Read Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) Online
Authors: NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
To her husband in Liverpool, Mrs. Hawthorne writes: —
LONDON, September 19.
MY DEAREST, — At half past three Mrs. Russell Sturgis came in her sumptuous barouche. We drove all through the fashionable squares and Streets and parks, and all through Kensington, even to the real Holland House. But Leigh Hunt's book went all out of my head when I tried to think what he said about it. Mrs. Sturgis knows him very well, and often visits him in his humble cottage. Oh, dear me! Such superb squares and terraces as I saw! Mrs. Sturgis told me where Sir E. B. Lytton, and many noted and noble persons, lived. We drove through Mayfair, but I did not see Miss Cushman's house, I Bolton Row. We certainly had a fine time. At five we got back, and I found the Ambassador's card, and Miss Lane's, inviting us there this evening.
September 20. I was just hurrying off with Mr. Bright when I wrote the two lines of post-script in my letter this morning, in answer to your note, — so like you; so tender and kind. Since I must go away, I ought not to have said a word; but you must ascribe what I said and say to infinite love only; for it is only because of this that I do not look forward with delight to a winter in Lisbon with the O'Sullivans. I could not be happy if you made any sacrifice for me; and as our interests are indissoluble, it would be my sacrifice, too. So I will be good, and not distress you with more regrets. I once thought that no power on earth should ever induce me to live without you, and especially thought that an ocean should never roll between us. But I am over-powered by necessity; and since my life is of importance to you, I will not dare to neglect any means of preserving it.
This morning baby was dressed in a beautiful embroidered white frock and blue sash, blue kid shoes, laced with blue ribbon, and blue silk sack fastened with a blue girdle, and a hat trimmed with blue and gray. Her long curls streamed out beneath: She was thus arrayed to visit Portland Place and the Sturgis children. Una looked very lovely in her summer cloud-muslin.
Mr. Bright came at twelve o'clock, bringing five or six superb photographs of Cologne; I never saw any so splendid. Then we started for the Crystal Palace. It has been one of the divinest days — one of our days, like that at Stratford-on-Avon.' When we got into the cab, however, Mr. Bright proposed to go to the Houses of Parliament first, and then at last concluded to give up the Crystal Palace, and see the sights of London instead. So we drove to the old St. James's Palace Yard. But a police-officer said we could only go in on Saturday, and then by a ticket from the Lord Chamberlain. I knew that, but supposed Mr. Bright had some other means of gaining admittance. He had not, nevertheless. He took us (Julian was with me) over Westminster Bridge. . . . We went into the Photographic Exhibition of persons and places at the Crimea, which was just like taking up groups of the army and putting them before one's eyes. It must be of wonderful interest to the relatives and friends of those who are there. The room was full of fine-looking, aristocratic people. From this we drove to Kensington Gardens; and I must say, my dear lord, that I never imagined any place so grand and majestic, so royal and superb, as those grounds. The trees — oh, the trees — every one of them kings, emperors, and Czars; so tall, so rich, and the lawn beneath them so sunny-velvet green, all made illustrious by the clearest warm sunshine, and a soft, sweet air. The magnificent groves of trees all round; and far off in the terminus, the towers and pinnacles of the Parliament Houses, and Westminster Abbey towers, rise into the clear sky over the blue waters of the Serpentine. A pretty yacht, with one white wing, slowly moved along. Large, princely lambs grazed on the sunny lawns. I think that thou wouldst have asked no more in the way of a park. We sat down on a felled tree and talked awhile. I would almost give a kingdom to sit on the tree again, with thee. Was not Mr. Bright good and lovely to devote his only whole day in London to me? He certainly is the most amiable and hospitable of mortals. THY DOVE.
