Yours ever, G. P. R. JAMES.
Mrs. Hawthorne writes on:—
MY DEAREST LIZZIE,—What a sumptuous present, or budget of presents, you are making me! I am affronted, if they come in the way of return for the pitiful hospitality you received. You not only had no bed to sleep on, and no room to sleep in, but nothing to eat, besides sewing all the time, and washing your own clothes! I was very unhappy about it all, but thought I would not add to the trouble by complaining, as I did not see how I could remedy the matter. I never intend to have a guest again for so long as father stayed, on Mr. Hawthorne's account. It fairly destroys both his artistic and his domestic life. He has no other life—never visiting, and having nothing to do with the public. I do not know as any one but myself can estimate the cost to him of having a stranger in our courts; especially in these narrow ones. A week or so does very well; but months will not do at all. . . . You know that he has but just stepped over the threshold of a hermitage. He is but just not a hermit still.
Hawthorne responds to the substantial friendship of a lifelong comrade:—
LENOX, July 24, 1851.
DEAR PIKE,—I should have written to you long since, acknowledging the receipt of your gin, and in answer to your letter, but I have been very busy with my pen. As to the gin, I cannot speak of its quality, for the bottle has not yet been opened, and will probably remain corked until cold weather, when I mean to take an occasional sip. I really thank you for it, however; nor could I help shedding a few quiet tears over that which was so uselessly spilt by the expressman.
The most important news I have to tell you (if you have not already heard it) is, that we have another daughter, now about two months old. She is a very bright and healthy child, and neither more nor less handsome than babies generally are. I think I feel more interest in her than I did in the other children at the same age, from the consideration that she is to be the daughter of my age—the comfort (at least, so it is to be hoped) of my declining years—the last child whom I expect or intend to have. What a sad account you give of your solitude, in your letter! I am not likely ever to have the feeling of loneliness which you express; and I most heartily wish that you would take measures to remedy it in your own case, by marrying Miss Brookhouse or somebody else as soon as possible. If I were at all in the habit of shedding tears, I should have felt inclined to do so at your description of your present situation; without family, and estranged from your former friends.
Whenever you feel it quite intolerable (and I can hardly help wishing that it may become so soon), do come to me. By the way, if I continue to prosper as heretofore in the literary line, I shall soon be in a condition to buy a place; and if you should hear of one, say, worth from $1500 to $2000, I wish you would keep your eye on it for me. I should wish it to be on the seacoast, or at all events with easy access to the sea. Very little land would suit my purpose, but I want a good house, with space enough inside, and which will not need any considerable repairs. I find that I do not feel at home among these hills, and should not like to consider myself permanently settled here. I do not get acclimated to the peculiar state of the atmosphere, and, except in mid-winter, I am continually catching cold, and am none so vigorous as I used to be on the seacoast. The same is the case with my wife; and though the children seem perfectly well, yet I rather think they would flourish better near the sea. Say nothing about my wishes, but if you see a place likely to suit me, let me know. I shall be in Salem probably as soon as October, and possibly you will have something in view by that time.
Why did you not express your opinion of The House of the Seven Gables, which I sent you? I suppose you were afraid of hurting my feelings by disapproval; but you need not have been. I should receive friendly censure with just as much equanimity as if it were praise; though certainly I had rather you would like the book than not. At any rate, it has sold finely, and seems to have pleased a good many people better than the others, and I must confess that I myself am among the number. It is more characteristic of the author, and a more natural book for me to write, than The Scarlet Letter was. When I write another romance, I shall take the Community for a subject, and shall give some of my experiences and observations at Brook Farm. Since the publication of the Seven Gables I have written a book for children, which is to be put to press immediately.
My wife, with the baby and Una, is going southward in two or three weeks to see her mother, who, I think, will not survive another winter. I shall remain here with Julian. If you can be spared from that miserable Custom House, I wish you would pay me a visit, although my wife would hardly forgive you for coming while she was away. But I do long to see you, and to talk about a thousand things relating to this world and the next. I am very glad of your testimony in favor of spiritual intercourse. I have heard and read much on the subject, and it appears to me to be the strangest and most bewildering affair I ever heard of. I should be very glad to believe that these rappers are, in any one instance, the spirits of the persons whom they profess themselves to be; but though I have talked with those who have had the freest communication, there has always been something that makes me doubt. So you must allow me to withhold my full and entire belief, until I have heard some of the details of your own spiritual intercourse.
On receiving your letter, I wrote to Longfellow, requesting him to forward you any books that might facilitate your progress, in the Swedish language. He has not told me whether or no he did so. I asked him to send them to the Mansion House in Salem. I wish you had rather undertaken Latin, or French, or German, or indeed, almost any other language, in which there would have been a more extensive and attainable literature than in the Swedish. But if it turns out to be a pleasure and improvement to yourself, the end is attained. You will never, I fear (you see that I take a friend's privilege to speak plainly), make the impression on the world that, in years gone by, I used to hope you would. It will not be your fault, however, but the fault of circumstances. Your flower was not destined to bloom in this world. I hope to see its glory in the next.
I had much more to say, but it has escaped my memory just now, and it is of no use trying to say any real thing in a letter. Hoping to see you sooner or later,
Your friend ever,
Excuse this illegible scrawl; but I have contracted such a habit of scrawling that I cannot possibly help it.
Mr. Pike was one of the half-earthy intelligences which are capable of bloom, like a granite-strewn hill, revealing upon a closer glance unexpected imagination. I once saw him coming through a little pine grove near The Wayside with my father; it was after our return from England. He was so short, sturdy, phlegmatic of exterior, and plebeian, that I was astonished at my father's pleasure in his company, until I noticed a certain gentleness in his manner of stepping, and heard the modulations of his voice, and caught the fragrance of his humility. One or two letters of his already printed are delightfully straightforward,—even more so in their unabridged state than as they now stand; showing unconsciousness of the methods of a devious subtlety of penetration, though sensitiveness to its influence, as an ox slowly turns his great eye about at the sound of a bee, but never catches a glimpse of him; showing a restful stupidity that nevertheless had enough intellectual fire to take a kind, eager delight in telling, as it were, the sculptor that his clay was gray and his marble white. To a mind whose subtlety could never bewilder itself by no matter what intricacies of sudden turning, the solid stare before his nose of Mr. Pike must have been agreeable, since it was joined to a capital vision of whatever actually crossed that patient gaze, and to a tenderness which sprang like purest refreshment from a hard promise. Anything that can restfully attract a thinker is, of course, at a premium with him. Mr. Pike might be as plebeian as he pleased, the more the better, since he was one of the people who could apprehend truth, talk of love like a troubadour for sincere belief in it, and say a good thing when one least expected him to do so, which is the nick of time for brilliancy.
