Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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We also went to Southport for my mother's health. Here she writes:--

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--The Doctor will not let me walk more than thirty
minutes at a time. Here there are no carriages with horses, but with
donkeys, sometimes two or three abreast. They will go out to the edge
of the deep sea. The donkeys walk, unless they take it into their
heads to run a little. One day I mounted Una and Julian on donkeys,
while Rose and I were in the carriage. One little girl belabored the
two saddled donkeys, and one guided my two. They were weather-beaten,
rosy girls, one with a very sweet young face. The elder conversed with
me awhile, and said the young gentleman's donkey was twenty years old
and belonged to her brother, who would surely die if they bartered it,
"because it is his, you know." She smiled reluctantly when I smiled at
her, as if she had too much care to allow herself to smile often, but
evidently she was a sound-hearted, healthy, contented child, ready to
shine back when shone upon.

Mr. Hawthorne now knows what has been my danger, and he is watchful of
every breath I draw; and I would not exchange his guardianship for
that of any winged angel of the hosts. God has given him to me for my
angel, only He makes him visible to my eye, as He does not every one's
angel. It seems as if even / never knew what felicity was till now. As
the years develop my soul and faculties, I am better conscious of the
pure amber in which I find myself imbedded.

The Doctor shows me that it is my DUTY to be self-indulgent, and I can
be so with a quiet conscience, and shall soon be all right in body, as
I am all right in mind and heart. Mr. Hawthorne never has anything. I
do not believe there is another spirit so little disturbed by its body
as his.

. . . Mr. Hawthorne, you may be sure, will take care of me. I should
think he would suppose you thought he had no interest in the matter;
but he thinks of nothing else, and would give up the Consulate to-day
if he saw it was best for me.

After so hard a beginning, I long for him to repose from anxiety for
the future of our life. I only wish that for others as well as for
ourselves the fables about this Consulate had been truths. Because
what my husband would like would be to find always his right hand
(unknown to his left) full of just what his fellow mortals might need,
with no more end of means than there is of will to bestow. In him is
the very poetry of beneficence, the pure, unalloyed fountain of
bounty. It has been well tested here, where every kind of woe and
want have besieged him.

That provoking Consular bill has been in force nearly two years,
depriving us of our rights to the amount now of about $35,000, because
ever since it became the law the times have been more prosperous. The
year before that the business was miserable. I think it was unjust
that the actual incumbents of the office should not have been allowed
to fulfill their terms with the conditions upon which they commenced
them. It was a bill hoisted in on the shoulders of the ministerial
bill, which very strangely does not come in play till 1857.

December u.

Mr. Hawthorne is dining in the suburbs of Liverpool this evening, with
a Mr. William Browne, M. P., to meet Baron Alderson. It is only the
second dinner he has been obliged to sacrifice himself to since we
have been in Southport. This Mr. Browne is a venerable gentleman, who
takes the trouble to go to the Consulate, and bend his white head in
entreaty, and he can no more be refused, all things considered, than
two and two can refuse to be four. So, at the present moment, there
sits my lord at the gorgeous board, shining like a galaxy with plate
and crystal. There was lately a banquet in honor of Mr. Browne,
which went off magnificently. All Liverpool and part of the county
shared in it; and the town was hung with banners from end to end, and
business was suspended. It was a superb day of bright sunshine and
perfectly dry streets, and the procession of the selected guests, and
then of subscribers, was immensely long. I believe fifteen hundred
collated at St. George's Hall; and on an elevated dais the twenty
invited guests sat. Mr. Hawthorne was one of these. He had received
notice that Monckton Milnes was to give him a toast, and a speech
would be expected. You may see by some papers that Mr. Milnes gave
"The United States;" but this is a mistake. It was "Nathaniel
Hawthorne." He was very cordial and complimentary; but he did not say,
as the reporter of the "Post" wrote, "that the 'Scarlet Letter' stuck
to the hearts of all who came in contact with it," as if it were a
kind of adhesive plaster; but that it "struck to the hearts of all who
read it." When Mr. Hawthorne rose there was such a thunder of applause
and cheers that, after a while, he actually sat down till quiet was
restored. Mr. Channing told me, day before yesterday, that his speech
was admirable, and delighted all who knew him, and made the Americans
proud of him. He sat beneath, but very near him. Was it not a burning
shame that I was not there? Many ladies were present in the galleries,
and one of them sent a footman to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting a flower
or a leaf as a memento. The modest and generous Mr. Browne [who had
just made a public bequest] was overwhelmed with the reverberations of
gratitude on every side. Mr. Hawthorne said he liked Lord Stanley,
though he was rather disappointed in his appearance. The latter had
to respond to "The House of Stanley." Lord Derby was to come, but was
unable. Before the banquet, the corner-stone was laid. What a wise
way this is--for rich men to make bequests during life. I hope many
will do likewise.

