Some Memories of Hawthorne: I

HAWTHORNE’S English Note-Books, as well as the elaborated papers that make up Our Old Home, disclose something of his daily life in England during his consulship ; but it was in the rapid, familiar letters of my mother to her family that his life was most freely narrated. I have preserved’these letters, and shall give extracts from them in the pages that follow, prefacing and interpolating a few girlish memories of my father and of the places in which I saw him, although they are trivial and meagre in incident. He died the day before my thirteenth birthday, and as my existence had begun at a time when his quiet life was invaded (if we may use that term in connection with a welcome guest) by fame, with its attendant activity in the outside world, my intercourse with him was both juvenile and brief. In England, he mingled more than ever before with the members of literary and fashionable society. I, who in 1853 was but two years old, had to be satisfied with a glance and a smile, which were so much less than he had been able to give to my brother and sister in their happier childhood days, for they had enjoyed hours of his companionship as a constant pastime. I was, moreover, much younger than the others, and was never allowed to grow, as I wished, out of the appellations of Rosebud, Baby, and Bab (as my father always called me), and all the infantine thought which those pet names imply. I longed myself to hear the splendidly grotesque fairy tales, sprung from his delicious jollity of imagination, which Una and Julian had reveled in when our father had been at leisure in Lenox and Concord ; and the various frolics about which I received appetizing hints as I grew into girlhood made me seem to myself a stranger who had come too late. But a stranger at Hawthorne’s side could be very happy, and, whatever my losses, I knew myself to be rich.

In the early years of our stay in England his personality was most radiant. His face was sunny, his aspect that of shining elegance. There was the perpetual gleam of a glad smile on his mouth and in his eyes. His eyes were either a light gray or a violet blue, according to his mood. His hair was brown and waved loosely (I take it very hard when people ask me if it was at all red !), and his complexion was as clear and luminous as his mother’s, who was the most beautiful woman some people have ever seen. He was tall, and with as little superfluous flesh and as much sturdy vigor as a young athlete; for his mode of life was always athletic, simple, and abstemious. He leaned his head a little to one side, often, in a position indicating alert rest, such as we find in many Greek statues, —so different from the straight, dogged pose of a Roman emperor. He was very apt to make an assent with an upward movement of the head, a comfortable h’m-m, and a half-smile. Sympathetic he was, indeed, and warm with the fire that never goes out in great natures. He had much dignity ; so much that persons in his own country sometimes thought him shy and reticent to the verge of morbidness. But it was merely the gentlemanliness of the man, who was jocund with no one but his intimate friends, and never fierce except with rascals, as I observed on one or two occasions. Those who thought him too silent were bores whom he desired not to attract. Those who thought him unphilosophical (and some philosophers thought that) were not artists, and could not analyze his work. Those who knew him for a man and a friend were manly and salubrious of soul themselves. Perhaps the testimony of old George Mullet, of Salem, who was often with my father in the Custom House, will serve as an example of the good-fellowship of a nature which could be so silent at will: —

“ Captain Stephen Burchmore was the ’Veteran Ship-Master ’ spoken of in the introduction to The Scarlet Letter, whose stories stirred Hawthorne ’to laughter and admiration.’ The stories themselves were generally extravagant and grotesque ; it was ’the marvelous gift ’ of narration that carried people away. I have known the company present to roar with laughter, and not one more convulsed than Mr. Hawthorne. . . . For nearly four years I was brought into almost daily proximity to him, either officially or casually. His port, his placidity, his hours of abstraction, his mild, pleasant voice (no sweeter ever uttered by mortal lips), are all readily recalled even now.”