Herman Melville writes, the date being recorded by my father, "Received July 24, 1851," one of the frolicsome letters which it requires second-sight to decipher, the handwriting being, apparently, "writ in water:"—
Tuesday afternoon.
MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,—This is not a letter, or even a note, but only a passing word said to you over your garden gate. I thank you for your easy-flowing long letter (received yesterday), which flowed through me, and refreshed all my meadows, as the Housatonic—opposite me—does in reality. I am now busy with various things, not incessantly though; but enough to require my frequent tinkerings; and this is the height of the haying season, and my nag is dragging home his winter's dinners all the time. And so, one way and another, I am not a disengaged man, but shall be very soon. Meantime, the earliest good chance I get, I shall roll down to you, my good fellow, seeing we—that is, you and I—must hit upon some little bit of vagabondism before autumn comes. Graylock—we must go and vagabondize there. But ere we start, we must dig a deep hole, and bury all Blue Devils, there to abide till the Last Day. . . . Good-by.
His X MARK.
And again:—
PITTSFIELD, Monday afternoon.
MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,—People think that if a man has undergone any hardship, he should have a reward; but for my part, if I have done the hardest possible day's work, and then come to sit down in a corner and eat my supper comfortably—why, then I don't think I deserve any reward for my hard day's work—for am I not now at peace? Is not my supper good? My peace and my supper are my reward, my dear Hawthorne. So your joy-giving and exultation-breeding letter is not my reward for my ditcher's work with that book, but is the good goddess's bonus over and above what was stipulated for—for not one man in five cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative recognition from his fellows, or any one of them. Appreciation! Recognition! Is love appreciated? Why, ever since Adam, who has got to the meaning of his great allegory— the world? Then we pygmies must be content to have our paper allegories but ill comprehended. I say your appreciation is my glorious gratuity. In my proud, humble way,—a shepherd-king,—I was lord of a little vale in the solitary Crimea; but you have now given me the crown of India. But on trying it on my head, I found it fell down on my ears, notwithstanding their asinine length—for it's only such ears that sustain such crowns.
Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr. Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat down at once and answered it. In me divine magnanimities are spontaneous and instantaneous—catch them while you can. The world goes round, and the other side comes up. So now I can't write what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then—your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me this moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialities are in me. I would sit down and dine with you and all the gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a strange feeling—no hopefulness is in it, no despair. Content—that is it; and irresponsibility; but without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of being, not of an incidental feeling.
Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life? And when I put it to my lips—lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity of feeling. Now, sympathizing with the paper, my angel turns over another page. You did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book—and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you hugged the ugly Socrates because you saw the flame in the mouth, and heard the rushing of the demon,—the familiar,—and recognized the sound; for you have heard it in your own solitudes.
My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and make me doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I am not mad, most noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when the big hearts strike together, the concussion is a little stunning. Farewell. Don't write a word about the book. That would be robbing me of my miserly delight. I am heartily sorry I ever wrote anything about you—it was paltry. Lord, when shall we be done growing? As long as we have anything more to do, we have done nothing. So, now, let us add Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. Leviathan is not the biggest fish;—I have heard of Krakens.
This is a long letter, but you are not at all bound to answer it. Possibly, if you do answer it, and direct it to Herman Melville, you will missend it—for the very fingers that now guide this pen are not precisely the same that just took it up and put it on this paper. Lord, when shall we be done changing? Ah! it 's a long stage, and no inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. But with you for a passenger, I am content and can be happy. I shall leave the world, I feel, with more satisfaction for having come to know you. Knowing you persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.
What a pity, that, for your plain, bluff letter, you should get such gibberish! Mention me to Mrs. Hawthorne and to the children, and so, good-by to you, with my blessing.
P. S. I can't stop yet. If the world was entirely made up of Magians, I'll tell you what I should do. I should have a paper-mill established at one end of the house, and so have an endless riband of foolscap rolling in upon my desk; and upon that endless riband I should write a thousand—a million—billion thoughts, all under the form of a letter to you. The divine magnet is on you, and my magnet responds. Which is the biggest? A foolish question—they are One. H.
P. P. S. Don't think that by writing me a letter, you shall always be bored with an immediate reply to it—and so keep both of us delving over a writing-desk eternally. No such thing! I sha'n't always answer your letters, and you may do just as you please.
Hawthorne is left alone for a few days, while his wife visits her mother, which causes the following notes to be written:—
LENOX, August 8, 1851.
OWNEST PHOEBE,—I wrote thee a note yesterday, and sent it to the village by Cornelius; but as he may have neglected to put it in, I write again. If thou wilt start from West Newton on Thursday next, I will meet thee at Pittsfield, which will answer the same purpose as if I came all the way. . . .
Julian is very well, and keeps himself happy from morning till night.I hope Una does the same. Give my love to her. . . .
Thine, N. H.
August 9, Saturday.
I received yesterday thy note, in which thou speakest of deferring thy return some days longer. Stay by all means as long as may be needful. Julian gets along perfectly well; and I am eager for thy coming only because it is unpleasant to remain torn asunder. Thou wilt write to tell me finally what day thou decidest upon; but unless I hear further, I shall go to Pittsfield on Saturday, a week from to-day. But if thou seest reason for staying longer do so, that nothing may be left at loose ends.
Julian and I had a fine ride yesterday with Herman Melville and two other gentlemen.
Mrs. Peters is perfectly angelic.
Thinest, N. H.
Mrs. Peters, a negress of the dignified type, was the general house-servant, an aged, forbidding, harmlessly morose soul, often recalled by my mother in her references to Lenox, when talking, as she did most easily and fascinatingly, to us children of the past. The picturing of Mrs. Peters always impressed me very much, and she no doubt stood for a suggestion of Aunt Keziah in "Septimius Felton." She was an invaluable tyrant, an unloaded weapon, a creature who seemed to say, "Forget my qualities if you dare—there is one of them which is fatal!" As my parents possessed the capacity to pay respect where it could be earned, the qualities of Mrs. Peters were respected, and she found herself in a sort of heaven of courteous tolerance.
Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her mother:—
On Sunday Mr. Samuel G. Ward came to see us. He gave me an excellent drawing of Highwood Porch, for "The Wonder-Book," which he said he had asked Burrill Curtis to draw. We have sent it to Mr. Fields. On Monday Mr. Curtis called. He is taking sketches all about, and is going back to Europe this autumn. Just now, Dr. Holmes and Mr. Upham's son Charles drove up. They came in, a few moments. First came Dr. Holmes, to peep at the Lake through the boudoir window,—for he was afraid to leave the horse, even tied; then he went out for Charles to come in; and Mr. Hawthorne insisted upon holding the horse, and having them both come in. When Dr. Holmes went back, he laughed to see Mr. Hawthorne at his horse's head, and exclaimed, "Is there another man in all America who ever had so great an honor, as to have the author of 'The Scarlet Letter' hold his horse?" My love to your lovely household. Your most
Affectionate child, SOPHIA.
The following letters were evoked by one of those entanglements concerning the petty matters of existence which will sometimes occur in the most enchanting web and woof of good feeling and high thought. A luxuriant fruit garden, attached to the "red house," seems to have suddenly cast a spell over its original mistress, and around this humorous tragedy my father throws some gleams of mirth and sense, as follows:—
September 5.
DEAR MRS. TAPPAN,—As questions of disputed boundary are very ticklish ones, whether between nations or individuals, I think it best to take the diplomatic correspondence, on our part, into my own hands; and I do it the more readily as I am quite an idle man nowadays, and shall find it rather agreeable than otherwise; whereas Sophia is exceedingly busy, and moreover is averse to any kind of a dispute. You will be kind enough to give me credit for writing in a spirit of undisturbed good humor and friendly courtesy; and this being the case, I shall feel myself safe in writing with likewise the most perfect frankness.
In the first place permit me to notice the question which you put to Sophia, whether she would not prefer to receive kindness rather than assume rights. I do not know what would be her reply; but, for myself, in view of the infirmities of human nature in general and my especial infirmities, and how few people are fit even to receive kindnesses, and how far fewer are worthy to do them, I infinitely prefer a small right to a great favor. It was this feeling that made me see the necessity of a sum stipulated in the way of rent, between Mr. Tappan and myself. The little difficulty, in which we now find ourselves, merely serves to confirm me in my principle, and will instruct me in all future cases, to have my rights more sharply defined than they are now.
Undoubtedly, by consenting to receive money from me, Mr. Tappan did invest me with certain rights, and among the most evident of them, I consider the property in the fruit. What is a garden without its currant bushes and fruit trees? Last year, no question of this nature was raised: our right seemed to be tacitly conceded, and if you claimed or exercised any manorial privileges, it never came to my knowledge. This season when Mr. Tappan inquired what part of the garden I wanted to cultivate, I supposed that he wished to know in order that he might send Cornelius to plough it—as he very kindly did. It never came into my mind that I should lose the most valuable part of the demesne by failing to plant it. If the fruit trees have suffered by my neglect, this was reasonable ground for remonstrance on Mr. Tappan's part, but would hardly justify him in so summary a measure as that of taking the property out of my hands, at once, and without a word of explanation, or even informing me of the fact. Nor do I conceive that he had any purpose of doing so.
At all events, Sophia and I supposed ourselves to be in full possession of that part of the garden, and in having a right of property over its products, more extensive than that of Adam and Eve in Eden, inasmuch as it excluded not a single tree. Such being our view of the matter, you meet Mary Beekman, carrying a basket of fruit. You stop her, look at the contents of the basket, and inquire as to its destination. You ask her (at least so she averred to Mrs. Peters, although she has since qualified her statement) whether it had been given away or sold. You conduct this examination in such a mode, as to make it evident to our servant-girl that you consider Sophia and Mrs. Peters as combining in a depredation on your property.
You follow this up with a note of remonstrance to Sophia, in which you take her to task not merely for giving away some of the fruit, but for presuming to choose her own time to gather it for our own use. Now let us suppose the perfectly parallel case, that Mrs. Ward should take upon herself to pursue the same course in regard to the fruit of Highwood. Would Mrs. Tappan have responded to Mrs. Ward by a gentler assertion of right than Sophia's to yourself? I think not. I do not see how you could. And if you did so, it would be purely out of your own abundant grace and good nature, and would by no means be due to any propriety in the supposed behavior of Mrs. Ward.
Finally in your note of last evening, you give us very clearly to understand that you look upon us as having no rights here whatever. Allow me to say that this is precisely the crisis which I contemplated when I felt it essential to be understood that I had bought my rights, even from persons so generously disposed as yourself and Mr. Tappan. The right of purchase is the only safe one. This is a world of bargain and sale; and no absurdity is more certain to be exposed than the attempt to make it anything else.
As regards the apples of discord (meaning thereby the plums, pears, peaches, and whatever besides) we sincerely hope you will take as many of them as you please, and on such grounds as may cause them to taste most agreeably. If you choose to make a raid, and to seize the fruit with the strong hand, so far from offering any armed resistance, we shall not so much as remonstrate. But would it not be wiser to drop the question of right, and receive it as a free-will offering from us? We have not shrunk from the word "gift," although we happen to be so much the poorer of two parties, that it is rather a suspicious word from you to us. Or, if this do not suit you, you can take the fruit in humble requital of some of the many favors bestowed in times past and which we may perhaps remember more faithfully than you do.
And then the recollection of this slight acidity of sentiment, between friends of some years' standing, may impart a pleasant and spirited flavor to the preserves and jams, when they come upon your table. At any rate, take what you want and that speedily, or there will be little else than a parcel of rotten plums to dispute about.
With kind regards to Mr. Tappan,
Very truly yours, N. H.
Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her sister, Miss E. P. Peabody:—
I send you Mr. Tappan's answer, so noble and beautiful. Mr. Hawthorne wrote him a beautiful note in reply, in which he said: "My dear sir, I trust you will not put more weight than it deserves upon a letter which I wrote rather to relieve Sophia of what might have disturbed her, than because I look upon the affair in a serious light. Your own letter is of a character to make one ashamed of any narrower or ignobler sentiment than those of universal beneficence and good will; and I freely confess that the world will not deserve to be called a world of bargain and sale so long as it shall include men like yourself. With much regard truly yours, N. H."
Two letters to Mrs. Peabody describe the Lenox scene:—
September 7, Sunday.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,—It is heaven's day, to-day, and the Lord's day, and now baby sleeps and Una is at Highwood and Julian at play, and I will begin at least to answer your sweet, patient, wise, and tender letters. Yesterday and to-day have been tropical in heat and richness and expansiveness, and I feel as if it is on such days only that we really live and know how good is GOD. I wish I knew that you enjoy such warmth and are not made languid by it. You will perhaps remember that I am always strongest at 98 degrees Fahrenheit. I delight to think that you also can look forth as I do now upon a broad valley and a fine amphitheatre of hills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of sunset from your piazza. But you have not this lovely Lake, nor I suppose the delicate purple mist which folds these slumbering mountains in airy veils.
Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sunshine, slightly fleckered with the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have been making him look like the mighty Tan by covering his chin and breast with long grass-blades, that looked like a verdant and venerable beard. I walked down to them a moment, leaving baby asleep, and while there Una exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish Georgie was here!" [George C. Mann, her cousin.] Thus the dear little boy harmonizes with the large and dreamy landscape, so that his presence would only help the beauty of this peerless day. I never heard Una wish for any one before, when enjoying Elemental life, and her father. Baby Rose has had a carriage for a week or more, and we took her one day down to the Lake. I wish you could have seen her in the wood, when I held her in my arms. She smiled and smiled and smiled, at the trees and the Lake and the wood-land sounds, till she transported mamma almost out of the proprieties. "To kiss her all to pieces," "to hug her to death," "to devour her," were processes to which she rendered herself fearfully liable. How wonderful is this love for which there is no mortal expression, but which we can only shadow forth by death and destruction. Julian has begun to speak to the baby now. He exclaims, "Oh, you darling!" and holds her on his lap, with such a look of bountiful and boundless tenderness and care as would charm you to see. I should as soon expect an angel from the sky to descend to a rough scuffle with a desperado as for Julian to disturb or annoy the little Rosebud. Sometimes we go down to the wood near, and baby sleeps in the carriage to the music of pine-tree murmurs and cricket-chirpings, and once in a while of birds, while Una and Julian build piles of tiny sticks for the fairies' winter fuel, and papa and mamma sit and muse in the breathless noon. But it is seldom warm enough. These last two days are warm enough, and my soul seems to "expand and grow like corn and melons," and I remember all beautiful behavior and noble deeds and grand thoughts and high endeavors'; and the whole vast Universe seems to blend in one single, unbroken recognition of the "Higher Law." Can there be wrong, hate, fraud, injustice, cruelty, war, in such a lovely, fair world as this before my eyes? Cannot cities be abolished, so that men may realize the beauty of love and peace by contemplating the broad and genial spaces where there is no strife? In the country they would see that sunbeams do not wrangle, that forests of trees agree together, that no flower disturbs another flower. I have written and the sun has set; and the moon has risen, and reveals the fine sculpture of nature. Una and Julian and Baby Rose are all in profound repose. Not a sound can be heard but my pen-strokes, and the ever welcome voice of the cricket, which seems expressly created to announce silence and peace. . . . It is very singular how much more we are in the centre of society in Lenox than we were in Salem, and all literary persons seem settling around us. But when they get established here I dare say we shall take flight. . . . Our present picture is Julian, lying on an ottoman in the boudoir, looking at drawings of Grecian gems; and just now he is filled with indignation at the man who sent Hercules the poisoned shirt, because he is contemplating that superb head of the "Suffering Hercules." He says he hopes that man is dead; and I assure him that he is dead, dead, dead, and can send no more poisoned shirts to anybody. It happened to be a woman, however, sad to tell, but I thought I would not reveal to him the terrible story of Dejanira and the wicked Nessus. Una is whittling, but at this instant runs off to help Mary Beekman to do something. Mr. Hawthorne has retired to his Study. Baby sleeps. Good-by, dear mother. Love to your household. Your loving child, SOPHIA.
DEAREST MOTHER,—To-day I took Julian for a walk. He waited to speak to his beloved Mr. Tappan, who was in his field. Julian picked up one sheaf after another, and carried them to him, calling, "Mr. Tappan! Mr. Tappan! Here are your oats!" Mr. Tappan turned at last, smiling, and thanked him for his help. The afternoon was so beautiful that every incident seemed like a perfect jewel on a golden crown. The load of yellow sheaves, the rainbow child, the Castilian with his curls and dark smiling eyes [Mr. Tappan]—every object was a picture which Murillo could not paint. I waited for Julian till he ran to me; and when we came into our yard, there was lady baby in her carriage, in a little azure robe, looking like a pale star on a blue sky. We came into the dining-room, and out of the window there was this grand and also exquisite picture—lake, meadow, mountains; forever new, forever changing; now so rich with this peculiar autumn sunshine, like which my husband says there is nothing in the world. The children enjoy, very much, this landscape, while they eat their supper. Una ate hers, and went upstairs to see grand-mamma; and Julian sat on my lap, very tired with play, eating a cold buckwheat cake, and gazing out. "Mamma! Mountain! Lake!" he kept ejaculating. Wise child! What could be added, in the way of adjective, that would enhance? "Thou eye among the blind!" thought his mother. At last he was so weary with sport that he slipped down upon the floor, and lay upon his back, till he finished eating his buckwheat cake. Then I put him to bed. Me clasped his blessed little arms so tightly around my neck, with such an energetic kiss, that we both nearly lost breath. One merry gleam from his eyes was succeeded by a cloud of sleepiness, and he was soon with the angels. For he says the angels take him, when he goes to sleep, and bring him back in the morning. Then I began this letter. Dear little harp-souled Una—whose love for her father grows more profound every day, as her comprehending intellect and heart perceive more and more fully what he is—was made quite unhappy because he did not go at the same time with her to the Lake. His absence darkened all the sunshine to her; and when I asked her why she could not enjoy the walk as Julian did, she replied, "Ah, he does not love papa as I do!" But when we arrived, there sat papa on a rock, and her face and figure were transfigured from a Niobe's to an Allegra's instantly. After I put Julian to bed, I went out to the barn to see about the chickens, and she wished to go. There sat papa on the hay, and like a needle to a magnet she was drawn, and begged to see papa a little longer, and stay with him. Now she has come, weary enough; and after steeping her spirit in this rose and gold of twilight, she has gone to bed. With such a father, and such a scene before her eyes, and with eyes to see, what may we not hope of her? I heard her and Julian talking together about their father's smile, the other day. They had been speaking of some other person's smile—Mr. Tappan's, I believe; and presently Una said, "But you know, Julian, that there is no smile like papa's!" "Oh no," replied Julian. "Not like papas!" Una has such an intuitive perception of spheres, that I do not wonder at her feeling about her father. She can as yet hardly tell why she is so powerfully attracted; but her mother can sympathize,—and knows very well.
Do not wait an hour to procure the two last numbers of "The Literary World," and read a new criticism on Mr. Hawthorne. At last some one speaks the right word of him. I have not before heard it. I have been wearied and annoyed hitherto with hearing him compared to Washington Irving and other American writers, and put, generally, second. At last some one dares to say what in my secret mind I have often thought—that he is only to be mentioned with the Swan of Avon; the great heart and the grand intellect combined. I know you will enjoy the words of this ardent Virginian as I do. But it is funny to see how he does not know how this heart and this intellect are enshrined.
