Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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From Salem she writes to Elizabeth, her summer jaunt being over:--

"I have not touched a pencil since I came home. I cannot be grateful
enough that I can be hands and feet to the dearest mother in the
world, who has all my life been all things to me, so delicate as I
have been. There is pastime, pleasure, and a touch of the infinitely
beautiful to me in what is generally considered drudgery; and I find
there is nothing so inconsiderable in life that the moving of the
spirit of love over it does not commute it into essential beauty."

CHAPTER III

THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE

Just before her marriage, on July 9, 1842, and her residence in the
Old Manse, Sophia wrote to Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem:--

July 5.

MY DEAR MARY,--You mistake much when you say you will not hear from me
after I have gone to my own home. I shall tell those who are dear to
me that I love them still. I feel to-day like a rising Phoenix.

Mr. Hawthorne has been here, looking like the angel of the Apocalypse,
so powerful and gentle. It seems as if I were realizing the dreams of
the poets in my own person. Just think of the felicity of showing him
my inscriptions with pencil and sculpturing-tool--and he so just and
severe a critic! He is far the best critic I ever had. The agent of
Heaven in this Concord plan was Elizabeth Hoar; a fit minister on such
an errand, for minister means angel of God. Her interest has been very
great in every detail. . . . Yours affectionately,

SOPHIA.

The following note is descriptive of the real happiness in the
marriage, which was felt and often uttered by friends:--

DEAR SOPHIA,--I am not much used to expressing to others what I feel
about them, but I will give way to the feeling which prompts me to
tell you how much I think about you now. An event like your marriage
with Mr. Hawthorne is, like the presence of a few persons in this
world, precious to me as an assurance of the good we all long for. I
do not know your husband personally, but I care for him so much that I
could well do the thought of him a passing reverence, like the young
man who, I was told, uncovered his head as he passed Mr. Hawthorne's
house. Perhaps you are too much absorbed to recognize now, even in
thought, the greeting of a friend; perhaps we shall meet very little
hereafter, as indeed we have hardly been intimate heretofore; but I
shall remember you with interest. Affectionately yours,

E. S. HOOPER.

Mrs. Hawthorne's letters and journals while at the Old Manse now
portray a beautiful existence:--

CONCORD, December 18, 1842.

MY DEAR MARY [Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem],--I hoped I should see you
again, before I came home to our Paradise. I intended to give you a
concise history of my elysian life. Soon after we returned, my dear
lord began to write in earnest; and then commenced my leisure,
because, till we meet at dinner, I do not see him. I have had to sew,
as I did not touch a needle all summer, and far into the autumn, Mr.
Hawthorne not letting me have a needle or a pen in my hand. We were
interrupted by no one, except a short call now and then from Elizabeth
Hoar, who can hardly be called an earthly inhabitant; and Mr. Emerson,
whose face pictured the promised land (which we were then enjoying),
and intruded no more than a sunset, or a rich warble from a bird.

One evening, two days after our arrival at the Old Manse, George
Hillard and Henry Cleveland appeared for fifteen minutes, on their way
to Niagara Falls, and were thrown into raptures by the embowering
flowers and the dear old house they adorned, and the pictures of Holy
Mothers mild on the walls, and Mr. Hawthorne's Study, and the noble
avenue. We forgave them for their appearance here, because they were
gone as soon as they had come, and we felt very hospitable. We
wandered down to our sweet, sleepy river, and it was so silent all
around us and so solitary, that we seemed the only persons living. We
sat beneath our stately trees, and felt as if we were the rightful
inheritors of the old abbey, which had descended to us from a long
line. The treetops waved a majestic welcome, and rustled their
thousand leaves like brooks over our heads. But the bloom and
fragrance of nature had become secondary to us, though we were lovers
of it. In my husband's face and eyes I saw a fairer world, of which
the other was a faint copy. I fast ceased to represent Lilias Fay,
under the influence of happiness, peace, and rest. We explored the
woods. Sarah the maid was very tasty, and we had beautiful order; and
when we ran races down the avenue, or I danced before my husband to
the measures of the great music-box, she declared it did her heart
good to see us as joyful as two children.