He was usually reserved, but be was ready for action all the time. His full, smooth lips, sensitive as a child’s, would tell a student of facial lines how vivid was his life, though absolutely under his cool command. He was a delightful companion even when little was said, because his eyes spoke with a sort of apprehension of your thought, so that you felt that your expression of face was a clear record for him, and that words would have been a sort of anticlimax. His companionship was exquisitely restful, since it was instinctively sympathetic. He did not need to exert himself to know you deeply, and he saw all the good in you there was to know; and the weakness and the wrong of any heart he weighed as nicely in the balance of tender mercy as we could do in pity for ourselves. I always felt a great awe of him, a tremendous sense of his power. His large eyes, liquid with blue and white light and deep with dark shadows, told me even when I was very young that he was in some respects different from other people. He could be most tender in outward action, but he never threw such action away. He knew swine under the cleverest disguise. I speak of outward acts of tenderness. As for his spirit, it was always arousing mine, or any one’s, and acting towards one’s spiritual being invisibly and silently, but with gentle earnestness. He evinced by it either a sternly sweet dignity of tolerance, or a generous approbation, or a sadly glanced, adverse comment that lashed one’s inner consciousness with remorse. He was meditative, as all those are who care that the world is full of sorrow and sin, but cheerful, as those are who have the character and genius to see the finite beauty and perfection in the world, which are sent to the true-hearted as indications of heaven. He could be full of cheer, and at the same time never lose the solemnity of a perception of the Infinite, — that familiar fact which we, so many of us, have ceased to fear, but which the greatest men so remember and reverence. He never became wholly merged in fun, however gay the games in which he joined with us children ; just as a man of refinement who has been in war never quite throws aside the dignity of the sorrow which he has seen. He might seem, at a superficial glance, to be the merriest of us all, but on second thoughts he was not. Of course, there were times when it was very evident to me that my father was as comfortable and happy as he cared to be. When he stood upon the hearth-rug, before the snapping, blushing English fire (always poked into a blaze towards evening, as he was about to enter the parlor),— when lie stood there with his hands clasped behind him, swaying from side to side in a way peculiar to him, and which recalled the many sea-swayed ancestors of his who had kept their feet on rolling decks, then he was a pidtire of benevolent pleasure. Perhaps, for this moment, the soldier from the battlefields of the soul ceased to remember scenes of cruelty and agony. He swayed from side to side, and raised himself on his toes, and creaked his slippered heels jocosely, and smiled upon me, and lost himself in agreeable musings. He was very courteous, entirely sincere, and quiet with fixed principles as a great machine with consistent movement. He treated children handsomely ; harshness was not in him to be subdued, and scorn of anything that was honestly developing would have seemed to him blasphemy. He stooped to my intelligence, and rejoiced it. We were usually a silent couple when off for a walk together, or when we met by chance in the household. I suppose that we were seeing which could outdo the other at “ holding the tongue.” But still, our intercourse, as I remarked before, might he complete. I knew him very well indeed, — his power, his supremacy of honesty, his wealth of refinement. And he, I was fully aware, could see through me as easily as if I were a soul in one of his own books.

His aspect avoided, as did that of his art, which exactly reproduced his character, anything like self-conscious picturesqueness. It is pleasant to have the object of our regard unconscious of himself. He had a way of ignoring, while observing automatically, all accessories, which reminded us that his soul was ever awake, and waiting to be made free of earthly things and common ideas. During our European life he frequently wore a soft brown felt hat and a brown talma of finest broadcloth, whose Greek - like folds and double-decked effect were artistic, but did not tempt him to pose or remember his material self. He was as forgetful of his appearance as an Irishman of the true quality, who may have heard something about his coat or his hair, but has let slip from his mind what it was, and cares not, so long as the song of his comrades is tender and the laughter generous. In Some such downright way, I was convinced, my father regarded the beauty and stateliness which were his, and for which he had been praised all through his existence. He forgot himself in high aims, which are greater than things seen, no matter how fine soever.

We made a very happy family group as we gladly followed and looked upon him when he took ship to start for the Liverpool Consulate ; and of this journey and the new experiences which ensued my mother writes to Dr. Peabody as follows : —

STEAMER NIAGARA, ATLANTIC OCEAN, July 7, 1853.

