Books: Memories of Hawthorne

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January 1, 1844. A quiet morning at last; the wind had howled itself
dead, as if it were the breath of the Old Year, by midnight. On our
way home to-day from the Athenaeum, Dr. Bartlett met us, and offered
to take me along. On the way he spoke of George Bradford's worshiping
Mr. Hawthorne. I had a fine time painting, this morning. Everything
went right, and I succeeded quite to my mind. I felt sure my husband
above me must also be having a propitious morning. When he came to
dinner, he said he did not know as he ever felt so much like writing
on any one day. Mr. Emerson called.

January 9.

BELOVED MOTHER,--I dated all the documents I sent by Plato [Mr.
Emerson] a day too late. My husband will dispatch a budget to Mr.
Hillard's care, containing a paper which he is to send to Mr.
Griswold, editor of "Graham's Magazine." He wrote to my husband, when
he took the editorship, and requested him to contribute, telling him
he intended to make the magazine of a higher character, and therefore
ventured to ask, offering five dollars per page, and the liberty of
drawing for the money the moment the article was published. "The
Democratic Review" is so poor now that it can only offer twenty
dollars for an article of what length soever, so that Mr. Hawthorne
cannot well afford to give any but short stories to it; and it is
besides sadly dilatory about payment. The last paper he sent to it was
a real gift, as it was more than four pages; but he thought its
character better suited to the grave "Democrat" than for the other
publication. Why did not you send the last number? lie is quite
impatient for it. I also long to read again that terrific and true
picture of a cold heart. [The Bosom Serpent.] I do not know what the
present production is about, even; for I have made it a law to myself
never to ask him a word concerning what he is writing, because I
always disliked to speak of what I was painting. He often tells me;
but sometimes the story remains hidden till he reads it aloud to me,
before sending it away. I can comprehend the delicacy and tricksiness
of his mood when he is evolving a work of art. He waits upon the light
in such a purely simple way that I do not wonder at the perfection of
each of his stories. Of several sketches, first one and then another
come up to be clothed upon with language, after their own will and
pleasure. It is real inspiration, and few are reverent and patient
enough to wait for it as he does. I think it is in this way .that he
comes to be so void of extravagance in his style and material. He does
not meddle with the clear, true picture that is painted on his mind.
He lifts the curtain, and we see a microcosm of nature, so cunningly
portrayed that truth itself seems to have been the agent of its
appearance. Thus his taste is genuine--the most faultless I ever knew.
Now, behold! all unforeseen, a criticism upon the genius of Nathaniel
Hawthorne!

Dear mother, Louisa Hawthorne has sent me some exquisite silk flannel
for little shirts, but not quite enough. It is a dollar a yard. Mrs.
Emerson says that you will find it at Jacobs', on Tremont Street. I
could not refuse my child the luxury of feeling such a material over
its dear little bosom. I have to spend a great deal of time in darning
the small craters in my stockings.

January 21. In the hope of some unoccupied carrier-pigeon's straying
this way, I shall write to-day. The extreme cold freezes the ground,
and my lord will not consent to my putting foot out of doors, so I
remain a singing-bird in my happy cage, endeavoring by walks in the
long upper entry (which is enlivened by sundry winds rushing through a
broken window-pane) to make some amends for being deprived of the
outward world. Yesterday I felt as if I had dieted upon diamonds and
were sparkling with rainbow colors like an icicle in the sun. I
painted upon Endymion. My husband blasphemes the fierce winds and
extreme cold in a very picturesque manner; but the disapprobation he
feels is a moral ope, not a physical discomfort. He cleaves the air
like a Damascus blade, so finely attempered that he is unharmed. I
never knew any person in such fine health as he is; because he is not
obtusely well--he has no brute force; but every part of his frame
seems in perfect diapason, like a bird's. I should be afraid of him
if he were in ferocious health; but his health is heavenly. Endymion
will certainly be finished this week if I remain alive, and the sun
shines. [It is a picture in pale brown monochromes, of the most
remarkable perfection of finish and beauty of draughtsmanship.] I
shall ask Plato to carry it to Boston in his arms, unless my honorable
brother Horace [Mann] will take it when he comes to lecture. It will
be perfectly light, but cannot be given up to the stage-man. I do not
want it shown to any person until it be framed, with a glass over it.
Daggett must be made to hasten his work; but he is as obstinate and
cross as a mule; yet no one can make such superlative frames. The
price must be an hundred dollars independently of the frame; if it be
worth one cent, it is worth that. I dearly desire that some one I know
should possess it. I shall be glad some day to redeem it, for it has
come out of my soul. What a record it is of these happy, hopeful days!
The divine dream shining in Endymion's face, his body entranced in
sleep, his soul bathed in light, every curve flowing in consummate
beauty--in some way it is my life. But, for Endymion, I must look upon
a small bit of gold. [Her husband would not let her sell the picture,
after all.]