December 30. Sweet, dear Mary, nearly a fortnight has passed since I
wrote the above. I really believe I will finish my letter to-day,
though I do not promise. That magician upstairs is very potent! In the
afternoon and evening I sit in the Study with him. It is the
pleasantest niche in our temple. We watch the sun, together,
descending in purple and gold, in every variety of magnificence, over
the river. Lately, we go on the river, which is now frozen; my lord to
skate, and I to run and slide, during the dolphin-death of day. I
consider my husband a rare sight, gliding over the icy stream. For,
wrapped in his cloak, he looks very graceful; perpetually darting from
me in long, sweeping curves, and returning again--again to shoot away.
Our meadow at the bottom of the orchard is like a small frozen sea,
now; and that is the present scene of our heroic games. Sometimes, in
the splendor of the dying light, we seem sporting upon transparent
gold, so prismatic becomes the ice; and the snow takes opaline hues,
from the gems that float above as clouds. It is eminently the hour to
see objects, just after the sun has disappeared. Oh, such oxygen as we
inhale! Often other skaters appear,--young men and boys,--who
principally interest me as foils to my husband, who, in the presence
of nature, loses all shyness, and moves regally like a king. One
afternoon, Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau went with him down the river.
Henry Thoreau is an experienced skater, and was figuring dithyrambic
dances and Bacchic leaps on the ice--very remarkable, but very ugly,
methought. Next him followed Mr. Hawthorne who, wrapped in his cloak,
moved like a self-impelled Greek statue, stately and grave. Mr.
Emerson closed the line, evidently too weary to hold himself erect,
pitching headforemost, half lying on the air. He came in to rest
himself, and said to me that Hawthorne was a tiger, a bear, a
lion,--in short, a satyr, and there was no tiring him out; and he
might be the death of a man like himself. And then, turning upon me
that kindling smile for which he is so memorable, he added, "Mr.
Hawthorne is such an Ajax, who can cope with him!"

After the first snowstorm, before it was so deep, we walked in the
woods, very beautiful in winter, and found slides in Sleepy Hollow,
where we became children, and enjoyed ourselves as of old,--only more,
a great deal. Sometimes it is before breakfast that Mr. Hawthorne goes
to skate upon the meadow. Yesterday, before he went out, he said it
was very cloudy and gloomy, and he thought it would storm. In half an
hour, oh, wonder! what a scene! Instead of black sky, the rising sun,
not yet above the hill, had changed the firmament into a vast rose! On
every side, east, west, north, and south,--every point blushed roses.
I ran to the Study, and the meadow sea also was a rose, the reflection
of that above. And there was my husband, careering about, glorified by
the light. Such is Paradise.

In the evening we are gathered together beneath our luminous star, in
the Study, for we have a large hanging astral lamp, which beautifully
illumines the room, with its walls of pale yellow paper, its Holy
Mother over the fireplace, and pleasant books, and its pretty bronze
vase, on one of the secretaries, filled with ferns. Except once Mr.
Emerson, no one hunts us out in the evening. Then Mr. Hawthorne reads
to me. At present we can only get along with the old English writers,
and we find that they are the hive from which all modern honey is
stolen. They are thick-set with thought, instead of one thought
serving for a whole book. Shakespeare is preeminent; Spenser is music.
We dare to dislike Milton when he goes to heaven. We do not recognize
God in his picture of Him. There is something so penetrating and clear
in Mr. Hawthorne's intellect, that now I am acquainted with it, merely
thinking of him as I read winnows the chaff from the wheat at once.
And when he reads to me, it is the acutest criticism. Such a voice,
too,--such sweet thunder! Whatever is not worth much shows sadly,
coming through such a medium, fit only for noblest ideas. From reading
his books you can have some idea of what it is to dwell with Mr.
Hawthorne. But only a shadow of him is found in his books. The half is
not told there. Your true friend,

SOPHIA A. HAWTHORNE.

P. S. Mr. Hawthorne sends his love to your husband.

CONCORD, April 6, 1843.

MY DEAREST MARY,--I received your letter of April 2 late last evening.
It is one, I am sure, which might call a response out of a heart of
adamant; and mine, being of a tenderer substance, it answers with all
its chords. Dear, sweet, tender, loving Mary, you are more like
Herder's Swan than anything else I can think of. The spirits of your
translated babes bring you airs from heaven. What a lovely trinity of
souls; what a fair star they form, according to Swedenborg's beautiful
idea. I doubt not there is a path of descent, like that of Jacob's
ladder, from their Father's bosom to your heart, and they ascend and
descend, like those angels of his dream.

