barnacles clinging to a
majestic ship's sides. . . . This evening Mr. Hawthorne brings me news
of the death of L. Howes! We were thinking yesterday what a mournful
change had come over that family since we used to go every Saturday
evening and see them, in most charming family group, all those bright,
intelligent, happy faces gathered round the centre-table or fireside,
beaming with life, and mind, and heart. . . .

Julian enjoyed the rocks and beaches and sea-bathing at Mona greatly,
and on his return here was homesick for it all for two days. Una grew
so homesick for Rockferry that she could hardly be kept away till I
was ready to come, though she also enjoyed the sea and the island very
much. But I think she has inhabitiveness to a great degree. As to
Rose, she was like a sunbeam from morning to night. . . . I have a
slight journal of my visit to the Isle of Man, written at the earnest
request of Mr. Hawthorne.

Rose is in no danger of forgetting you. We talk to her about you a
great deal, and she is always referring to "When I was in 'Morica."
Miss Martineau is about Liverpool, and while I was at the island Mr.
Bright took Mr. Hawthorne to see her. She was extremely agreeable and
brilliant. She has become quite infidel in her opinions. . . . It must
be either a fool or a madman who says there is no GOD. . . . I had a
delightful visit from the Cochrans, and went with them to Chester.
Martha was deeply affected by the Cathedral, especially by the
cloisters. Tears filled her eyes. After luncheon, we went to see a
Roman bath and a Roman crypt, the last discovered within a few months.
The bath is back of, and beneath, a crockery shop. We saw first a cold
bath. It was merely an oblong stone basin, built round a perpetual
spring. A high iron railing now guards it, and we looked into what
seemed almost a well, where the Romans used to plunge. . . . The
black water reflected the candle and glittered far below. It might be
the eye of one of the twentieth legion. We then went into a shop and
asked for the crypt. The men pointed to a door, which we opened, and
nearly tumbled down some stone steps. By degrees our eyes became
owlish, and we gradually saw, as if looming out of past ages, the
beautiful arches of the roof, and the columns on each side. . . .

My mother gives a glimpse of the vicissitudes of the Consulate,--that
precinct which I pictured as an ogre's lair, though the ogre was
temporarily absent, while my father, like a prince bewitched, had been
compelled by a rash vow to languish in the man-eater's place for a
term of years:--

"In the evening Mr. Hawthorne told me that there were suddenly thrown
upon his care two hundred soldiers who had been shipwrecked in the
San Francisco, and that he must clothe and board them and send them
home to the United States. They were picked up somewhere on the sea
and brought to Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne has no official authority to
take care of any but sailors in distress. He invited the lieutenant to
come and stay here, and he must take care of the soldiers, even if the
expense comes out of his own purse." [Later.] "Mr. Hawthorne sent to
Mr. Buchanan (the Ambassador) about the soldiers, and he would share
no responsibility, though it was much more a matter pertaining to his
powers than to a consul. . . . Mr. Hawthorne has supplied them with
clothes and lodgings, and has finally chartered for their passage home
one of the Cunard steamers! Such are his official reverses."

"Last Friday I received a note from the wife of the U. S. Consul at
London, inviting me and the children to go with Mr. Hawthorne to town,
to see the Queen open Parliament. It was such a cordial invitation
that it was nearly impossible to refuse; but we could not go, Mr.
Hawthorne was so busy with these soldiers, and with trials in the
police courts; so that he could not leave his post." [Still later.]
"As to shipwrecked sailors, there seems no end to them; and for all
Mr. Hawthorne's costs for them he is, of course, repaid. His hands are
full all the time. But in the history of the world, it is said, there
never were so many shipwrecks as there have been this last winter. The
coasts of Great Britain seem to have been nothing but stumbling-blocks
in the way of every ship. . . . I have seen, in an American paper, a
passage in which the writer undertakes to defend my husband from some
dirty aspersions. It seems that some one had told the absolute
falsehood that he had shirked all responsibility about the shipwrecked
soldiers, and his defender stated the case just as it was, and that
Mr. Buchanan declined having anything to do with the matter. The
government will make the chartering of the steamer good to Mr.
Hawthorne. . . . He has been very busily occupied at the Consulate
this winter and spring,--so many disasters at sea, and vagabonds
asking for money. He has already lost more than a hundred pounds by
these impostors. But he is very careful indeed, and those persons who
have proved dishonest were gentlemen in their own esteem, and it was
difficult to suspect them. But he is well on his guard now; and he
says the moment he sees a coat-tail he knows whether the man it
belongs to is going to beg! His life in the Consulate is not charming.
He has to pay a great penalty for the result of his toil. Not that he
has any drudgery, but he is imprisoned and in harness. He will not let
me take a pen in my hand when he is at home, because at any rate I see
him so little."

Such paragraphs as the one I add, from a little letter of my sister's,
often appear; but in this instance it was the glad exclamation of
release, just before we removed to Italy:--

"Papa will be with us on Monday, free from the terrors of the old
Consulate. Perhaps you can imagine what infinitely joyful news that is
to us; and to him, too, as much, if not more so; for he has had all
the work, and we have only suffered from his absence."