Yes, I have read about a thousand times over of Mr. Peabody's gift to
Baltimore. We have a great many American papers, and the English
papers repeat everything of importance. Mr. Browne has done the same
thing in Liverpool.

December 18. Mr. Hawthorne had a stupid time enough at Mr. Browne's
dinner at Richmond Hill. Mr. Browne himself is always stupid, and Mrs.
Browne never says a word. The judges were dumb and lofty with their
own grandeur, and communicated no ideas. Do you know how very grand
the judges are when in acto? Do you know that they are then kings, and
when the Queen is present they still have precedence? So Imperial is
Law in this realm. In going down to dinner, therefore, at Mr. Browne's
(whose dinner they kept waiting exactly an hour) they led the way,
followed humbly by the High Sheriff of the county, who is always the
first dignitary except where the judges lead. Then went the Mayor,
attended by one of his magnificent footmen in the Town livery, which
is so very splendid and imposing that "each one looks like twenty
generals in full military costume," as Mr. Hawthorne says; with
scarlet plush vests, innumerable cordons and tassels of gold,
small-clothes, and white hose, and blue coats embroidered with gold
flowers. No crowned emperor ever felt so blindingly superb, and how
they ever condescend to put down their feet on the floor is a wonder.
Mr. Hawthorne followed next to the Mayor. There being no conversation,
there was ample time to look at the truly gorgeous appointments of the
table, upon which no china appeared, but only massive plate. The
epergne was Phoebus Apollo in his chariot of the sun, with four horses
galloping perpetually along the table without moving. The
dessert-plates were bordered with wreaths of flowers and fruits in
high relief, all of silver. Perhaps Mr. Browne's wits have turned to
silver, as Midas's surroundings into gold. Mr. Hawthorne has gone to
another dinner this evening at the Mayor's. It is a state dinner to my
lords the judges. Baron Alderson nearly expires with preeminence on
these occasions, and perhaps he will cease to breathe to-night. These
are heavy hours to Mr. Hawthorne. London society has put him even
more out of patience than usual with Liverpool dinners, and I know he
is wishing he were at home at this moment. Last evening he was reading
to me the rare and beautiful "Espousals" of Coventry Patmore. Have you
seen "The Angel in the House" yet? It takes a truly married husband
and wife to appreciate its exquisite meaning and perfection; but with
your miraculous power of sympathy and apprehension, I think you will
enjoy it, next to us.

This evening, as I wrote, Prince Rose-red entered, holding aloft a
clay head which he had been modeling. It was a great improvement upon
the first attempts, and resembled Chevalier Daddi, Una's music-teacher
in Lisbon. He put it upon the grate to bake, and then lay down on the
rug, with his head on a footstool, to watch the process. But before
it was finished I sent him to bed. It is after ten now, and the
Chevalier has become thoroughly baked, with a crack across his left
cheek. In all sorts of athletic exercises, in which a young Titan is
required, Julian is eminent. Monsieur Huguenin, the gymnast, said
that in all his years of teaching athletics, he had never met but once
with his equal. Yet he moves in dancing in courtly measures and
motions, and when he runs, he throws himself on the wind like a bird,
and flits like a greyhound. Julian's great head is a delicately
organized one. I am obliged to have all his hats made expressly for
him, and my hatter, Mr. Nodder, says he never saw such a circumference
in his life. I always look upon his head as one of the planets.

Our house has been robbed by two notorious thieves. They had much
better have risked their lives in stealing the Hungarian Baron
Alderson, whose full dress is incrusted with forty thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds and emeralds. We have met with a greater loss than
these robbers caused us. Mrs. Blodget has all our luggage at her house
in Liverpool; and one of her servant-men opened two of my trunks,
which were in the cellar, and stole almost every piece of plate we
possess--all the forks and spoons, and so on. He has confessed, while
ill in a hospital. But Mr. Hawthorne will not prosecute him.

Have you read Froude's history, just published, from the period of the
fall of Wolsey to the death of Elizabeth? His style is wholly unlike
that of the stately, but rather tiresome unchangeable canter of
Macaulay's. Macaulay takes care of his style, but Froude is only
interested in his theme. I do not suppose any one historian has yet
climbed up to the pinnacle of perfect impartiality,--unless my darling
Herodotus, who has the simplicity of a child, and no theories at all.
But Macaulay's style tires me. He is so ferociously lucid that he
confuses me, as with too much light. It is the regular refrain of his
brilliant sentences that finally has the effect of a grand jangle of
musical instruments.