March 16.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--The sumptuous boxful arrived, and the dressed beef
is most acceptable, and the wafers are very nice, Mr. Hawthorne liking
them exceedingly. Una went to see her father yesterday morning, the
nurse declaring that she looked as nice as silver and pretty as a
white rose. Great was his surprise to see his little daughter coming
to him! My husband wishes father would please go to the agents for
"The Democratic Review," and tell them he is on the free list. The
three last numbers have not been sent to him, they having stopped
sending at the printing of "The Christmas Banquet." Will father also
look into "Graham's Magazine" for March, and see whether it contains
"Earth's Holocaust," and if so, send it to us?

August.

Directly after you left us, baby went to sleep, and slept three hours,
during which time I accomplished wonders. We dined upon potatoes,
corn, carrots, and whortleberry pudding, quite sumptuously. Our cook
was Hyperion, whom we have engaged. He, with his eyes of light, his
arched brow, and "locks of lovely splendor," officiated even to
dish-washing, with the air of one making worlds. I, with babe on arm,
looked at him part of the time. No accident happened, except that a
sprigged saucer "came into halves;" and I found that Hyperion, in his
new office, had put the ivory handles of the knives into the water,
knowing no better, and left the silver to be washed last instead of
first. I dragged Una in her carriage in the avenue, and she was very
happy. She woke a little after four this morning, and when I first
opened my eyes upon her, her feet were "in the sky." I laid the
breakfast-table, and prepared everything for Hyperion to cook milk and
boil water. At breakfast, baby sat radiant in her coach. George
Prescott brought a hot Indian cake from his mother, while we were at
table. Before Hyperion had quite finished his kitchen-work, Colonel
Hall and his little son came to see him. The Colonel only stayed about
an hour, and could not come to dinner. The unhappy lamb was boiled,
together with some shelled beans and corn.

August 20. Your packet arrived last evening. I am much inclined to
have the black woman. My husband says he does not want me to
undertake to keep anybody who is apparently innocent, after my late
sore experience. He says the old black lady is probably as bad already
as she ever will be. If you find the blackey not disinclined to come
to such poor folks, I will take her in September. I cannot well ask
dear Mary to visit me while my Hyperion is cook and maid. He will not
let me go into his kitchen, hardly; but it is no poetry to cook, and
wash dishes; and I cannot let him do it for anybody but myself alone.
The only way we can make money now seems to be to save it; and as he
declares he can manage till September, we will remain alone till then.
It is beyond words enchanting to be so. But, I assure you, his office
is no sinecure. He actually does everything. And I sit upstairs, and
out of doors with baby, more of a queen than ever, for I have a king
to my servitor. It would cost too much to board; you know we cannot
live cheaper anywhere or anyhow than thus.

Again, a letter is sent to Mrs. Caleb Foote:--

The Promised Land.

MY DEAR MARY,--You are the most satisfactory person to draw for of any
one I know. [Sophia had sent one of her pictures as a present.] Your
letter gave me the purest pleasure, for it made me feel as if I had
caused two hearts to be glad, and that is worth living for, if it be
done but once in a life. . . . We have passed the happiest winter, the
long evenings lifted out of the common sphere by the magic of
Shakespeare. Mr. Hawthorne read aloud to me all the Plays. And you
must know how he reads, before you can have any idea what it was. I
can truly say I never comprehended Shakespeare before; and my husband
was pleased to declare that he never himself understood him so well,
though he has pored over the Plays all his life. All the magnificence,
the pomp, the cunning beauty, the wisdom and fine wit, and the grace
were revealed to me as by a new light. Every character is unfixed from
the page, and stands free in life. Meanwhile I sewed, and whenever a
little garment was finished, I held it up, and won a radiant smile for
it and the never-weary question (with the charming, arch glance)
"Pray, who is that for?"