It was decided to return to the neighborhood of Boston, and for a short time the family remained in West Newton:—
November 28.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—Here we are, in possession of Mary Mann's house and effects. I took baby on a sledge to see her grandmother Peabody on Thanksgiving Day, who was charmed with my smiling, fair baby. Una reads her grandmother "The Wonder-Book," very sweetly, when she is there. Mother says she could never tire of listening to her.
Your affectionate sister,
WEST NEWTON, December 25, 1851.
MY DEAR LOUISA [HAWTHORNE],—This very morning I intended to write to you again, to inquire why you neither came nor responded to my letter, and then I received yours. The children watched for you many days, and finally gave you up. They will be delighted at your coming. Pray come as soon as the second week of January. Grace Greenwood spent two or three days, and was very pleasant. Mr. Fields writes from Paris that Mr. Hawthorne's books are printed there as much as in England; that his fame is great there [in England], and that Browning says he is the finest genius that has appeared in English literature for many years.
Your affectionate sister,
P. S. [By Hawthorne.] I have published a new collection of tales; but you shall not have a copy till you come for it. N. H.
P. S. [By Mrs. Hawthorne.] This new volume of "Twice-Told Tales" was published on Thursday; and yesterday Mr. Ticknor told Nathaniel that he had already sold a thousand copies, and had not enough bound to supply the demand.
I give a letter which must have come like the song of a wood-thrush to the author, its diction being as pure as his own, and yet as strong.
BROOKLYN; July 7, 1852.
MR. HAWTHORNE,—You have expressed the kind hope that your writings might interest those who claim the same birthplace with yourself. And as we need but slight apology for doing what inclination suggests, I easily persuade myself that it will not be very inappropriate for me to assure you that in one heart, at least, pride in your genius and gratitude for high enjoyment owed to you have added to, and made still more sacred, the strong love otherwise felt for the spot where the precious gift of life was received.
In earlier days, with your "Twice-Told Tales," you played upon my spirit-harp a sweet melody, the notes of which have never died away—and years after, when my heart was just uplifting itself from a deep sorrow, I read the introduction to your "Mosses from an Old Manse;" and I rejoiced in your words, as a tree, borne down by the wind and storm, rejoices in the first gentle breeze or ray of kindly sunshine.
And now, as after repeated griefs and lengthened anxieties I think I am come to that period of second youth of which you speak, I am permitted to delight in the marvelous beauty and infinite delicacy of the narration of "The Scarlet Letter," and the deep insight into human hearts and minds shown in that and the later production. When I am tempted to lay down the burden which, of one kind or another, mortals must daily bear, and forget that "all human liberty is but a restraint self-imposed or consented to," I shall call to mind the touching moment when Hester Prynne sadly bound up her flowing tresses, but just released, and meekly reassumed the badge of her shame. And the little Phoebe,—with her genial sympathies and cheerful tones,—I am not altogether without hope that she may aid me to throw off some of the morbid tendencies which have ever clung to my life (if, perchance, this last moral lesson should not destroy the first); and these sorrows once overcome, existence would not lose its corresponding exquisiteness of enjoyment.
I once lived in the "Old Hawthorne house;" whether or not you, sir, ever crossed the threshold tradition hath not deigned to inform me. Possibly you lived there when a child. And if the spirit renew itself once in seven years, as the body is said to do, the soul of those younger hours may have remained, may have shared with us our more ethereal pleasures, while it frowned on our prosaic sports. At least, to some such fancy as this, united with the idea of second childhood before alluded to, must be referred the folly of which I have been guilty in addressing a person, who, so far as bodily presence is concerned, is to me an entire stranger, and to whom I am utterly unknown.
However, sir, humbly begging your pardon for this same folly, and entreating that by no accident may the shades of the Salem witches become aware of it,
I am yours with much esteem,
Upon the envelope Hawthorne has written, "Answered, July 18th." The letter has been preserved out of many thrown aside, and Mrs. Hawthorne has spoken to me of Mary Porter as of a real friend. Her delicacy and good sense of expression contrast well with the over-fanciful, unliterary quality of the letters of persons who came prominently forward as teachers of thought and literature, and who no doubt jarred miserably in their letters, if not in their conversation, upon the refined skill of Hawthorne and his wife. At any rate (and though the intercourse with these persons to whom I refer with daring comment was received most gratefully and cordially as generally the best to be found) Mary Porter was never forgotten.
That my mother and father enjoyed their next home at The Wayside there are immediate letters to prove; but if they had not feasted their eyes upon a vision of beautiful spaces, it might have been less delightful to return to the haunts of friends, and a hollow among hills. One grandeur of the distance they did not leave behind at Lenox: the sunsets to be seen over the meadows between The Wayside and the west are spaciously revealed and splendidly rich. Economy had a restless manner of drifting them from place to place. Now, however, a home was to be bought (the title-deed exists, with Mr. Emerson's name, and that of his wife, attached); so that the drifting appeared to be at an end. I have reserved until now several letters from Concord friends, of an earlier date, in order to show to what the Hawthornes looked forward in the matter of personalities, when re-establishing themselves in the distinguished village.
Mr. Alcott was prominent. In her girlhood, Mrs. Hawthorne, hearing from Miss Peabody that Mr. James Freeman Clarke had talked with some amusement of the school prophet's ideas, etc., had written:—
"Mr. Alcott's sublime simplicity and depth of soul would make it impossible for me to make jest of him. I cannot imagine why persons should not do themselves justice and yet be humble as a little child. I do not believe he is in the least self-elated. I should think it impossible, in the nature of things, for him to arrive at the kind of truths he does without entire simplicity of soul. I should think they could not be accessible to one of a contrary character."
But, nevertheless, Mr. Alcott's official post seems to have been that of visionary plenipotentiary, and one which was a source of most excellent entertainment. He writes in 1836:—
August 23.
DEAR FRIEND,—I have just returned, and find your two letters waiting for me. I have read them with a double sentiment. The interest which you express in my thoughts, and their influence over you, I can explain in no other way than as arising from similarity of temperament and of taste, heightened exceedingly by an instinctive tendency— almost preternatural—to reverence whatever approaches, either in Spirit or Form, your standard of the Ideal. Of minds of this class it is impious to ask for tempered expressions. They admire, they marvel, they love. These are the law of their being, and to refuse them the homage of this spiritual oneness with the object of their regard, is death! Their words have a significance borrowed from their inmost being, and are to be interpreted, not by ordinary and popular acceptation, but by the genius of the individual that utters them. These have a significance of their own. They commune not with words, but in spite of them. Ordinary minds mistake them. . . . You inquire whether portions of "Psyche" are to be copied for the press. Mr. Emerson has not returned the manuscript. But should I find anything left (after his revisions) worthy of attention, I will send it to you, . . . I send you some numbers of the "Reformer," among others is the one containing Mr. [Orestes] Brownson's notice of the "Story Without An End." The allegories which you copied while with us are also among them. I read your allegory to Mr. Brownson, who was interested in it, and took it for the "Reformer." It is a beautiful thing, and will be useful. . . . Write me as often as you feel inclined. I would write often, were I at all given to the practice. My mind flows not freely and simply in an epistle.