The Manchester Exhibition framed a particularly rare spectacle:--

MANCHESTER.

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--We are now at Old Trafford, close by the Palace of
Art Treasures, which we have come here expressly to see. There is no
confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, though there are
thousands of the second-class people there every day. If you shut
your eyes, you only hear the low thunder of movement. . . . Yesterday
we were all there, and met--now, whom do you think? Even Tennyson. He
is the most picturesque of men, very handsome and careless-looking,
with a wide-awake hat, a black beard, round shoulders, and slouching
gait; most romantic, poetic, and interesting. He was in the saloons of
the ancient masters. Was not that rare luck for us? Is it not a wonder
that we should meet? His voice is also deep and musical, his hair wild
and stormy. He is clearly the "love of love and hate of hate," and "in
a golden clime was born." He is the Morte d'Arthur, In Memoriam, and
Maud. He is Mariana in the moated grange. He is the Lady Clara Vere de
Vere and "rare, pale Margaret." There is a fine bust of him in the
exhibition, and a beautiful one of Wordsworth. . . . Ary Scheffer's
Magdalen, when Christ says, "Mary!" is the greatest picture of his I
have ever seen. Ary Scheffer himself was at the exhibition the other
day. . . .

Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the Palace all day. We went up
into the gallery of engraving to listen to the music; and suddenly Una
exclaimed, "Mamma! there is Tennyson!" He was sitting by the organ,
listening to the orchestra. He had a child with him, a little boy, in
whose emotions and impressions he evidently had great interest; and I
presumed it was his son. I was soon convinced that I saw also his
wife and another little son,--and all this proved true. It was
charming to watch the group. Mrs. Tennyson had a sweet face, and the
very sweetest smile I ever saw; and when she spoke to her husband or
listened to him, her face showered a tender, happy rain of light. She
was graceful, too, and gentle, but at the same time had a slightly
peasant air. . . . The children were very pretty and picturesque, and
Tennyson seemed to love them immensely. He devoted himself to them,
and was absorbed in their interest. In him is a careless ease and a
noble air which show him of the gentle blood he is. He is the most
romantic-looking person. His complexion is _brun_, and he looks in ill
health and has a hollow line in his cheeks. . . . Allingham, another
English poet, told Mr. Hawthorne that his wife was an admirable one
for him,--wise, tender, and of perfect temper; and she looks all this;
and there is a kind of adoration in her expression when she addresses
him. If he is moody and ill, I am sure she must be a blessed solace
to him. When he moved to go, we also moved, and followed him and his
family faithfully. By this means we saw him stop at his own
photograph, to show it to his wife and children; and then I heard them
exclaim in sweet voices, "That is papa!" Passing a table where
catalogues were sold, . . . his youngest son stopped with the maid to
buy one, while Tennyson and his wife went on and downstairs. So then I
seized the youngest darling with gold hair, and kissed him to my
heart's content; and he smiled and seemed well pleased. And I was well
pleased to have had in my arms Tennyson's child. After my raid I went
on. . . .

Of this glimpse of the great poet fortunately accorded to our family
my father writes in the "Note-Books:" "Gazing at him with all my eyes,
I liked him very well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other
wonders of the exhibition." Again my mother refers to the interesting
experience:--

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--My last letter I had not time to even double up
myself, as Mr. Hawthorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool before I
was aware, and everything was huddled up in a hasty manner. It was
something about Tennyson's family that I was saying. I wanted you to
know how happy and loving they all seemed together. As Tennyson is in
very ill health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes thought his wife
might look worn and sad. I was delighted, therefore, to see her serene
and sweet face. I cannot say, however, that there was no solicitude in
it, but it was a solicitude entirely penetrated with satisfied
tenderness. . . .

I did not reply to your last long letter to me about slavery. . . .
There is not a single person whom I know or ever talked with who
advocates slavery. Your letters to me would be far more appropriate to
a slaveholder. . . . I do not see how they apply to me at all. . . .

There has been the customary misinterpretation of calm justice in the
case of my father's moderation during the wild ardor of abolition.
This sort of ardor is very likely necessary in great upheavals, but it
is not necessary that every individual should join the partisans
(while they slash somewhat promiscuously) at the expense of his own
merciful discretion. My mother writes in eloquent exposition of her
husband's and her own loyalty to the highest views in regard to the
relations of all members of the human family, but she never convinced
the hot fidelity of the correspondents of her own household. I will
add a letter and note, from Hawthorne to Miss Peabody, partly upon
this subject:--

LIVERPOOL, August 13th, '57.