We breakfast about nine o'clock, because we do not dine till three;
and we have no tea ceremony, because it broke our evenings too much. I
break my fast upon fruit, and we lunch upon fruit, and in the evening,
also, partake of that paradisaical food. Mr. Emerson, with his sunrise
smile, Ellery Channing, radiating dark light, and, very rarely,
Elizabeth Hoar, with spirit voice and tread, have alone varied our
days from without; but we have felt no want. My sweet, intelligent
maid sings at her work, with melodious note. I do not know what is in
store for me; but I know well that God is in the future, and I do not
fear, or lose the precious present by anticipating possible evil. I
remember Father Taylor's inspired words, "Heaven is not afar. We are
like phials of water in the midst of the ocean. Eternity, heaven, God,
are all around us, and we are full of God. Let the thin crystal
break, and it is all one." Mr. Mann came to Concord to lecture last
week. He looked happiest. What can he ask for more, having Mary for
his own? Hold me ever as Your true and affectionate friend,

SOPHIA.

The Hawthornes left the Old Manse for visits to their relatives.
Hawthorne went to Salem in advance of his wife, who writes to him:--

BOSTON, August 15.

. . . Yesterday your letter raised me to the eighth heaven--one heaven
beyond the imagination of the great poet. . . . I am very sorry you did
not come, for Mr. Atherton was to be at home at eight o'clock that
evening, hoping to see you, and Mr. Pierce was also in the city,
desiring to meet you. Una knew Mr. Atherton directly, when I took her
to call, and at once challenged him to run after her. Soon afterwards
a fine wooden singing-bird arrived, with a card on which was written
"for Una Hawthorne." Mrs. Williams called. She asked me to give you a
great deal of love. She wished we would visit her in Augusta, Maine. I
have taken Una upon the Common several times, and she runs after all
babies and dogs. She is so beautiful that I am astonished at her.
Frank Shaw says she is perfect, and like Raphael's ideal babies. This
morning a letter came to you from the Count [Mr. John O'Sullivan was
usually called by this title by the Hawthornes], who has some good
proposals. The offer from the "Blatant Beast" [name given by
Hawthorne to a certain publisher] of the--But I will send the letter;
it will not cost any more than mine alone, thanks to the new law.

Having gone to stay for a few days in Herbert Street, Mrs. Hawthorne
writes to her mother:--

SALEM, November 19.

. . . Father took most beautiful care of us, and did not leave us till
we were seated in the cars. Mr. Dike followed. I told him that if he
wished to see Una, he could do it by sitting behind. This he did, and
kept up a constant talking with her, all the way. She looked lofty and
grave, and unfathomable in her eyes; but finally had compassion on
him, and faintly smiled in that way which always makes her father say,
"Mightily gracious, madam!" An old man by the side of Mr. Dike asked
him whether Una were his grandchild! She liked the old man, and smiled
at him whenever he spoke to her. Upon arriving in Salem, Mr. Dike
went to find my husband; whom, however, I saw afar off in the crowd of
ugly men, showing like a jewel (pearl) in an Ethiop's ear, so fine and
pale, with the large lids cast down, and a radiant smile on his lips.

For the first time since my husband can remember, he dined with his
mother! This is only one of the miracles which the baby is to perform.
Her grandmother held her on her lap till one of us should finish
dining, and then ate her own meal. She thinks Una is a beauty, and, I
believe, is not at all disappointed in her. Her grandmother also says
she has the most perfect form she ever saw in a baby. She waked this
morning like another dawn, and smiled bountifully, and was borne off
to the penetralia of the house to see Madam Hawthorne and aunt
Elizabeth. My husband's muse is urging him now, and he is writing
again. He never looked so excellently beautiful. Una is to be dressed
as sumptuously as possible to-day, to visit her grandaunt Ruth
[Manning]. Louisa wants her to overcome with all kinds of beauty,
outward and inward. I feel just made. All are quite well here, and
enjoy the baby vastly.

To Hawthorne in Salem:--

BOSTON, December 19.

. . . If I asked myself strictly whether I could write to you this
evening, I should say absolutely no, for ten thousand different things
demand the precious moments while our baby sleeps. . . . I bless God for
such a destiny as mine; you satisfy me beyond all things. . . . Una is
now downstairs with her aunt Elizabeth, and she shines with perfection
of well-being. When she is near a chair, with both hands resting upon
it, she will suddenly let go, and for a few glorious seconds maintain
her equilibrium, and then down she sits upon the floor. C. Sturgis and
Anna Shaw have been to see her. I took her to William Story's
yesterday, and he thought her eyes very beautiful, and said he had
scarcely ever seen perfectly gray eyes before; and that such were the
finest eyes in the world, capable of the most expression. He added,
that her eyes were like those of an exquisite child of Raphael's,
which he had seen, in oils.