Dear Mary, just imagine my husband in reality, as faintly shadowed in
his productions. Fresh as a young fountain, with childlike,
transparent emotions; vivid as the flash of a sword in the sun with
sharp wit and penetration; of such an unworn, unworldly observance of
all that is enacted and thought under the sun; as free from prejudice
and party or sectarian bias as the birds, and therefore wise with a
large wisdom that is as impartial as God's winds and sunbeams. His
frolic is like the sport of Milton's "unarmed youth of heaven." But I
will not pretend to describe his intellect; and I have by no means yet
searched it out. I repose in it as upon some elemental force, which
always seems just created, though we cannot tell when it began to be.
Of his beautiful, genial, tender, and great nature I can still less
adequately discourse. His magnanimity, strength, and sweetness
alternately, and together, charm me. He fascinates, wins, and
commands.

We have passed the winter delightfully, reading to each other, and
lately studying German. I knew a little, just enough to empower me to
hold the rod, and be somewhat impertinent, and I have entire
preeminence in the way of pronunciation. But ever and anon I am made
quite humble by being helped out of thick forests by my knight,
instead of guiding him. So we teach each other in the most charming
manner, and I call it the royal road to knowledge, finally discovered
by us. Mr. Hawthorne writes all the morning. Do you see "The
Democratic Review"? In the March number is "The Procession of Life."
Mr. Jonathan Phillips told Elizabeth he thought it a great production,
and immediately undertook to read all else my husband had written.
"The Celestial Railroad," for the April number, is unique, and of deep
significance. It is a rare privilege to hear him read his manuscript
aloud with the true expression.

Elizabeth Hoar has taken tea with us only once this winter, and I have
seen her very rarely. The walking is so bad in the country in winter
that only tall boots can cope with it. Unawares one foot sinks down to
the Celestial Empire, and the other anchors in the moon. I have had to
confine myself principally to the avenue, through which our
Flibbertigibbet [or Imp] made a clear path for me. Mr. Thoreau has
been pretty often, and is very interesting. Mr. Emerson, from January,
was at the South; so Sirius was not visible to the eye for nearly
three months.

Among other things, I have been very much interested in teaching my
Irish angel to read and write. She is as bright as Burke, and repays
me an hundredfold by her progress. She is so sweet and generous and
gentle, that it is pleasant to happen upon her pretty face about the
house.

Mr. Hawthorne, says I must tell you that he shall be most happy to
meet you in heaven; but he wishes you would as a preliminary come and
spend a week with us this summer. He says this is the best way to get
acquainted with him.

To Mrs. Peabody, now living in Boston, Sophia writes:--

May.

DARLING MOTHER,--I find my heart cannot rest unless I send you an
enormous bunch of columbines; and so I have concluded to take my
cake-box and fill it with flowers. My husband and I have gathered all
these columbines since dinner, on the bank of the river, two fields
off from the battle-ground. Now I think of it, it is Lizzie's favorite
wildflower. I cannot bear to think of you as two prisoners in the
book-room, at this time. I do not know, however, as Elizabeth would be
happy to remain in the country, because men and women are her flowers,
and they do not grow on hills and slopes. But you were born to live in
a garden, where flowers at your tendance might gladlier grow
(according to Milton). We had a letter from Louisa Hawthorne to-day,
which says that the cat Beelzebub is dead. We are going to put our
Pigwiggin in mourning for her cousin. [Hawthorne was, as all his
family were, remarkably fond of cats. He had given Beelzebub his
name.]

Another letter now goes to Mrs. Foote:--

August 11.

BELOVED MARY,--I received your long expected letter during a visit
from the Hillards. I feared you were ill, but not that you had
forgotten me; for I have an imperturbable faith in the love of my
friends which appearances cannot affect.

