Holman Day - "All Wool Morrison"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "Life of John Coleridge Patteson"

C. K. Ober - "Out of the Fog"

Euripedes - "The Iphigenia in Tauris"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Memories of Hawthorne

R >> Rose Hawthorne Lathrop >> Memories of Hawthorne




Mrs. Hawthorne's letters, written for the pleasure of her family, in
spite of her growing cares, continue to be a source of intelligence to
us:--

MY DEAR LIZZIE,--I have just received your letter, for which I am very
glad. You say that mother may come to-night. I truly hope she will.
But as the heavy fog we had here this morning may have been a rain in
Boston, I write now, to request father to go to Oak Hall, or to some
ready-made linen-store, and buy Mr. Hawthorne two linen sacks, well
made, and good linen. He is a perfect bunch of rags, and he will not
let me make him anything to wear--absolutely will not. But he consents
that something shall be bought. If mother should be delayed beyond
Monday, this can be done; otherwise it cannot.

I am very sorry about the little books; but I do not see any help.
Ticknor & Co. were going to have illustrations drawn for them, and Mr.
Hawthorne thinks they are begun, that money has been expended, and
that it is too late to change the plan. He says, he is bound by his
engagement, and cannot recede; but that if you can change their
purposes independently of him,--if they are willing, he is. Mr. Fields
has not said a word about the Fairy Tales, and I do not know whether
Mr. H. intends to write them now. I never ask him what he is about.
But I know he is not writing seriously this hot weather. God bless
you all,

SOPHIECHEN.

Sunday.

MY DEAR MOTHER,--'This has been a dull "heaven's day" for the
children, who have not been so merry as on a sunny day. I have read to
them, and shown them my drawings of Flaxman's Iliad and Odysse and
Hesiod. I wish you could have seen them the other day, acting Giant
Despair and Mrs. Diffidence. They were sitting on chairs opposite the
doorsteps; Julian with one little leg over the other, in a nonchalant
attitude; Una also in negligent position. They were discussing their
prisoners, Hopeful and Christian, in very gruff and unamiable voices.
"Well, what had we better do with them?" "Oh, beat them pretty well,
every day!" The air of the two figures, and their tones, in comparison
with the faces and forms, were very funny. I heard Una telling Julian
that Christian's bundle was a "bunch of naughtiness." Julian became
Columbus all at once, on Friday, and ran in from out of doors to get
some blocks to build a cross on the island which he had discovered. He
said, "Where is my sword to hold in my hand when I get out of my
ship?" [He was between four and five years old.]

Sunday, 20th.

A famous snowstorm. I read from Spenser to the children, in the
morning, of St. George and Una, Una and the Lion, and Prince Arthur.
Then, Cinderella. They made an exquisite picture, with the
hobby-horse. Julian was upon the horse,--as a king; Una at his side,
presenting ambrosia. In the P. M. I read them Andersen's "Angel and
Child," "The Swineherd," and "Little Ida's Flowers;" and their father
read to them from "The Black Aunt." In the evening my husband read to
me the "Death of Adam and Eve," by Montgomery, and something of
Crabbe's.

Tuesday, 22d. Clear, splendid day. The children took their little
straw baskets and went to find flowers. They were gone a great while,
and came back with a charming bunch--arbutus, anemones, violets, and
houstonia.

They went to walk with their father in the afternoon, to the woods and
mountains, and brought home arbutus; and Julian, laurel for me to make
a wreath for papa's head,--laurel of last year.

23d. Julian arranged his cabinet of shells and animals, hammered, ran
like a wolf, told stories to himself, helped me make beds, and held
cotton for me to wind, watched Mr. Tappan at his young trees, and when
his father came down [from writing upstairs] played with him. I sewed
all the evening while my husband read the "Castle of Indolence," and
finished it.

DEAREST LIZZIE,--Mrs. Sedgwick takes the most kind and motherly
interest in my affairs. Both she and her husband come quite often,
and Mr. Sedgwick sends Mr. Hawthorne a great many papers. I wish you
would tell me whether you think Tall Ann is able to do our work; but
from what she said about being deprived of the Church services and
Holy Communion, I know she would not do without them. She would be as
quiet here as in heaven. There have been a succession of golden days
for a long while, and I have thought

"Time had run back, and brought the age of gold,"

it has been so superb. It is now a golden and rose-colored twilight.
The most distant mountains are of the palest azure, and the Lake, pale
rose. It is haymaking season, and the children roam abroad with the
haymakers,--oh, such happy hours! The air is fragrant with the dying
breath of clover and sweet-scented grass. Julian is getting nut-brown.
He is a real chestnut. We are all wonderfully happy, and I can
conceive of no greater peace and content. Last Sunday afternoon we all
went to the Lake, and Una and I wove a laurel wreath, and Una crowned
her father. For mountain-laurel grows about us. We have now twelve
hens. Twice a day we all go and feed them. We go in single file. Mr.
Hawthorne called it to-day the procession of the equinoxes. The hens
have some of them been named: Snowdrop, Crown Imperial, Queenie, and
Fawn. Snowdrop is very handsome and white.