My DEAREST FATHER, — It is early morning. Wrapped in furs and blanket shawl, in the sun and close against the vast scarlet cylinder of scalding hot steam, I have seated myself to greet you from Halifax, where we shall arrive tonight. I was glad to leave the sight of you while you were talking with Mr. Fields, whose cheerful face (and words, no doubt) caused you to smile. I was so glad to leave you smiling happily. Then came the cannonade, which was very long. And why do you suppose it was so long ? Mr. Ticknor says that always they give a salute of two guns ; but that yesterday so many were thundered off because Mr. Hawthorne, the distinguished United States consul and author, was leaving the shore, and honoring her Majesty’s steamship with his presence. While they were stabbing me with their noise I was ignorant of this. Perhaps my wifely pride would have enabled me to bear it better if 1 had known that the steamer were trembling with honor rendered to my husband. After this we were quiet enough, for we were moving magically over a sea like a vast pearl, almost white with peace. I never saw anything so fair and lovely as the whole aspect of the mighty ocean. Off on the horizon a celestial blue seemed to meet the sky. Julian sat absorbed. He did not turn his head, but gazed and gazed on this, to him, new and wondrous picture. Seeing a point of land running out, he said, “ That, I suppose, is the end of America ! I do not think America reaches very far ! ” I managed to change his beaver and plume for his great straw Fayal hat, but he would not turn his head for it. It was excessively hot. An awning was spread at the stern, and then it was very comfortable. I heard that the British minister was on board, and I searched round to find him out. I decided upon a fine-looking elderly gentleman who was asleep near the helm-house. Afterwards the mailagent came to Mr. Hawthorne and said the minister wished to make his acquaintance ; and behold, here was my minister, a stately, handsome person, with an air noble and of great simplicity and charm of manner. Mr. Hawthorne introduced me, but I had no conversation then. Later, I had a very delightful interview. . . . Near by stood a gentleman whom I supposed his attaché ; and with him I had a very long and interesting conversation. We had a nice talk about art and Rome, and America and England, and architecture. I do not yet know his name, but only that his brother was joint executor with Sir Robert Peel on the estate of Hadley, the artist. This unknown told me that the minister was an exquisite amateur artist, and his portfolio was full of the finest sketches. This accounted for the serene expression of his eyes, that rest contemplatively upon all objects. Mr. Silsbee looks so thin and pale that I fear for him; but I will take good care of him. At table, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have the seats of honor, on either hand of the captain. He is a very remarkable man. The minister told me that he sailed with him five years ago, when the captain was very young, and he was then astonished at his skill and power of command; that the captains of these great English steamers are picked men, trained in the navy, and eminent for ability and accomplishment, and that Captain Leitch is remarkable among the best. It was good to see his assured military air, as he walked back and forth while we moved out of the beautiful harbor. He made motions with his hand with such an air of majesty and conscious power. His smile is charming, and his voice fine. The enunciation of Mr. Crampton, the minister, is also wonderfully fine. Mr. Crampton says that these steamers have run for seventeen years, and that not one accident has happened, and not a man been lost, except that once a steamer was lost in a fog, but all the passengers and crew were safely got off. Una enjoys herself very much, and reads the Tanglewood Tales, and walks and races on the upper deck with Julian, this fine cold morning. It is glorious, glorious, — this blue surrounding sea, and no land.

Your affectionate daughter,

SOPHIA.

WATERLOO HOUSE, LIVERPOOL, July 17, 1853, Sunday Morning.

Here we are, dear father, in England ; and I cannot realize it, because a moment ago we were in Boston Harbor, and how can I be three thousand miles afar? If we had had more difficulty, storms, and danger, I could realize it better ; but it seems like a pleasure excursion on a lake. I sit in a parlor, with one great, broad window from ceiling to floor, a casement opening upon a balcony, which commands a handsome street. It does not look like Boston, and, Mr. Hawthorne says, not like New York, but — like Liverpool. People are going to church, and the bells are chiming in a pleasant jangle. Every gentleman has an umbrella under his arm, tor it is bright sunshine one moment, and a merry little shower the next.