DEAR E.,--I return this manuscript pamphlet on the Abolition question,
for I do not choose to bother Sophia with it; and yet should think it
a pity to burn so much of your thought and feeling. You had better
publish it. I speak trustingly, though not knowingly, of its merits;
for to tell you the truth, I have read only the first line or two, not
expecting much benefit even were I to get the whole by heart. No doubt
it seems the truth of truth to you; but I do assure you that, like
every other Abolitionist, you look at matters with an awful squint,
which distorts everything within your line of vision; and it is queer,
though natural, that you think everybody squints, except yourselves.
Perhaps they do; but certainly you do.

As regards Goodrich's accounts of the relations between him and me, it
is funny enough to see him taking the airs of a patron; but I do not
mind it in the least, nor feel the slightest inclination to defend
myself, or be defended. I should as soon think of controverting his
statement about my personal appearance (of which he draws no very
lovely picture) as about anything else that he says. So pray do not
take up the cudgels on my behalf; especially as I perceive that your
recollections are rather inaccurate. For instance, it was Park
Benjamin, not Goodrich, who cut up the "Story-teller." As for
Goodrich, I have rather a kindly feeling towards him, and he himself
is a not unkindly man, in spite of his propensity to feed and fatten
himself on better brains than his own. Only let him do that, and he
will really sometimes put himself to some trouble to do a good-natured
act. His quarrel with me was, that I broke away from him before he had
quite finished his meal, and while a portion of my brain was left; and
I have not the slightest doubt that he really felt himself wronged by
my so doing. Really, I half think so too. He was born to do what he
did, as maggots to feed on rich cheese.

Sophia has enjoyed herself much for some months past, and enjoyment
seems to agree with her constitution, for her health and vigour have
been very satisfactory. Neither did I ever have a better time in my
life, than during our recent tours in England and Scotland. Between
us, we might write an immense book of travels. I have six or seven
volumes of journals, written during my residence in England; but
unfortunately, it is written with so free and truth-telling a pen that
I never shall dare to publish it. Perhaps parts of it shall be read to
you, some winter evening, after we get home; but I entirely yield the
palm to Sophia on the score of fullness and accuracy of description.
[Considerably more of the letter is cut off, and the following
fragment of another letter is pasted over a portion of the first.]

LIVERPOOL, October 8th, '57.

DEAR E.,--I read your manuscript Abolition pamphlet, supposing it to
be a new production, and only discovered afterwards that it was the
one I had sent back. Upon my word, it is not very good; not worthy of
being sent three times across the ocean; not so good as I supposed you
would always write, on a subject in which your mind and heart were
interested. However, since you make a point of it, I will give it to
Sophia, and will tell her all about its rejection and return.

Pictures of Leamington and its vicinity were sent home, as follows:--

No. 10 LANSDOWNE CIRCUS, LEAMINGTON, WARWICKSHIRE, September 9, 1857.

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Do not suppose that we are among horses,
mountebanks, and clowns by my date. On the contrary, we are in a
charming little paradise of gardens, with a park in the centre,
towards which all these gardens converge. It is such a paradise as
the English only know how to make out of any given flat bit of land.
Fancy a circle of houses at the end of a street. They are white
stucco houses, with balconies leading out of the drawing-rooms, in
which to sit and enjoy the gardens, made up of sunny green lawns,
bright rainbow flowers, and dark green shrubbery and trees. The park
is full of lovely trees and evergreens, with lawns and gravel-walks.
We are in profound quiet. Nothing but a bird's note ever breaks our
stillness. The air is full of mignonette, roses, and wallflowers. It
is autumn; but the grass and foliage are like those of early spring or
summer.

In Manchester, which we have lately visited, I found that the foul air
of the manufactories made me cough more, and the moment Mr. Hawthorne
perceived it, he decided to come away. Nothing but the Palace of Art
would ever have made us think of being one hour in such a nasty old
ugly place. I could never be weary of looking at some of the
masterpieces, to the end of my clays. I should think the Good Shepherd
would convert the Jew, Baron L. R., to Christianity; for it is his.
No words can possibly do justice to that, or to the Madonna in Glory.
. . .