Mrs. Hawthorne's mother writes to her in this manner:--

June 8, 1850.

MY BELOVED,--Esther Sturgis brought me your letter yesterday. . . . I
hope you have time to enjoy this fine weather. I please myself with
imagining various enjoyments for you all in the peaceful scenes around
you, maugre the household cares that must fall to your lot. May the
spirit of inspiration drive all petty cares from your husband, and
fill his soul with thoughts that shall bear blessings to ages yet
unborn!' He must write--therefore you must court the love of the
humble, whose destiny it is to lighten the labors of the gifted ones
of the earth. I feel ashamed when I detect myself in thinking that a
kitchen-maid is lower in the scale of being than I am. What would the
learned and the gifted do if there was no humble one to make the bread
that supports life? Kiss your precious little ones, and tell them that
grandmamma thinks of them daily; that in spirit she joins in their
charming walks, in their search for flowers, in their admiration of
the woods, mountains, and fields, and in their holy inspirations while
gazing at the glories of the starlit heavens, or the rising or setting
sun. May God bless and keep you all.

YOUR MOTHER.

August 1.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--I was more troubled at the hindrance Mr. Hawthorne
suffered by our being without help a fortnight than by anything else,
because he would not let me bear any weight of care or labor, but
insisted upon doing everything himself. Yet he says that he cannot
write deeply during midsummer, at any rate. He can only seize the
skirts of ideas and pin them down for further investigation. Besides,
he has not recovered his pristine vigor. The year ending in June was
the trying year of his life, as well as of mine [on account of
political calumny]. I have not yet found again all my wings; neither
is his tread yet again elastic. But the ministrations of nature will
have their effect in due time. Mr. Hawthorne thinks it is Salem which
he is dragging at his ankles still. . . . Yes, we find kindest friends
on every side. The truest friendliness is the great characteristic of
the Sedgwick family in all its branches. They seem to delight to make
happy, and they are as happy as summer days themselves. They really
take the responsibility of my being comfortable, as if they were
mother, father, brother, sister. We have fallen into the arms of
loving-kindness, and cannot suffer for any aid or support in
emergencies. This I know will give you a reposeful content concerning
us. Mr. Tappan is a horn of benefits. He seems to have the sweetest
disposition; and his shy, dark eyes are always gleaming with
hospitable smiles for us. We could not be in more agreeable
circumstances, very well,--only I feel rather too far from you all. I
want you to come, to avoid those terrible prostrations from heat.
Here, we will give you a fresh egg every morning, beaten up to a foam
with new milk; and you shall have honey in the comb, and sweetest
vegetables out of our garden, and currants to refresh your parched
mouth. And you shall have peace, and rest, and quiet walks in stately
woods; and you shall sit in the barn upon clover hay, and see the dear
children play about and rejoice in your presence. You shall see us
feed the hennipennies, and hear that most quiet sound of their
clucking and murmuring.

Last Saturday night who should appear but Mr. O' Sullivan! The last we
had heard of him was that he had the yellow fever at New Orleans, and
that he was arrested for some movements with regard to Cuba. He is now
on bail, and will return to be tried in December. He returned to
Stockbridge that night, and on Monday came in a double carriage and
took us there, to the house of Mrs. Field, an old friend of his
mother's. We were received with the most whole-hearted hospitality,
and Una and I stayed all night, and Mr. O'Sullivan brought Mr.
Hawthorne and Julian back, because Mr. Hawthorne did not wish to stay.
I stayed ostensibly to go to a torchlight festival in an ice glen, but
I wished more to see the O'Sullivans than the festival. We had a
charming visit. Mrs. Field carried me to the scene of the sacrifice of
Everell in "Hope Leslie," for it is upon her estate,--a superb hill
covered with laurels,--and this sacrifice rock near the summit, and
the council chambers beneath. That was where the noble Magawesca's
arm was stricken off. The children enjoyed themselves extremely, and
behaved so beautifully that they won all hearts. They thought that
there never was such a superb child as Julian, nor such a grace as
Una. "They are neither too shy, nor bold," said Mrs. Field, "but just
right." There was a huge black Newfoundland dog, Hero, which delighted
Julian, and he rode on its back; and a little white silk dog, Fay,
very piquant and intelligent. It was a large, rambling mansion, with
india-rubber rooms that always stretch to accommodate any number of
guests, Mr. O'Sullivan said, such is Mrs. Field's boundless
hospitality. The house stands in a bower of trees, and behind it is
the richest dell, out of which rises Laurel Hill, which in its season
is one of perfect bloom. Rustic seats are at hand all about, and the
prettiest winding .paths, and glimpses of the Housatonic River gem the
plain. It has not the wide scope and proud effect of our picture, but
it is the dearest, sweetest, lovingest retreat one can imagine. Mr.
O'Sullivan took me to see Mrs. Harry Sedgwick, in the evening; a noble
woman with a gleam in her face. I owed her a call. There I also saw
Mrs. Robert Sedgwick, and the Ashburners, who called upon us at
Highwood.