I spoke in my note from Halifax of Mr. Crampton, and a gentleman whom I thought his attaché. Mr. Crampton we lost at Halifax, but the supposed attaché remained ; and I was glad, for he was the most interesting person in the steamer. We in vain tried to discover his name, but at last found it to be Field Talfourd, brother of Sir Thomas Talfourd, author of Ion. I had very charming conversations with him. He was a perfect gentleman, with an ease of manner so fascinating and rare, showing high breeding, and a voice rich and full. Whenever he spoke, his words came out clear from the surrounding babble and all the noise of the ship, so that I could always tell where he was. He is one of the primitive men, in contradistinction to the derivative (as Sarah Clarke once divided people). He seemed never at a loss on any subject soever ; and when the passengers were trying feats of skill and physical prowess to pass the time, I saw Mr. Talfourd exhibit marvelous power as a gymnast in performing a feat which no one else would even attempt. His education was all-sided, body and mind, apparently ; and, with all, this charm of gentlemanliness, — not very often met with in America. It seems to require more leisure and a deeper culture than we Americans have yet, to produce such a lovely flower. . . .

19th July. We all have colds now, except Mr. Hawthorne, with whom earth’s maladies have nothing to do. Julian and Una are homesick for broad fields and hilltops. Julian, in this narrow, high room, is very much like an eagle crowded into a canary-bird’s cage ! They shall go to Prince’s Park as soon as I can find the way; and there they will see water and green grass and trees. They think of the dear Wayside with despair. As soon as possible we shall go into the country. Yesterday the waning Consul, Mr. Crittendon, called. Mr. Hawthorne likes him much.

21st July. An Oxford graduate, who went to see Mr. Hawthorne in Concord, called to see him, and brought his father, a fine-looking gentleman. Their name is Bright. Mary Herne thought the son was Eustace Bright himself! To-day the father came to invite us all out to West Derby to tea on Saturday, and the son is coming for us. There the children will see swans and gardens and green grass, and they are in raptures. Young Henry Bright is a very enthusiastic young gentleman, full of life and emotion ; and he very politely brought me from his gardens a radiant bouquet of flowers, among which the heliotrope and mossroses and all other roses and mignonette make delicious fragrance. Yesterday Miss Lynch sent me a bunch of mossrose buds,— nine ! Just think of seeing together nine moss-rose buds ! Henry Bright brought the Westminster Review to Mr. Hawthorne, and said he should bring him all the new books. Mrs. Train called to see me before she went to town [London], and Mr. Hawthorne and I went back with her to the Adelphi, and walked on to see a very magnificent stone building, called St. George’s Hall. It is not quite finished ; and as far as the mist would allow me to see, it was sumptuous. . . . We have strawberries as large as small peaches, one being quite a feast, and fine raspberries. The head of the Waterloo House, Mr. Lynn, is a venerable-looking person, resembling one’s idea of an ancient duke, — dressing with elaborate elegance, and with the finest ruffled bosoms. Out of peculiar respect to the Consul of the United States, he comes in at the serving of the soup, and holds each plate while I pour the soup, and then, with great state, presents it to the waiter to place before each person. After this ceremony he retires with a respectful obeisance. This homage diverts Mr. Hawthorne so much that I am afraid he will smile some day. The gravity of the servants is imperturbable. One, Mr. Hawthorne calls our Methodist preacher. The service is absolutely perfect.

Your affectionate child,

SOPHIA.