No influenzas or epidemics of any kind reach our old abbey, though in
the village of Concord they often prevail. I think the angel who
descended with healing in his wings, and stirred the pool of Bethesda,
must purify the air around us. We have had a charming summer. At the
first flinging open of our doors my father made us a visit of a week,
and, according to his love of order, put everything out of doors in
place; moved patriarchal boards covered with venerable moss, and
vividly exercised all his mechanical powers. Among other things he
prepared the clay with which I mould men and heroes, so that I began
Mr. Hawthorne's bust. Next came Miss Anna Shaw [Mrs. S. G. Ward], in
full glory of her golden curls, flowing free over her neck and brows,
so that she looked like the goddess Diana, or Aurora. Everything
happened just right. The day she arrived, Mr. Emerson came to dine,
and shone back to the shining Anna. He was truly "tangled in the
meshes of her golden hair," for he reported in several places how
beautiful it was, afterwards. It was very warm, and after Mr. Emerson
left us, we went out upon the lawn under the shady trees, and Anna
extended herself on the grass, leaning her arms upon a low cricket,
and "Sydnian showers of sweet discourse" distilled upon us. Towards
sunset we went to the terrace on the bank of the river, and then there
was a walk to Sleepy Hollow. Afterwards, we again resorted to the
lawn, and the stars all came out over our heads with great brilliancy;
and Anna, again upon the grass, pointed out the most beautiful
constellations. Now we expect Louisa Hawthorne every day. Excepting
for the three weeks and a little more occupied by our friends, we have
been quite alone. The 9th of July, our wedding-day, was most heavenly,
and at night there was a most lustrous moon. That night Mr. Allston
died. Nature certainly arrayed herself in her most lovely guise, to
bid him farewell. Mr. Hawthorne has written a little, and cultivated
his garden a great deal; and as you may suppose, such vegetables never
before were tasted. It is a sober fact, dear Mary, that I never ate
any so good. When Apollos tend herds and till the earth, it is but
reasonable to expect unusual effects. I planted flowers, which grow
pretty well. We have voyaged on the river constantly, harvesting
water-lilies; and lately cardinal-flowers, which enrich the borders
with their superb scarlet mantles in great conclaves.

I have just finished Ranke's "History of the Popes." I stumbled quite
accidentally upon ecclesiastical history, lately. I asked my husband
to bring me any book that he chanced to touch upon from his Study, one
day, and it proved to be "Luther, and the Reformation." So I have gone
on and backwards, upon the same subject. I read several volumes of the
Theological Library, fretting all the time over the narrow spirit in
which great men were written about. Finally I took Ranke. He is
splendid and whole-sided, and has given me an idea of the state of
Europe from the first times.

Elizabeth Hoar came while Susan Hillard was here, looking as usual
like the Rose of Sharon, though thinner than ever. Ellery Channing and
E. live in a little red cottage on the road, with one acre attached,
upon which Ellery has worked very hard. E. keeps a small school for
little children. They are very happy, and Ellery is a very charming
companion. He talks very agreeably.

October 15.

BELOVED MARIE,--I received your requiem for Mrs. Peabody [not a near
connection of Mrs. Hawthorne's, but of Mr. George Peabody's, the
philanthropist] yesterday, and cannot delay responding to it. We talk
a great deal about the reality of Heaven and the shadowiness of earth,
but no one acts as if it were the truth. It seems as if the benign and
tender Father of men, in whose presence we rejoice and confide, became
suddenly changed into a dark power, and curtained Himself with gloom,
the instant death laid its hand upon our present bodies, and freed the
soul for another condition. And this, too, although Jesus Christ at
the hour when His spirit resigned the clay rent the veil from top to
bottom, and revealed to all eyes the golden cherubim and the Holy of
Holies. God alone knows whether I could act my belief in the greatest
of all possible earthly separations. But before I loved as I now do
heaven was dim to me in comparison. I cannot conceive of a separation
for one moment from my transfigured soul in him who is transfused with
my being. I am in heaven now. Oh, let me not doubt it, if for a little
while a shadow should wrap his material form from my sight.

I am in rejoicing and most vigorous health. After breakfast I paint
for two or three hours. I am now copying Mr. Emerson's divine
Endymion. After dinner we walk till about five.

The following letter refers to Sophia's sister Mary, who had become
Mrs. Horace Mann:--

DEAREST MARY,--I do not know whether you were ever aware of the
peculiar love I have felt from childhood for my precious sister, who
is now so blest. It has always been enthusiastic and profound. Her
still and perfect disinterestedness, her noiseless self-devotion, her
transparent truthfulness and all-comprehensive benevolence through
life! No words can ever express what a spear in my side it has been to
see her year after year toiling for all but herself, and growing thin
and pale with too much effort. Not that ever her heroic heart uttered
a word of complaint or depreciation. But so much the more did I feel
for her. I saw her lose her enchanting gayety, and become grave and
sad, yet could do nothing to restore her spirits. I was hardly aware,
until it was removed, how weighty had been the burden of her
unfulfilled life upon my heart. At her engagement, all my wings were
unfolded, and my body was light as air.