We went to a bridge where we could see the torchlight party come out
of the Ice Glen, and it looked as if a host of stars had fallen out of
the sky, and broken to pieces; so said the Count O'S. We waited till
they arrived to us, and then we saw Mrs. Charles Sedgwick and her
pretty school-girls embark in an endless open omnibus for Lenox. They
were all lighted up by the burning torches, and were dressed in
fantastic costumes of brilliant colors, scarlet being predominant.
Those girls looked like a bouquet of bright flowers, as they sat
waving farewells, and receiving with smiles the cheers of all the
young gentlemen, who raised their torches and shouted, "Hurrah!" Poor,
dear Mrs. Charles! She looked so warm and so flushed--just like a
torch, herself!--and so lovely, kind, and happy, in the midst of her
living roses. Above, serenely shone myriads of pale stars in the clear
sky; around the horizon, heat-lightning flashed. The moon was rising
in the east; and in the north, the aurora borealis bloomed like a vast
lily. It was really a rare scene. We returned to Mrs. Harry
Sedgwick's. There she stood, receiving the greetings of the members
of the party; every gentleman bearing a torch, which lighted up a rosy
face at his side. Such happiness as they enjoyed--such spirit and
such mirth! It was worth witnessing. I found that everybody of note in
Stockbridge dearly loves our friend, Mr. O'Sullivan. He is the "pet"
and "darling" and "the angelic" with them all. And through him we were
known to them.

Most affectionately,

SOPHIECHEN.

September 4.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--To-day, Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Melville have gone
to dine at Pittsfield. Mr. Tappan took them in his carriage. I went
to Highwood after breakfast, to ask for the carriage and horses, as
you know Mr. Tappan has put them at our disposition, if we will only
drive. I found James sitting in state at the gate, in the wagon, and
concluded that there was no hope. But behold, Mr. Tappan was just
about starting for Pittsfield, himself; and with the most beautiful
cordiality of hospitality he said he would come over to take the
gentlemen. This would have been no particular courtesy in some
persons, but for this shy dear, who particularly did not wish, for
some reason, to be introduced to Mr. Melville, it was very pretty. I
have no doubt he will be repaid by finding Mr. Melville a very
different man from what he imagines, and very agreeable and
entertaining. We find him so. A man with a true, warm heart, and a
soul and an intellect,--with life to his finger-tips; earnest,
sincere, and reverent; very tender and modest. And I am not sure that
he is not a very great man; but I have not quite decided upon my own
opinion. I should say, I am not quite sure that _I_ do not think him a
very great man; for my opinion is, of course, as far as possible from
settling the matter. He has very keen perceptive power; but what
astonishes me is, that his eyes are not large and deep. He seems to
see everything very accurately; and how he can do so with his small
eyes, I cannot tell. They are not keen eyes, either, but quite
undistinguished in any way. His nose is straight and rather handsome,
his mouth expressive of sensibility and emotion. He is tall and erect,
with an air free, brave, and manly. When conversing, he is full of
gesture and force, and loses himself in his subject. There is no grace
nor polish. Once in a while, his animation gives place to a singularly
quiet expression, out of these eyes to which I have objected; an
indrawn, dim look, but which at the same time makes you feel that he
is at that instant taking deepest note of what is before him. It is a
strange, lazy glance, but with a power in it quite unique. It does not
seem to penetrate through you, but to take you into himself. I saw him
look at Una so, yesterday, several times. He says it is Mr. Mathews
who is writing in "The Literary World" the visit to Berkshire. Mr.
Mathews calls Mr. Hawthorne "Mr. Noble Melancholy," in the next number
of the paper. You know, what you read was the introduction only. It is
singular how many people insist that Mr. Hawthorne is gloomy, since he
is not. He is pensive, perhaps, as all contemplative persons must be;
especially when, as in him, "a great heart is the household fire of a
grand intellect" (to quote his own words), because he sees and
sympathizes with all human suffering. He has always seemed to me, in
his remote moods, like a stray Seraph, who had experienced in his own
life no evil, but by the intention of a divine intellect, saw and
sorrowed over all evil.