The letters proceed:--

MY DEAR FATHER,--It was delightful to see your handwriting this week,
written with the same firmness as ever. It gives me unspeakable
satisfaction to know that the drafts Mr. Hawthorne sent contribute to
your ease, and supply you with embellishments and luxuries, which in
sickness are necessaries. I only wish I could put strength into your
limbs, as well as provide you with a stuffed chair to repose them
upon. Mr. Hawthorne has wished, you see, to prevent your having any
anxiety about little wants. It will be all right for the present, and
future too. . . . I suppose the War will affect everything in a
disastrous manner, except the End, and that God will take into His own
hands for good, no doubt, though not as either party proposes.

Here in England we are wholly occupied with the War. No one thinks or
talks of anything else. Every face is grave with sorrow for the
suffering and slaughter, and then triumphant with pride and joy at the
incredible heroism of the troops. . . . In his sermon before the last,
Mr. Channing brought out my dearest, inmost doctrines and faith; the
sovereignty of good; the unfallen ideal in man; the impossibility of
God's ever for one moment turning from man, or being averse to him;
the essential transitoriness of evil. . . . I deeply regret that Una and
Julian cannot hear the sermons for the little people, for I think it
would do much towards saving their souls.

My mother's loss in the death of her father was a great grief, which
fell upon her at this time. She wrote to my aunt:--

DEAR ELIZABETH,--If anything could have softened such a blow, it would
have been the divine way in which my husband told me. If a seraph can
look more radiant with love--a flaming love, veiled with most tender,
sorrowing sympathy--than he did, I am sure I cannot conceive of it,
and am quite contented not to. I saw and felt in a moment how beyond
computation and desert I was still rich,--richest. Father's sincerity,
his childlike guilelessness, his good sense and rectitude, his
unaffected piety,--all and each of his qualities made him interesting
to my husband. I really do not believe any one else ever listened to
his stories and his conversation with as much love and interest.
Whatever is real and simple and true attracts my husband both as a
poet and as a man. Genuine nature he always springs to. Father was
entirely unspoiled by the world--as pure of it as a dewdrop. This
indeed made him a rare person. He seems to stand meekly in the
presence of God. Where more arch-angelic intellect--divine
genius--would tremble and faint, simple goodness will feel quite at
home, with its one talent become two talents, and its faith
and hope blossomed into reality. By and by I shall perhaps have a
vivid sense of his presence, as I did of mother's, six weeks after her
departure.

We have been out, for the first time, walking in the garden. The
morning was beautiful. The budding shrubbery was on every side, and
daisies and wallflowers and auriculas blooming even while a thin veil
of snow lay in some places.

Una, in writing home to America, portrays the family peace, and the
little landscapes of the quieter corners of our "Old Home:"--

"We have got to England at last. It does not seem as if we were in
England, but in Boston or Salem. There is not so much noise here as
there was in Boston.

"Mamma has told you about Mr. Rathbone's place, but I do not think she
has told you about one place by the wall. The wall is run over with
all sorts of vines, and there are summer-houses close up by the wall,
and a little brook rippling in front, and a great many mighty trees in
front, so that not a ray of the sun could peep through.

"On Sunday, the great Easter Sunday, we went to the Chapel of the
Blind, and stayed through the Communion service. Mamma received the
sacrament. The sermon was very tiresome. It was about the skins that
Adam and Eve wore. . . . I was very much interested in Chester, and
all the old things I saw there, especially the Cathedral. As we
walked round the cloisters you could almost fancy you saw the monks
pacing slowly round, and looking now and then on the beautiful dewy
green grass which is in the middle of the cloisters. On Monday my
dear godpapa [Mr. O'Sullivan] went to London. Mamma got up at
half past four and set on the table some chicken-pie, some oranges,
and what she thought to be stout, and some flowers which I had
gathered in the morning, and gave all these to him.

"Rose is sitting on papa's knee, and through her golden hair I can see
her little contented face. She has got down now, and is engaged in a
lively discussion with Julian about her name. Julian has been dancing
round with the heat, for he thought dancing round would keep him cool.
Rose is sitting in mamma's lap now, and she looks so jolly. Her very
rosy round face and her waving flowing hair make her look so pretty.
She is very sharp, and she has a great deal of fun in her. She has
learnt 'Hark, the lark,' 'The Cuckoo,' and 'Where the bee sucks, there
suck I.' She says them very prettily, and she has a sweet, simple way
of saying what she knows."

Thoughts of her own country recall the joys of Lenox:--

"I have been nutting a great many times in Berkshire. Papa and mamma,
Julian and I, all took large baskets and went into the woods, and
there we would stay sometimes all day, picking walnuts and chestnuts.
Perhaps where we were there were mostly walnuts; but still there were
a good many chestnuts. We had a very large oven in which we put as
many of our nuts as we could, and the rest we put into large bags. We,
and the rats and mice, had nice feasts on them every winter.

"Papa bought Julian a pop-gun to console him when we were going away
to visit the Brights, for he had not been invited. He was very good
about it indeed, and fired off his pop-gun in honor of mamma's going
away.

"Papa gave Julian a new boat a little while ago, a yacht, and mamma
has painted it beautifully in oils. I am going to make the sails for
it.

"Please call me Primrose in your letters. Rose is called Periwinkle.
Papa bought her an image of Uncle Tom and Eva, sitting on a bank, and
Uncle Tom is reading the Bible. Eva has on a plaid apron, and has
yellow cheeks, and is not very pretty. Uncle Tom is not either. Baby
was very much pleased."

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