September 12. To-day we went to Kenilworth. There was not blue sky
enough to encourage Mr. Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o'clock we
set forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air. By a short turn
out of our Circus we came into a street called Regent's Grove, on
account of a lovely promenade between noble trees for a very
long-distance, almost to the railroad station; and Una and I walked
that way, leaving Mr. Hawthorne and Julian to follow, as we wished to
saunter. They overtook us, having gone down the Parade, which is the
principal street, containing hotels and shops; and it crosses at right
angles Warwick Street, which reaches for several miles, until it
arrives at Warwick Castle itself.

The bright greens of England seem to be lined with gold; and in the
autumn, the leaves merely turn their golden linings.

The approach to the domain of Kenilworth is through roads with trees,
winding along, and also across a narrow river, which we should call a
brook, glimpses of the castle towers appearing at every turn.

The grass was very wet, and I had no india-rubbers, and Mr. Hawthorne
went off with Una to buy me some, being resolved to make them, I
believe, if he could not find any in the only shop not explored, for
we had already tried for them. He returned with the only pair in
Kenilworth that would fit me--and the last pair the shopman had left
in his box. . . . The ivy, after climbing up the sides of the Castle
in a diffusive embrace, reaches the crumbling battlements; and to
conceal the gnawing teeth of time there, it rises into perfect trees,
full and round, where it does not find it lovelier to trail over and
hang in festoons and wreaths and tassels. Ivy and time contend for the
mastery, and have a drawn battle of it. Enormous hawthorn-trees,
large as our largest horse-chestnuts, also abound around the Castle,
and are now made rich and brilliant with scarlet haws. Mr. Hawthorne
and I were filled with amazement at their size. Instead of the rich
silk hangings which graced the walls when Elizabeth entered the
banqueting-room, now waved the long wreaths of ivy, and instead of
gold borders, was sunshine, and for music and revel--SILENCE--
profound, not even a breeze breaking it. For we had again one of
those brooding, still days which we have so often been fortunate
enough to have among ruined castles and abbeys. Bare stone seats are
still left around Elizabeth's boudoir, upon which, when softly
cushioned with gold, she sat, and saw a fair prospect. The park and
chase extended twenty miles!

Nothing but music can ever equal or surpass architecture in variety of
utterance. Music is poetry to the ear, architecture to the eye, and
poetry is music and architecture to the soul, for it can reproduce
both. Music, however, seems to be freer from all shackles than any
other art; and I remember that in one of my essays for Margaret
Fuller, I made it out to my own satisfaction to be the apex of
expression. The old Glasgow verger of whom I wrote you had not got so
far as to see that it needed the "Kist of Whistles," as he called the
organ, to make his beloved Cathedral soar and glow with life and
praise to its utmost capacity. But I cannot say that it does not sing,
even without a sound, in its immortal curves, as Ruskin calls those
curves that return in no conceivable time or space. Cathedrals sing,
and they also pray, with pointed arches for folded hands. Julian
liked these ruins better than any he had seen, he said; and he climbed
up on the dismantled turret of Leicester's buildings, and settled
himself among the ivy like some rare bird with wonderful eyes. His
hair had grown very long, and clustered round his head in hyacinthine
fashion, and I think my lord would have been glad to call him his
princely boy. [Such things he never allowed himself to say.] All the
princeliness that lies in clustering curls Julian has lost to-day, for
a hair-dresser has cropped him like a Puritan.

As for myself, fine weather, flower-filled lanes, sturdy walks, and
the zest of environs that aroused the rest of the family through
association as well as loveliness, seemed to awaken in my mind a vivid
era that was exciting if laborious. I had night-vigils which were
delightfully entertained by a faculty for hearing quite splendid
music,--music that my imagination composed with a full orchestra of
admirable brilliancy; and I was also able to see in perfect
distinctness a splendid bazaar, filled with any quantity of toys,
which I could summon at will. But this pastime required a great deal
of will-power, a peculiar subtlety of condition, and could only be
kept up for a few moments at a time; and in the course of several
months the charming capacity was modified to that of being able to
evoke most clearly scenes where imaginary characters, more real than
actual companions, leaped into being, and talked and moved to any
extent. I suppose numbers of people have this faculty, and it is a
sovereign protection against ennui; or would be, if remedies could
always be relied upon. I mention these matters to prove that I
moderately possessed artistic perception. I can see, nevertheless,
quite well, that I must have been a very stupid child most of the
time, and that the befogged state of my mind was certainly a pity and
perhaps a shame. Yet there was a sort of advantage in it: fogs choose
with much good sense what they will emphasize; and the intellect
bereft of fussy clearness may have a startling grasp that reminds one
of occult methods. My observations could not pretend to so much, but
they caught truths not very often stared into capture by a little
girl; and my father interested me more, and was more frequently the
subject of my meditations, than any one else.

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