The Brights, especially Henry Bright, appear frequently in the Note-Books, and their names occur very often in my mother ’s letters. The young Oxford graduate I remember most distinctly. He was thin, and so tall that he waved like a reed, and so shining-eyed that his eyes seemed like icebergs ; they were very prominent. His nose was one of your English masterpieces, — a mountainous range of aristocratic formation ; and his far-sweeping eyebrows of delicate brown, his red, red lips and white doglike teeth, and his deeply cleft British chin were a source of fathomless study. In England a man can be extraordinarily ordinary and material; but the men of culture are, as a rule, remarkably forcible in unique and deep-cut characteristics, both of face and of mind, with a prevailing freedom from self-analysis — except privately, no doubt.

Henry Bright and my father would sit on opposite sides of the fire ; Mr. Bright with a staring, frosty gaze directed unmeltingly at the sunny glow of the coals as he talked, his slender long fingers propping up his charming head (over which his delicately brown hair fell in closegliding waves) as he leaned on the arm of his easy-chair. Sometimes he held a book of Tennyson’s poetry to his nearsighted, prominent eyes, as closely as two materials could remain and not blend into one. He recited The Brook in a fine fury of appreciation, and with a sure movement that suggested well the down-tumbling of the frolicking element, with its undercurrent of sympathizing pathos, the life-blood of the stream. “ For men may come, and men may go, but I go on for ever ! ” rang in my empty little head for years, and summed up, as I guessed, all of Egyptian wisdom and spiritual perpetuity in a single suggestive fact. Mr. Bright had a way of laughing that I could never cease to enjoy, even in the faint echo of retrospect. It always ended in a whispered snort from the great mountain range of his nose. He laughed often, at his own and my father’s remarks, and at the close of the tumbling diction of The Brook ; and he therefore frequently snorted in this sweeping-of-the-wind fashion. I listened, spellbound. He also very gently and breezily expressed his touched sensibility, after some recitation of his of rare lines from other poems, but in the same odd manner. My father stirred this beloved friend with judicious, thought-developing opposition of opinion concerning all sorts of polite subjects, but principally, when I overheard, concerning the respective worth of writers. The small volume of Tennyson which Mr. Bright held in his two hands caressingly, with that Anglo-literary filliping of the leaves which is so great a compliment to any book, contained for him a large share of Great Britain’s greatness. His brave heart beat for Tennyson ; I think my father’s did not, though his head applauded. My mother, for her part, was entranced by the goldsmith’s work of the noble poet, and by the gems enclasped in its perfection of formative art, — perfections within the pale of convention and fashion and romantic beauty which make lovely Tennyson’s baronial domain. Henry Bright wrote verses, too ; and he was beginning to be successful in a certain profound interest which customarily absorbs young men of genuine feeling who are not yet married; and therefore it was worth while to stir the young lover up, and hear what he could say for The Princess and The Lord of Burleigh. My mother, in a letter written six months after we had reached England, and when he was established as a household friend, draws a graphic picture of his lively personality : — LOCK PARK, December S, 1853.

... We had a charming visit from Henry Bright a fortnight ago. He stayed all night, and he talks — I was going to say, like a storm ; but it is more like a breeze, for he is very gentle. He is extremely interesting, sincere, earnest, independent, warm and generous hearted ; not at all dogmatic; full of questions, and with ready answers. He is highly cultivated, and writes for the Westminster. . . . Eustace Bright, as described in the Wonder-Book, is so much like him in certain things that it is really curious : “ Slender, pale, yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his shoes.” He is also nearsighted, though he does not wear spectacles. His eyes are large, bright, and prominent, rather, indicating great facility of language, which he has. He is an Oxford scholar, and has decided literary tastes. He is delicately strung, and is as transparent-minded and pure-hearted as a child, with great enthusiasm and earnestness of character ; and though a Liberal, very loyal to his Queen and very admiring of the aristocracy. This comes partly by blood, as his mother has noble blood in her veins from various directions, even the Percys and Stanleys, and is therefore a native aristocrat. He enjoyed his visit to America extremely, and says Boston is the Mecca of English Unitarians, and Dr. Channing their patron saint. I like to talk with him: he can really converse. He goes to the Consulate a good deal, for he evidently loves Mr. Hawthorne dearly. I wish my husband could always have visitors so agreeable. The other day a woman went to him about a case in Chancery. Mr. Hawthorne thought she was crazy ; and I believe all people are who have a suit in Chancery.