Very truly yours,
P. S. I have read Carlyle's "Schiller." You re-utter my conceptions at the time. You are very kind to propose copying the Young Christ [for Mr. Alcott's schoolroom]. The original is a borrowed one, and a copy would be useful.
September 12, 1836.
DEAR FRIEND,—I was glad to hear from you again, for I find my thoughts often dwelling on you. The sympathy of spirits is the heart's undersong, and its warblings are heard in the quiet hours of solitude, as if they were from the soft voices of celestial choirs. Music reaches us from the distance, amid the discordant noises of the External. Your remarks on de Maistre have interested me in the book.' Mr. Brownson [afterwards famous as a Catholic writer] takes it to-day, and I shall have the interesting passages from him. If you have a copy of the "Valley of Solitude" [one of my mother's original allegories] will you send it? I am under the impression that you preserved portions of the "Valley," and intended to recall and write out the remainder at your leisure. Now, don't attempt this, because Mr. Thacher wants it for his "Boston Book," but simply tell me how much is preserved. . . . Have you seen Mr. Emerson's "Nature"? If you have not, let me send you a copy. It is a divine poem on the External. It is just to your taste. . . . It reminds me more of Sampson Reid's "Growth of the Mind" than any work of modern date. But it is unlike any other work. I send you Mr. Brownson's notice of it. Mr. Brownson gave us two splendid discourses lately. Surely this man is a terror to pseudo-ministers and would-be philosophers. He is one of the most eloquent preachers. He grapples with the highest truths and deepest wants of our being, and spreads these before the reason as with a light from heaven. He will write to you soon. With great regard,
Emerson in the same year responded to a gift of some drawings which my mother had made for him, in these kind and thoughtful sentences:—
MY DEAR MISS SOPHIA,—I beg you to accept my thanks for the beautiful drawings you have sent me. . . . I shall keep them as a treasure to be shown to all my friends who have good or capable eyes, that they may rejoice with me in the power of the artist. From these fair forms I hope to receive many a wise suggestion, many a silent reproof. . . .
Your obliged friend and servant, R. WALDO EMERSON.
And later:—
CONCORD, January 20, 1838.
You make me heartily ashamed, my kind friend, by the excess of your praise of two such little books. I could not possibly recognize anything of me in your glowing and pictorial words. So I take it for granted that as a true artist you have the beauty-making eye, which transfigures the landscape and the heads it looks upon, and can read poetry out of dull prose. I am not the less glad to have been the occasion to you of pleasant thoughts, and I delight in the genuine admiration you express of that ideal beauty which haunts us ever and makes actual life look sometimes like the coarsest caricature. I like very well what you say of Flaxman, and shall give him the greater heed. And indeed who can see the works of a great artist without feeling that not so much the private as the common wealth is by him indicated. I think the true soul—humble, rapt, conspiring with all, regards all souls as its lieutenants and proxies—itself in another place—and saith of the Parthenon, of the picture, of the poem,—It is also my work. I can never quarrel with your state of mind concerning original attempts in your own art. I admire it rather. And I am pained to think of the grievous resistance which your genius has been so long tasked to overcome, of bodily suffering.
You ask for my lectures. I wish they were fit to send. They should go immediately to Salem if they were. I have not allowed one of them to go in manuscript out of my family. The first one of the course, which is the most presentable, I will cheerfully lend you whenever I can get time to patch his coat a little. It is, however, already promised to two persons.
I thank you for the beautiful little drawing you sent me of Perseus. It is admired of all beholders. Tell your sister Elizabeth that her account of Mr. Very interested me much, and I have already begged Mr. Whiting to bring him to our Lyceum, and he promised his good offices to get him here.
A letter mentions a medallion which Mrs. Hawthorne had made of CharlesEmerson, after his death:—
CONCORD, May 18, 1840.
MY DEAR Miss SOPHIA,—I have begged Mr. Garey to call on you to-day for the medallion to go to Waterford, and the one for New York, if ready . . . one of which I wish to send to Mr. Abel Adams.
Elizabeth [Hoar] is very well content with the cast, though she thinks it has lost some of the precision, as well as the agreeable tint, of the clay. All our friends find the likeness—some of them slowly—but all at last. We all count it a beautiful possession; the gift of a Muse, and not the less valuable that it was so unexpected. You must now gratify us all by fixing a time when you will come to Concord and hear what we have to say of it.
Will you not come hither the last week of this month, or the second week in June? If neither of these dates suits you, you shall choose any day thereafter, only do not fail us.
Your friend and servant,
When arranging to escort the young artist to Concord for the proposed visit, he proceeds:—
. . . In regard to certain expressions in your letter, I ought to say, you will presently be undeceived. Though I am fond of writing, and of public speaking, I am a very poor talker and for the most part very much prefer silence. Of Charles's beautiful talent in that art I have had no share; but our common friend, Mr. Alcott, the prince of conversers, lives little more than a mile from our house, and we will call in his aid, as we often do, to make amends for our deficiency, when you come. . . . Will you say to your sister Elizabeth that I received her kind letter relating to certain high matters, which I have not yet been in the vein to answer,—indeed, I dream that she knows all my answer to that question,—has it ready in her rich suggestion, and only waits for mine to see how well they will tally. I have laid the letter by, shall presently read it again, and if I have anything material, I will write. With great regard, yours,
CONCORD, April 20, 1841.
MY DEAR Miss SOPHIA,—Will you accept from my sister Elizabeth Hoar and me the few accompanying prints?
A word of apology must go with them. Elizabeth and I sent, last summer, by a gentleman who was going to Europe, an order for a few prints of pictures of Raffaelle and Michel Angelo (specifying particularly the Prophets and Sibyls of Michel), with the hope that we might receive something fit to send you. Our agent was less acquainted with these matters than we supposed; still, we hope they will not be quite without value in your studio, as we have both of us found something to admire in these stern drawings. The Transfiguration is a more spirited copy than most that I have seen, though the principal figure seems never to be quite well copied. Here is a Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci and one from Correggio.