[Among my mother's early letters to my father, this poem, written in
her fine, delicate hand upon old-fashioned fancy note paper, was
evidently her expression of this feeling.]

THE SERAPH AND THE DOVE.

A Seraph strayed to earth from upper spheres,
Impelled by inward motion, vague yet strong:
He knew not wherefore he must leave the throng
Of kindred hierarchs for a world of tears:
But, mailed in proof divine, he felt no fears,
Obedient to an impulse clear of wrong:
And so he ceased awhile his heavenly song,
To measure his immortal life by years.
His arched brow uprose, a throne of light,
Where ordered thought a rule superior held;
Within his eyes celestial splendors dwell'd,
Ready to glow and bless with subject might,
When he should find why God had sent him here,
Shot like a star from out his native sphere.

He was alone; he stood apart from men:
His simple nature could not solve their ways;
For he had lived a life of love and praise,
And they forgot that God their Source had been.
So mused he on the visions of his mind,
Which, wondrous fair, recalled his home above:
He wist not why he was to space confin'd,
But waited, trusting in Omnific love.
Then lo! came fluttering to his arms a Dove,
Which for her foot had never yet found rest:
The Seraph folded her within his breast,

And as he felt the brooding warmth, he conscious, smiled and said, "Yes,
Father! Heaven can only be where kindred spirits wed!"

["My Dove" was one of my father's names for my mother; he found her a
seal with a dove upon it. She several times referred to this title
with joy, in talks with me.]

As his life has literally been so pure from the smallest taint of
earthliness, it can only be because he is a Seer, that he knows of
crime. Not Julian's little (no, great) angel heart and life are freer
from any intention or act of wrong than his. And this is best proof
to me of the absurdity of the prevalent idea that it is necessary to
go through the fiery ordeal of sin to become wise and good. I think
such an idea is blasphemy and the unpardonable sin. It is really
abjuring God's voice within. We have not received, as we ought to have
done, the last Saturday's number of "The Literary World." I have a
great curiosity to read about "Mr. Noble Melancholy." Poor aunty! [Her
aunt Pickman.] I really do not believe Shakespeare will be injured by
being spoken of in the same paper with Mr. Hawthorne. But no
comparison is made between them, though there is no reason why one
great man may not be compared to another. There is no absolute
difference in created souls, after all; and the intuitions of genius
are identical, necessarily; for what is an intuition of genius but
God's truth, revealed to a soul in high communion? I suppose it is not
impossible for another Shakespeare to culminate. Even I--little bit
of a tot of I--have sometimes recognized my own thought in
Shakespeare. But do not tell aunt Pickman of this. Not believing in
an absolute source of thought, she would pronounce me either
irrecoverably insane or infinitely self-conceited.

Here is John.--No more. SOPHIA.




CHAPTER VI

LENOX


One of the authors in that excellent company congregated at this
period in this part of Berkshire--Mr. Mansfield--writes to Mrs.
Hawthorne for the pleasure of the thing; and one fairly hears the
drone of time as the days hang ripe and sleepy upon his hands. I quote
a few paragraphs from his letters:--

HOME, January 15, 1851.

DEAR MADAM,--It was very kind in you to take up my affairs, and I will
say here upon the margin of this reply, that I SHOULD have very much
liked your opinion of the "Pundison Letters" I sent out; but now--so
long ago is it--I have had time to let my whimsical nature find some
other occupation; and the "Up-Country Letters" may lie as they are,
not unlikely for the next thousand years. I am absorbed and busied
with Bishop Butler's Analogy, which is all things to me at this
present; and I am not sure that "The House of the Seven Gables" could
tempt me away from it until I get my fill. . . . The Bishop is great,
and I hope to have him with me until the frost comes out of the
ground, and I can busy myself with Nature herself.