Mr. Colton has been again to see you. Perhaps it is quite fortunate
that you were guarded from an interview, since you would have refused
his offers. When will you come back? Mr. Hillard said you promised to
go there again. You can always come here.

Your loving wife, PHOEBE.

After returning home, Sophia writes:--

CONCORD, January 26, 1845.

BEST MOTHER (I like that Swedish epithet),--The jewel is precisely
what I wanted. It appears strange for us to make presents of precious
stones set in gold; but the occasion is sufficient to justify it. Mrs.
Prescott is perpetually doing for me what she will not allow me to pay
for, and often what I cannot pay for. She remains rich in
consciousness, but the burden of obligation is too great. She papered
my kitchen with her own hands, and would not let me even pay for the
paper; she also employed her man to put up a partition; and she is
stiff-necked as an Israelite on these points. She sends us Indian
cakes and milk bread, or any nicety she happens to have. George has
the pleasantest way of going of errands about which I cannot employ
the Imp, Ben, and he took excellent care of Leo, the dog, during our
absence, feeding him so sumptuously that he looked very superb when we
returned, only requiring to have an heroic soul to be the Doge of
dogs. I never imagined anything so enchanting as Una's rapid
development. Every morning, as soon as she is awake, she extends her
little hand to the Madonna. Then she points to Loch Lomond (which I
have moved to my room), and then to Abbotsford, each time observing
something about the pictures, as she gazes into my face. My replies I
always feel to be very stupid; but I do as well as I can, considering
that I am not now a baby. Another of her acts is to put up her
forefinger to my mouth, to be kissed; and often she puts up her own
mouth for a kiss, and then smiles with an expression of covert
fun--sub ridens, her father calls it. The other evening, while the
trees were still crystal chandeliers, it grew dusk before the lamps
were lighted; and all at once, behold the full moon rose up from
behind the hill "over against our house," exactly between the trees at
the entrance of our avenue. Picture to yourself the magnificence. The
sharp gleam of the crystals made it seem as if the stars had fallen,
and were caught by the branches, and a thousand shining scimitars
flashed into view. Una happened to be turned towards the scene. How I
wish you could have seen the wonder and gleam of her face! As the moon
rose higher and higher, she continued to talk about it, her hand
extended. We lighted no lamp that evening. The next morning I asked
her where the moon was, and she turned towards the window with a
questioning tone. Last evening my better than Epaminondas was
stretched upon the floor, for her entertainment. It was the prettiest
sight that ever was. Una is as strong as a little lion, and I could
dance at any moment. The half-hour glass that you gave me is a great
enchantment to my husband, and has already suggested some divine
production.

To Mrs. Foote, once more:--

Paradise Regained, May 4, 1845.

MY DEAR MARY,--My husband and I will be most happy to receive you, I
would say at once, but I must wait till these avenue trees are in
leaf, because I want you to see our quiet Eden in its full summer
dress. It has begun to array itself; and the Balm of Gilead, a
significant tree for us, is already in tender green, and the showerful
poplar, so mightily abused, is, this lovely morning, becoming golden
with new yellow foliage. But as this is our last year in the blessed
old abbey, you must see it in perfection. The lawn beneath the trees
is already a rich emerald, and large gold stars begin to spangle it.
You shall see my little darling running over the green grass, with a
continued song of exultation. She thinks this is the first Paradise,
and that her father is the primal Adam, and that she possesses the
earth, now that she is out of leading-strings.

December 7, 1845.

I was very glad of an answer to my volume of a letter, and that it
gave you satisfaction. Words are a poor portrait of Una, this ray of
light. The distinctness and intelligence of her language are a kind of
miracle. Her father said one day that she was the book of Revelation.
Once, I said for her Mother Goose's "Cushy cow bonny, let down your
milk!" and after hearing the whole verse several times she began to
repeat it to herself, but said, "Tushy tow bonny, let down Nona's milk!"
And she always corrects me if I omit her name. She often says,
"Bobby Shafto's done to sea; tome back, marry Nona!" with a very
facetious expression. Her father tells her that he shall not allow
Bobby to marry her.

CHAPTER IV

LIFE IN SALEM

The Hawthornes now moved to Salem, where they remained for several
years.

Washington's Birthday, 1846.