Will you have the goodness to thank your sister Elizabeth for the fine statement she has given the Englishwoman [Miss Martineau] of the enterprise we are all so proud of; and I can easily suppose the colonists were content with the portrait. She has in a note propounded to me certain questions which and the like of which I always fancy one can answer with a word, as they arise;—but to answer them with the pen, one must sit like Simmides from month to month, from year to year. With great regard,
Your friend and servant,
Elizabeth Hoar wishes to keep the Martineau letter a day or two longer. I am also to thank your sister Elizabeth for the summons to the torchlight exhibition, which however I could not easily obey.
A fragment, of most informal import, but exemplifying Emerson's quaint agility of expression, written about 1843, runs:—
Do not be chagrined, and excellent lady, if I should demand interest in advance for my loan; but if possibly I can get my errands ready, I shall stop the passing coach, and load you with freight and commissions; not compliments and congratulations, merely. Do not misconceive me—but messages relative to merest chores. And so with thanks,
Yours, R. W. E.
Margaret Fuller d'Ossoli expresses herself, at the time of my parents' marriage, as thoughtfully as the rest. Her personality never ceased to hover about Concord, even after her death. She is a part of its fascination:—
MY DEAR SOPHIA,—After reading your letter I wanted to write a few lines, as are not in such a hasty, interrupted fashion. Yet not much have I to say, for great occasions of bliss, of bane,—tell their own story, and we would not by unnecessary words come limping after the true sense. If ever mortal was secure of a pure and rational happiness which shall grow and extend into immortal life, I think it is you, for the love that binds you to him you love is wise and pure and religious; it is a love given not chosen, and the growth not of wants and wishes, but of the demands of character. Its whole scope and promise is very fair in my eyes; and in daily life as well as in the long account I think there will be great happiness; for if ever I saw a man who combined delicate tenderness to understand the heart of a woman, with quiet depth and manliness enough to satisfy her, it is Mr. Hawthorne. . . . To one who cannot think of love merely in the heart, or even in the common destiny of two souls, but as necessarily comprehending intellectual friendship too, it seems the happiest lot imaginable that lies before you. . . . The whole earth is decked for a bridal. I see not a spot upon her full and gold-bespangled drapery. All her perfumes breathe, and her eye glows with joy. . . . My affectionate remembrances to your friend. You rightly felt how glad I should be to be thought of in the happy hour. As far as bearing an intelligent heart, I think I deserve to be esteemed a friend. And thus in affection and prayer, dear Sophia,
Yours, MARGARET F.
A year or two later my father received the following letter from her:—
DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,—You must not think I have any black design against your domestic peace. Neither am I the agent of any secret tribunal of the dagger and cord; nor am I commissioned by the malice of some baffled lover to make you wretched. Yet it may look so, when you find me once again, in defiance of my failure last summer, despite your letter of full exposition, once more attempting to mix a foreign element in your well compounded cup. But indeed, oh severest and most resolute man, these propositions are none of mine. How can I help it, if gentle souls, ill at ease elsewhere, wish to rest with you upon the margin of that sleepy stream? How can I help it if they choose me for an interpreter? [A suggestion is then made, for the second time, that my parents should admit a friend into the Old Manse as a boarder. The notion was sometimes alluded to by my mother in after-years with unfading horror.] I should like much to hear something about yourselves; what the genius loci says, whether through voice of ghost, or rat, or winter wind, or kettle-singing symphony to the happy duet; and whether by any chance you sometimes give a thought to your friend
And again:—
NEW YORK, May 22, evening.
DEAR SOPHIA AND MR. HAWTHORNE,—I received your letter and read it with attention; then laid it aside, and thought I would not reply, for so much had been said and written about my pamphlet that I was weary of it, and had turned to other things. When my interest revives, I shall probably make reply, but I hope viva voce.
Yes! I hope to see you once more at the clear old house, with the green fields and lazy river; and have, perhaps, sweet hours [fragment torn away] and if all works well, I hope to come. Una alone will be changed; yet still, I think, the same. Farewell, dear friends, now; for this is only meant as a hasty sign of affection from M.
Mrs. Hawthorne writes, at the threshold of The Wayside residence:—
June 6, 1852, Sunday.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,—Your beautiful little note was very grateful to me. . . . We arrived at the Middlesex Hotel after one o'clock. At four o'clock I was driven to The Wayside. The cart-man had tumbled all the wet mattresses in a heap in the farthest corner of the barn, and I had them all pulled out to dry. It was very hot weather. A good deal was accomplished, when the man and woman who were working for me went to supper, and left me and Una in quiet possession of our home.
We set forth slowly village-ward, and met Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau. Mr. Emerson was most cordial, and his beautiful smile added to the wonderful beauty of the sunset. He turned back and walked with us till we met the carriage. The next morning, Una actually nailed down the brown paper upon the dining-room and Study, and was very helpful and charming, and perfectly enchanted with her home. It is really astonishing what magical changes have been wrought inside the horrible old house by painters, paperers, and carpenters, and a little upholstery. The carpet on the Study looks like rich velvet. It has a ground of lapis lazuli blue, and upon that is an acanthus figure of fine wood-color; and then, once in a while is a lovely rose and rosebud and green leaf. I like it even better than when I bought it. The woodwork down-stairs is all painted in oak, and it has an admirable effect, and is quite in keeping with the antiquity of the dwelling. The dining-room is quite elegant, with a handsome paper having a silvery sheen, and the brown and green Brussels carpet. When Mr. Hawthorne arrived, he had quite a civilized impression of the house at first glance, and was delighted with it, not having seen it since his first visit in snow-time, when it seemed fit only for a menagerie of cattle. You will be glad to know that I have done nothing myself, having so many assistants. But it is no sinecure to keep people at work. Una was impatient of waiting for papa and Julian, and walked off to meet them. At last I heard the rumble of the carriage, and took baby out on the piazza. When Julian passed, he was at the open window of the carriage; and baby saw him and screamed for joy; and Julian shouted to see me; and the echoes were fairly roused by the ecstasy of meeting, all round.
The other morning, at the Middlesex Hotel, Una remarked that she was going to see Mr. Emerson. I supposed she was jesting; but I missed her soon after, and in about an hour she returned, and said she had been to see him. She had rung at the door, and a servant came, and she inquired for Mr. Emerson! He came out and greeted her very kindly, and said, "I suppose you have come to see Mrs. Emerson." "No," replied Una, "I have come to see you" So he politely put aside his studies, and accompanied his young lady visitor over the gardens and into the Gothic summer-house [constructed of twisted branches by Mr. Alcott]. I called there on my way here, and Mr. Emerson told me that he would like Una to go in and out, just as if it were her own home. I said that he was Una's friend ever since she had heard "The Humble Bee" and "The Rhodora."