My mother writes of Miss Bacon, who put Lord Bacon in that place in her heart where Shakespeare should have been: —
MY DEAREST, — I have been reading Miss Bacon's manuscript this afternoon, and it is marvelous. She reveals by her interpretation of Lord Bacon more fully to me what I already divined dimly of the power of Christ over nature; and it is the first word that I have found spoken or written which is commensurate with my actual idea. I felt as if I wanted to take this manuscript and all the others, and run off to some profound retreat, and study it all over, and reproduce it again with my own faculties. Oh, that I could read them with you! I almost begin to love the pain with which I delve after the thoughts presented in such a close and difficult handwriting.
To Miss Peabody: —
“Miss Bacon cannot speak out fairly [upon the subject of Bacon and Shakespeare], though there is neither the Tower, the scaffold, nor the pile of fagots to deter her. But she is a wonder and a benefactor, — and let us not criticise her style; or rather, it is no matter whether we did or not, so much remains for her. I did not see her. I was just going to take Una and call upon her, when she went to Stratford.
“I hope Mr. Plumly has not forgotten his project of beneficence [towards her]. It must be a foretaste of heaven to have money to give away.”
Tourist letters describe Wordsworth's house and country at Rydal: —
MY DEAR ELIZABETH, — I had a hope that when I left Rock Park I should be clothed with wings, and be able to write letters and journal and to draw. But I have been particularly wingless during the whole six weeks of our absence, and have clone literally nothing but use my eyes. At Windermere we left Una, Rose, and Nurse at a charming, homelike house, and Mr. Hawthorne, Julian, and I went farther north. We went first to Rydal and Grasmere, and at Grasmere Hotel, which is nearly opposite the grave of Wordsworth, I had set my heart upon writing you a long letter about those sacred places, especially sacred to you, the true lover of Wordsworth. On a most superb afternoon we took an open carriage at Lowood Hotel, where we had been staying for several days, and drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our luggage and then drove back to Rydal Water. We alighted just at the commencement of the lake, intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The lake surprised me by its extreme smallness, — in America we should never think of calling it a lake; but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and mountains that embosom it, and I thought it was irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to say he “could carry it all away in a porringer.” It has several very small islands in it, and one rather larger, which is a heronry. The lake and all the parks and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le Fleming, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very ancient family in those regions. We presently came to a fine old crag by the shore, up which were some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure that Wordsworth had often gone up there and looked off upon his beloved Rydal from the summit. We went up and sat down where we knew he must have sat, and there I could have dreamed for many hours. The gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme were there, and I thought with an infinite joy how human beings have the power to consecrate the earth by genius, heroic deeds, and even homely virtues. The gorgeous richness of the vegetation, the fresh verdure, the living green of the lawns and woodlands, flooded and gilded by the sunshine, made me wonder whether the Delectable Mountain could be much more beautiful, and made me realize deeply the poetic rapture, the noble, sustained enthusiasm of Wordsworth in his descriptions of natural scenery. It is only for perhaps a week in June that we in America can obtain an idea of the magnificent richness and freshness of English scenery. How can I find language airy and delicate enough to picture to you the fields of harebells, tossing their lovely heads on their threadlike stems, and bringing heaven to earth in the hue of their petals! Then the pale golden cuckoo-buds, the yellow gorse, the stately foxglove, standing in rows, like prismatic candelabra, all along the roadside, — and ah me, alas! — the endless trees and vines of wild eglantine, with blossoms of every shade of pink, from carmine to the faintest blush, wreathing themselves about and throwing out into your face and hands long streamers of buds and blossoms, so rarely and exquisitely lovely! One wonders whether it can be true or whether one is dreaming on the Enchanted Plain. I loved Wordsworth as I never could have done if I had not been in the very place that knew him, and seen how and why he worshiped as he did, what really seems there the perpetual Morning of Creation.