Mrs. Mann had been to Europe for her wedding-tour, and was thus
welcomed home:--

November 7.

BELOVED MARY,--Yesterday noon my dear husband came home from the
village but a few seconds--it seemed even to me--after he left me,
shining with glad tidings. They were, that the steamer had arrived
with you in it! Imagine my joy, for I cannot tell it. You will come
and see me, I am sure. I am especially commissioned by Mr. Emerson to
request my dear and honorable brother, Mr. Mann, to come to Concord to
lecture at the Lyceum as soon as he possibly can. He says that Mr.
Hoar told him he had never heard such eloquence from human lips as
from Mr. Mann's. "Therefore," says he, "this is the place of all
others for him to come and lecture." Tell me beforehand whether your
husband eats anything in particular, that I may have it all ready for
him. I am in the greatest hurry that mortal has been in since Absalom
ran from his pursuers. Your own

SOPHIECHEN.

The record for Sophia's mother goes on unfailingly:--

November 19.

My DEAREST MOTHER,--This Indian summer is very beautiful. The dulcet
air and stillness are lovely. This morning we watched the opal dawn,
and the stars becoming pale before it, as also the old moon, which
rose between five and six o'clock, and, in the form of a boat of pure
silvery-gold, floated up the sea of clear, rosy air. I am so very
early a riser that the first faint light usually finds me busy.