Una likes her native place prodigiously, and everybody near and far seems quite "angelic," as Julian would say. . . . Last Sunday Mrs. Emerson and her three children came to make a call. The Study is the pet room, the temple of the Muses and the Delphic Shrine. The beautiful carpet lays the foundation of its charms, and the oak woodwork harmonizes with the tint in which Endymion is painted. At last I have Endymion where I always wanted it—in my husband's Study, and it occupies one whole division of the wall. In the corner on that side stands the pedestal with Apollo on it, and there is a fountain-shaped vase of damask and yellow roses. Between the windows is the Transfiguration [given by Mr. Emerson]. (The drawing-room is to be redeemed with one picture only,—Correggio's Madonna and Christ.) On another side of the Study are the two Lake Comos. On another, that agreeable picture of Luther and his family around the Christmas-tree, which Mr. George Bradford gave to Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Emerson took Julian to walk in the woods, the other afternoon. I have no time to think what to say, for there is a dear little mob around me. Baby looks fairest of fair to-day. She walks miles about the house. Ever and ever your most loving child,
July 4.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,—Here is another Sunday again, with seemingly no time between, so fast does, the old Father hasten on. Last week was memorable in the children's life by the occurrence of a party. Mrs. Emerson, with magnificent hospitality, invited all the children in town, from babyhood upwards (and their mothers), for a great festival. Rose and I were prevented from going by the arrival of three gentlemen from Boston, who stayed to tea, one being the brilliant Mr. Whipple. On that day we had five gentlemen, among them another Whipple, a man of genius and a colonel of brave renown, whose hair stands up straight upon his brow, over fine eyes and a swarthy face. He invited us to go to his beautiful home on the borders of Winnipiseogee Lake. A great many gentlemen come to see Mr. Hawthorne all the time from foreign parts. That morning the first arrival was General Solomon McNeil, a veteran of nearly seven feet in height, whose head was amazingly near the ceiling of our low dining-room, and who stooped low to go out of the door. He had an extraordinary face. His gray hair stood up straight, as well as Colonel Whipple's, and was full of demonic energy; and his gray eyes flashed beneath overhanging brows. As he entered the room, I advanced to meet him. He said, "Mrs. Hawthorne, I presume. I have scarcely seen your husband; but I have known him well for fifteen years." (At this, he raised his hand and arm as if he were wielding a sword, with intent to do battle.) "And I told his friend, when I read his book,—his friend who said that he was perfect, except for a want of confidence in his power,—I told him, Never fear; he will go it!" (Another sweep with the sword.) "He will go it! I found ideas there—ideas!" I vanished, to call my husband. Mr. Hawthorne then came in, and we found the old gentleman intently gazing at my husband's portrait,—so intently that he did not observe our entrance, till Mr. Hawthorne spoke. He turned, and placed his hand with such force upon my husband's shoulder that you would have supposed he had dubbed him knight. They left the room to go to the Study, the General brandishing the sword tremendously at every sentence he uttered on the way. It was really good to see such a man; so mighty in physique, with such a strong character, such resolute will, and such a gleam of loving-kindness in his eyes, to temper the force.
I have wandered off from the party. The children had a charming time, and brought back word that each had behaved perfectly. The next day I went to tell Mrs. Emerson why Rose and I did not appear. I found Mr. Emerson, sitting on the side doorstep, with Edith on his knee and Edward riding about the lawn on his pony. Mr. Emerson said that "the show of children was very pretty. But Julian! He makes his mark everywhere; there is no child so fine as Julian!" Was not that pleasant to hear from him? I told him how singular it was that Julian should find in Concord the desire of his imagination for two years—a pony [Mr. Emerson had already superintended the little boy's mounting, and falling off from, Edward's pony]; and he smiled like Sirius. "Well, that is good. Send him this afternoon." He then called Edward, and bade him go home with me, mount Julian, and bring him back; and this was accordingly done. But first, Mr. Emerson invited me to go up with him to the hilltop, opposite his house, where there is a fine view. His house is in a thick bower of evergreen and horse-chestnut trees. The grove is Academe, and could not have been more musical or deep; and Plato's disciple walks there.
Last week I drew The Wayside for George Putnam, who is going to have it engraved. I must also make sketches of Mr. Emerson's and the Old Manse. To-morrow Una goes to a picnic at Mrs. Pratt's [mother-in-law of a daughter of Mr. Alcott's] with Ellen and Edith Emerson. We expect Louisa Hawthorne this week. She has been coming for a good while, but was delayed by the severe illness of Mrs. Robert Manning.
Yesterday Mr. Hawthorne went to Boston to meet Mr. Atherton. A daguerreotypist seized him, and took three pictures of him, from which the man politely asks me to choose. They are somewhat good. Julian had a tooth out the other day, and laughed instead of crying. Edward was so unfortunate a day or two since as to have four teeth drop out at once; and Mr. Emerson says he must be put under a barrel until the others grow.
Monday P. M. Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and Julian have gone to the picnic. This morning I went to the post-office, for I did not like to send Una when boys were firing crackers in every direction. Julian always is my shadow—so he went with me. I stopped at Mrs. Emerson's, to ask her when and how her children were going. I found a superb George Washington in the dining-room, nearly as large as life, engraved from Stuart's painting. We saw no one of the family, but finally a door opened, and the rich music of Mr. Emerson's voice filled the entry. Julian ran out at the sound, and Ellen and her father came into the room. Mr. Emerson asked me if that head (pointing to Washington) were not a fine celebration of the Fourth of July. "He would seem to have absorbed into that face all the serenity of these United States, and left none elsewhere, excepting" (and he laid his hand on Julian)—"excepting what is in Julian. Washington is the Great Repose, and Julian is the Little Repose—hereafter to become also the Great Repose!" He asked if Julian were going to the picnic; and I told him "no," as I was not going. "Oh, but if Una is going, that would be a divided cherry, would it not?" Finding that Mrs. Emerson was to go, and that they were all to ride, I of course had no objection. And then Mr. Emerson wanted Mr. Hawthorne to go with him, at five o'clock. My lord consented, and so they are all gone. Last evening, Mrs. Emerson came to see us with her sister, loaded with roses, and she was delighted with our house. Rosebud walked all round with us, in perfect sobriety, listening to our conversation. Is not this hot weather delightful? It is to me luxury and strength. Mr. Hawthorne has sold the grass for thirty dollars. He has cut his bean-poles in his own woods. We find The Wayside prettier and prettier. Baby keeps pulling my arm.
Your child, SOPHY.