At the right of the doorstep a superb fuchsia-tree stood, and I asked the man to pluck me one of the jewel blossoms. But he declined to approach so near, as he feared to disturb Mrs. Wordsworth. And he did not introduce us into her presence, because he said Lady le Fleming had told him never to disturb her with visitors, but only show them the outside of the house. He said Lady le Fleming built the house and it was hers, as well as everything else round about. But we might have gone in, we now find, and Mrs. Wordsworth likes very much to see people. So this intelligent man led us through the pretty gardens and grounds, up and up and up innumerable steps in successive short flights, through many wickets, till I began to think we could never reach our goal. Finally we came to a spot of constant shade where was a singularly shaped rock — a kind of slab — thrusting itself out from the wall, in which a brass plate was inserted with an inscription by Wordsworth, which we read. It expressed that he had pleaded for this rock as often as he had for other natural objects.
The gardener opened a wicket, after passing the deep, shady nook, and said, “This is Mr. Wordsworth's garden.” I looked about and saw troops of flowers, and sought for the white fox-glove, which was a favorite of his, and found it; and the air was loaded with a fine perfume, which I discovered to be from large beds of mignonette. In those paths he walked and watched and tended his plants and shrubs. Presently, after so much mounting of steps, and threading of embowered paths and lanes of flowers, we were ushered into the grounds immediately around the actual house. And the man first took us upon that memorable terraced lawn, in great part made by Wordsworth's own hands. It is circular, and the turf, like thick-piled velvet, yielding to the feet and of delicious green — smooth and soft. Perhaps it is thirty feet in diameter, and double, with a very high step. Beneath it is a gravel walk, and then a hedge of thick shrubs. Julian flung himself at full length on the velvet sward, and Mr. Hawthorne and I sat down on the even tops of two stumps of trees, evidently intended for seats, as one meets them everywhere, arranged for that purpose. But how am I to tell you what I saw from them?
Wordsworth must have described it somewhere. It was his beloved view. Richer could not have been the Vale of Cashmere. The mountains take most picturesque forms, and after throwing against the sky bold and grand outlines, they so softly curve down into the lovely dells that they seemed doing homage to beauty, lordly and gentle. And far away at the end of the valley, Windermere, Queen of the Lakes, reposed, gleaming silvery blue. This fair, open eye completed the picture. In that was the soul revealed. I wished I had had my sketch-book to draw just the outlines, but was not too sorry, because I intended to go again, and then I would have it. Now I was content to gaze alone.
The attractions of London are fully admitted by Mrs. Hawthorne, in various letters, from which I gather these sentences: —
“At last I have found myself in London society. I suppose Ellen and Mary [her nieces] would like to know what I wore on one occasion. I had on a sky-blue glace silk, with three flounces, which were embroidered with white floss, making a very silvery shine. The dress had low neck and short sleeves; but I wore a jacket of starred blonde with flowing sleeves; and had round me also a shawl of Madeira lace, which, though very airy, fleecy, and cloud-looking, is warm and soft. My headdress was pearl, in the shape of bunches of grapes and leaves, mingled with blue ribbon, with a wreath of pearl-traced leaves round my hair, which was rolled in coronet fashion. Was not that a pretty dress?
“Mr. Hawthorne was invited to Monckton Millies' to a dejeuner, and met there Macaulay, Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Lord Stanley, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Goderich, etc. He enjoyed it very much; and the venerable old Marquis seemed bent on doing him honor and showing him respect. He insisted upon Mr. Hawthorne's taking precedence of himself on every occasion. It is an immense disappointment to me that we cannot spend some months within daily reach of London, because I want Mr. Hawthorne to take a very full draught of it. But I shall persuade him to go up to the grim, glorious old city by himself, if possible.”
My mother had been so seriously attacked by bronchitis as to endanger her lungs, which led to a visit of six months to Lisbon and Madeira, my father remaining at the Consulate. While in exile, she writes to him: —
“I am all the time tumbling into fathomless reveries about going home.
“Dearest, I have an idea! Next winter, if you wish to remain in England, and my coughing continues, I will tell you how I might do, and be most happy and comfortable. I might remain in my chamber all winter, and keep it at an even temperature, and exercise by means of the portable gymnasium. I am sure the joy of your presence would be better than any tropic or equator without you. And I hate to be the means of your resigning from the Consulate.”
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.