I wish you could see how charmingly my husband's Study looks now. As
we abandon our drawing-room this winter, I have hung on his walls the
two Lake Como and the Loch Lomond pictures, all of which I painted
expressly for him; and the little mahogany centre-table stands under
the astral lamp, covered with a crimson cloth. The antique
centre-table broke down one day beneath my dear husband's arms, with a
mighty sound, astonishing me in my studio below the Study. He has
mended it. On one of the secretaries stands the lovely Ceres, and
opposite it Margaret Fuller's bronze vase. In the afternoon, when the
sun fills the room and lights up the pictures, it is beautiful. Yet
still more, perhaps, in the evening, when the astral enacts the sun,
and pours shine upon all the objects, and shows, beneath, the noblest
head in Christendom, in the ancient chair with its sculptured back [a
chair said to have come over in the Mayflower, and owned by the
Hawthorne family]; and whenever I look up, two stars beneath a brow of
serene white radiate love and sympathy upon me. Can you think of a
happier life, with its rich intellectual feasts? That downy bloom of
happiness, which unfaithful and ignoble poets have persisted in
declaring always vanished at the touch and wear of life, is delicate
and fresh as ever, and must remain so if we remain unprofane. The
sacredness, the loftiness, the ethereal delicacy of such a soul as my
husband's will keep heaven about us. My thought does not yet compass
him. December. For the world's eye I care nothing; but in the
profound shelter of this home I would put on daily a velvet robe, and
pearls in my hair, to gratify my husband's taste. This is a true
wife's world. Directly after dinner my lord went to the Athenaeum; and
when he returned, he sat reading Horace Walpole till he went out to
the wood-house to saw and split wood. Presently I saw, hastening up
the avenue, Mr. George Bradford. He stayed to tea. His beautiful
character makes him perennial in interest. As my husband says, we can
see nature through him straight, without refraction. My water this
morning was deadly cold instead of livingly cold, and I knew the Imp
must have taken it from some already drawn, instead of right from the
well. The maid brought for me from Mrs. Emerson's "The Mysteries of
Paris," which I read all the evening. I have been to see E. Channing,
who looked very pretty. She has a dog named Romeo, which Mrs. S. G.
Ward gave them. I borrowed a book of E. about sainted women. In "The
Democratic Review" was my husband's "Fire Worship." I could not wait
to read it! It is perfectly inimitable, as usual. His wit is as subtle
as fire. This morning I got up by moonlight again, and sewed till Mary
brought my fresh-drawn water. The moon did not set till after dawn.
To-day I promenaded in the gallery with wadded dress and muff and
tippet on. After tea, my lord read Jones Very's criticism upon
"Hamlet." This morning was very superb, and the sunlight played upon
the white earth like the glow of rubies upon pearls. My husband was
entirely satisfied with the beauty of it. He is so seldom fully
satisfied with weather, things, or people, that I am always glad to
find him pleased. Nothing short of perfection can content him. How can
seraphs be contented with less? After breakfast, as I could not walk
out on account of the snow, I concluded to housewife. My husband
shoveled paths (heaps of snow being trifles to his might), and sawed
and split wood, and brought me water from the well. To such uses do
seraphs come when they get astray on earth. I painted till after one
o'clock. There was a purple and gold sunset. After dinner to-day Mr.
Hawthorne went to the village, and brought back "The Salem Gazette."
Some one had the impudence to speak of him in it as "gentle Nat
Hawthorne." I cannot conceive who could be so bold and so familiar.
Gentle he surely is, but such an epithet does not comprehend him, and
gives a false idea. As usual after sunset, he went out to find
exercise till quite dark. Then he read aloud part of "The Tempest,"
while I sewed. In the evening he told me about his early life in
Raymond [Maine], and he gave me some of Mr. Bridge's famous wine.
To-day my husband partly read "Two Gentlemen of Verona." I do not like
it much. What a queer mood Shakespeare must have been in, to write
it. He seems to be making fun. I wrote to Mrs. Follen, and made up a
budget of a paper from my husband for her "Child's Friend." It was the
incident of Mr. Raike's life, with regard to his founding of
Sunday-schools, most exquisitely told, and set in a frame of precious
jewels. Whatever my husband touches turns to gold in the intellectual
and spiritual world. I sewed on a purple blouse for him till dusk. We
have the luxury of our maid's absence, and Apollo helped me by making
the fires. I warmed rice for myself, and had the happiness of toasting
his bread. He read aloud "Love's Labour 's Lost," and said that play
had no foundation in nature. To-day there have been bright gleams,
but no steady sunshine. Apollo boiled some potatoes for breakfast.
Imagine him with that magnificent head bent over a cooking-stove, and
those star-eyes watching the pot boil! In consequence, there never
were such good potatoes before. For dinner we did not succeed in
warming the potatoes effectually; but they were edible, and we had
meat, cheese, and apples. This is Christmas Day, which I consider the
most illustrious and sacred day of the year. Before sunrise, a great,
dark blue cloud in the east made me suppose it was to be a dismal day;
but I was quite mistaken, for it has been uncommonly beautiful. Peace
has seemed brooding "with turtle wing" over the world, and no one
stirs, as if all men obeyed the command of the elements, which was,
"Be still, as we are." I intended to make a fine bowl of chocolate for
my husband's dinner, but he proposed to celebrate Christmas by having
no cooking at all. At one o'clock we went together to the village, my
husband going to the Athenaeum, and I to Mrs. Emerson's, where Mr.
Thoreau was dining. On the way home I saw in the distance the form of
forms approaching. We dined on preserved fruits and bread and
milk,--quite elegant and very nice. What a miracle my husband is! He
has the faculty of accommodating himself to all sorts of circumstances
with marvelous grace of soul. In the afternoon he brought me some
letters, one being from E. Hooper, with verses which she had written
after reading "Fire Worship." The motto is "Fight for your stoves!"
and the measure that of "Scots wha hae." It is very good. The maid
returned. This morning we awoke to a mighty snowstorm. The trees stood
white-armed all around us. In the afternoon some one knocked at the
front door. I was amazed, supposing no one could overcome the roads,
and thought it must be a government officer. As the door opened, I
heard a voice say, "Where is the man?" It was Ellery Channing, who
exclaimed, as he appeared at the Study, where we were, that it was the
very time to come,--he liked the snow. He looked like a shaggy bear;
but his face was quite shining, as usual. He brought some novels and
reviews, which Queen Margaret [Fuller] had sent to Ellen Channing [her
sister] to read. We had to leave him, while we dined, at three. He
would not join us, and made his exit while we were in the dining-room.
To-day as I painted the wind arose, and howled and swept about, and
clouded the sun, and wearied my spirits. I was obliged to put away my
palette at half past twelve o'clock, and then came up, and looked into
the Study at my husband. He was writing, and I was conscience-stricken
for having interrupted him. We went to walk, and a neighbor invited us
to drive to town in his sleigh. I accepted, but my husband did not.
The Imp sprang on, as we passed his house; and then I found that the
kind old man was Mr. Jarvis of the hill. I went to the post-office,
where my husband was reading a letter from Mr. Hillard. We stayed at
the Athenaeum till after two, and then braved the warring winds
homewards. We had no reading in the evening, for the wind was too
noisy.

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