TRUE MOTHER,--Through the howling storm your little box of benefits
came safely. I was especially grateful to hear from you, because I had
read in the paper of Mr. Mann's walking into the dock, and feared he
might be very ill after it. I was exceedingly relieved to hear that
he was none the worse for such an unexpected baptism. I thought that
after getting tired and heated by lecturing, the transition might be
almost mortal for his delicate frame. I, in my old-fashioned
simplicity of faith, would have it that God saved him. My husband has
found "The Christmas Banquet," and he has made up the second volume,
which I send with this, for dear father to transmit to New York. The
second volume must be printed first, because he has not long enough
dreamed over the new tale or essay which is to commence the first
volume. From all question as to what this precious web may be, last
woven in the loom of his genius, I sacredly abstain till the fullness
of time. Oh, I am so glad that these scattered jewels are now to be
set together!

"Zuna" is spreading out her painted tea-set upon a little oval tray
that came from beyond sea, in her father's childhood. She plays
tea-drinking with infinite grace and skill. Last week Louisa Hawthorne
and I spent the day with Mrs. Dike, and Una behaved like a consummate
lady, although she frolicked like a child. Mrs. Dike gave her some
beautiful silver playthings, with which she had a tea-party. Rebecca
Manning [a little cousin] was there, and over their airy tea Una
undertook to be agreeable, and began of her own accord to converse,
and tell Rebecca about her life in Concord. She said, "In Tontord Zuna
went out into the orchard and picked apples in her little basket, for
papa and mamma to eat." And then, with a countenance and tone of
triumph, she exclaimed, "And papa's boat!"

A long letter written by George William Curtis is a bright ray from a
beautiful personality, containing these descriptions:--

ROME, January 14, 1847.

MY DEAR FRIENDS,--How often in the long sunny silence of that summer
voyage, when in the Atlantic all day the sea rippled as gently about
the ship as the waters of Walden pour against their shore, and in the
Mediterranean the moon would have no other mirror, but entranced its
waves to an oily calmness in which she shone unbroken, did I figure
you gliding with us on our fairy way to France, Italy, and in the next
summer, Switzerland! One day in our voyage we passed the Straits of
Gibraltar--seeing land for the first time in twenty-eight days. We
came so near and passed so rapidly, saw so distinctly the dusky gray
olive foliage of Spain and the little round towers whence the old
Spaniards looked for the Moors; and on the other side, so grim and
lonely, the intricate mountain outline of Africa, so distinctly, and
at night again, and for many days after, the same broad water; that it
lies more dreamily in my memory than anything else. . . . On the
forty-fifth day I stepped ashore in France; but not without more
regret than I thought possible, for the ship; and one of the crew, of
my own age, with whom I had seen the stars fade in the morning during
his watch, had become very dear to me. Yet in Marseilles everything
was quaint. . . . The same features I had always known in a
city,--men, houses, streets, squares; but with an expression unknown
before. At night, with my sailor friend, I threaded some of the
narrower streets, which were like corridors in an unshapely Titan
palace. At the doors of the smallest shops on each side sat the
spinsters in the moonlight, gossiping and knitting; while over them
bent old French tradesmen, in long yarn stockings and velvet
knee-breeches. The street was barely wide enough for a carriage, and
they talked across; and all was as gay and happy as Arcadia. Every day
[in Florence], I was in the galleries, which are freely open to every
one, and here saw the grandest works of Raphael in his middle and best
style. Of the wonderful feminine grace and tenderness of these, of
which no copy can give an idea, I cannot properly speak. From him only
have I received the idea of the Immaculate Mother--the union of
celestial superiority with human maternity. The innumerable other
Madonnas are beautiful pictures; but they are either mere mothers or
mere angels. It is the same union in kind with what you may observe in
his portrait, where masculine character is so blended and tempered
with feminine grace and flexibility. Raphael is the clear, deep,
beautiful eye, in which and through which is seen the undoubted
heaven. . . .

How glad I am that I have a right to send you a letter! I have left a
small space into which to squeeze a large love, which I send to Mrs.
H., with my thanks for her kind letter, which could not come too late,
and which I am very sure highly gratified Mr. Crawford. He desires to
make his especial regards to Mrs. H., and said that he should write
her a note, if it were not too great a liberty, which he would send in
a letter to Mrs. Howe. Mention my name to Una; for in some dim
remembrance of Concord meadows I may then figure as a shadowy faun. A
long, pleasant letter from George Bradford, the other day, gave me the
last news from our old home, which is very placid and beautiful in my
memory. I should love to see Ellery Channing's new book. But I am
sure that he will never forgive himself for coming to Rome for sixteen
days. I am sorry to say good-by. G. W. CURTIS.

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