I laughed the other day loud and long at a report of the plot of "The
House of the Seven Gables," in a letter to a lady. . . . The remark
was, that "the plot of 'The House of the Seven Gables' was--deepening
damnably." . . . You speak of "the crimson and violet sunrises, and
the green and gold sunsets," etc.; and I am glad to get so good an
authority for the fact of mixed colors in sunrising. In my little
book, I speak somewhere of "the silver and rose tint flame of the
morning." . . . My wife, who sends her love, has taken possession of
your note, and is to keep it somewhere "with care." That is, it is to
be so carefully hidden that no one will ever find it. Perhaps she is
a little jealous; but, in any case, she wants the autograph. Please
make my regards to the man in "The House of the Seven Gables," and
believe me, with sincere respect, Yours--obliged--

L. W. MANSFIELD.


HOME, January 22.

DEAR MADAM,--I suppose Mr. Hawthorne will smile at the idea of my
writing him a letter of condolence, and such I do not intend; but I
have been a little provoked at an article in "The Church Review;" and
whether Mr. Hawthorne cares for my opinion or not, it will be a relief
and satisfaction for me to say my say about it. Nor do I suppose that
he can live so exclusively in a world of his own as not to be pleased
at knowing that his friends recognize as such any impertinence that
may be said about him. In this case also it comes home to the question
which I submitted in the "Up-Country Letters," which I sent you. Now I
will say (and I venture to say that I am one of twenty thousand
respectable people that would say the same) that the little bits of
personal description and reference which Mr. Hawthorne has given in
two instances have added--I was going to say tenfold to the interest
which attaches to all his writings, and so modestly and quietly, and
in such exquisite taste were those references made, that it does
strike me as the sublime of stupidity that any one could misunderstand
them. . . .

Please excuse my long letter, and believe me, with sincere regards,
yours,

L. W. MANSFIELD.


My mother's notes of every-day life proceed:--


January 2. This morning, one cloud in the east looked like a goldfish
close to the horizon. I began to build a snow-house with the
children, and shoveled paths.

5th. I walked out in the splendid sunset with the children, to meet
papa. I told them, on the way, the story of Genevieve.

10th. Walked before dinner with the children along the road, telling
them of Mary, Queen of Scots.

11th. My husband read me the preface to the third edition of the
"Twice-Told Tales." It is absolutely perfect, of course.

Sunday, 12th. My husband came down from writing at three. It was
reviving to see him. I took dear little Julian and walked to Mr.
Wilcox's barn. He enjoyed it as much as I did; the soft hues of the
mountains, the slumbering sunshine, and the sparkling snow which
towards sunset became violet color. He stooped down to lap up snow,
and shouted, "Oh, how pretty!" and I found he was admiring the shining
globes. "They lie on the air, mamma!" said he. Mr. Hawthorne received
a request for an autograph, and an autobiography!

13th. In the evening my husband said he should begin to read his book
["The House of the Seven Gables "]. Oh, joy unspeakable!

14th. When the children had gone to bed, my husband took his
manuscript again. I am always so dazzled and bewildered with the
richness of beauty in his productions, that I look forward to a second
reading during which I can ponder and muse. The reading closed with a
legend, so graphic, so powerful, with such a strain of grace and
witchery through it, that I seemed to be in a trance. Such a vision as
Alice, with so few touches, such a real existence! The sturdy,
handsome, and strong Maule; the inevitable fate, "the innocent
suffering for the guilty," seemingly so dark, yet so clear a law!

15th. Sewed all day, thinking only of Maule's Well. The sunset was a
great, red ball of fire.

In the evening, the manuscript was again read from. How ever more
wonderful! How transparent are all events in life to my husband's
awful power of insight; and how he perpetually brings up out of the
muddied wells the pearl of price!

16th. The sun rose fiery red, like a dog-day sun. Julian is a
prisoner, because his india-rubbers are worn out. I looked forward all
day to listening to my husband's inspirations in the evening; but
behold! he has no more as yet to read. This morning Julian sat down in
a little chair and took his father's foot on his lap. "I want to be
papa's toadstool!" said Julian, making one of his funniest mistakes.
My husband proposed reading "Thalaba." I was glad, though Southey is
no favorite of mine. But I like to be familiar with such things, and
to hear my husband's voice is the best music. Mrs. Sedgwick called to
see us.

18th. In the morning I took the children and went to Luther's. We went
to the barn to find him, and there he was, grinding oats. The children
were much grieved and very indignant because the horse was in a
treadmill, and could not stop if he would.

22d. Mild. In the morning Anna Greene appeared at my door. I was
rejoiced to see her. She stayed two hours. In the evening Herman
Melville came, and Anna again, also.

23d. Anna Greene came early, and wanted us to walk with her, on this
warm, radiant day. We went to the Lake, with the children, and had a
delightful talk. In the evening Anna and Caroline Tappan came; and we
had champagne and beaten egg, which they thought ethereal beverage.
Caroline said she had wanted just this all winter.