A few weeks after the date of the last letter, a visit was paid to the Brights at their family home, and my mother thus writes of it: —

ROCK PAKK, February 16, 1854.

I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandhays, the domain of Mr. Bright. Mr. Bright has been urging all winter that we should go and dine and stay all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. Bright wrote a cordial note and invited Mr. Hawthorne and Una and me to go and meet Mr. and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. It seemed not possible to refuse without being uncivil, though I did not like to leave Julian and baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended to stay but one night, and the next morning would come home and see Julian and Rose, and take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate with him ; and we left King, that excellent butler, in the house. It was really safe enough; only, you know, mothers have, perhaps, unfounded alarms. We took a carriage at the Pier-head (Una and I), and drove to the Consulate, where we took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Henry Bright. ... We arrived at about six o’clock, and Una and I had to dress for dinner after our arrival. It was a party of twelve. . . . Mrs. H. is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in season, and out of season at Norris Green. She was dressed in crimson velvet, with pearls and diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair and pretty. . . . Mr. Martineau . . . has a kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But the full dress of gentlemen now requiring a white muslin cravat and tie, they all looked ministerial to me, except the United States Consul, who will hold on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. He does not choose to do as the Romans do while in Rome. At least, he is not yet broken in. I suppose it is useless for me to say that he was by far the handsomest person present. and might have been taken for the king of them all. The chandelier that poured floods of light down on the heads beneath was very becoming to him ; for the more light there is, the better he looks always. The dinner was exceedingly elegant, and the service as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and crystal could make it. And one of the attendants, the coachman, diverted me very much by the air with which he carried off his black satin breeches, white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with silver. Not the autocrat of all the Russias feels grander than these livery servants. The butler, who is really above the livery servants in position, looked meek in his black suit and white vest and cravat, though he had a right to look down on the varlet in smallclothes. This last, however, was much the most imposing in figure, and fair round red cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear me, what is man ! At the sound of a bell, when the dessert was put upon the table, the children came in. They never dine with mamma and papa, . . . and all troop in at dessert, looking so pretty, in full dress, . . . thin white muslin or tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long streaming sashes. I found the next day that it was just the same when there was no great party at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white vest and muslin cravat, — like a picture of the old regime. In the evening we had music, weaving golden threads into our talk. Ellen Martineau played Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words. Mrs. H. laid regular siege to Mr. Hawthorne, resolved to tease him into consent to go to her ball. Just imagine him in the clutches of a lady of fashion ! But he always behaves so superbly under the most trying circumstances that I was exceedingly proud of him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she could not tell whether he would accept or not, and said she would leave the matter to me, with confidence that I would prevail. . . Just after luncheon on Tuesday, Mrs. Bright’s brother came to tell her that the Great Britain had come, and she would not believe it, because her husband had not telegraphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come back from Australia.

This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is the lady of ladies; her children are all clever (in English sense), and one son a prodigy. . . . They are all good as well as clever ; well educated, accomplished, and most entirely united. It is all peace and love and happiness there, and I cannot discover where the shadow is,—health, wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces and virtues. I cannot see the trail of the serpent anywhere in that Paradise. . . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little talks. She told me elaborately how she admired and loved Mr. Hawthorne’s books ; how she had found expressed in them what she had found nowhere else; with what rapture one of her sisters read, re-read, and read again the WonderBook ; . . . how Mrs. H. thought him peerless, and so on. There is not the least extravagance about Mrs. Bright, but remarkable sobriety; and so what she said had double force.

Your loving child, SOPHIA.

The pride which my mother took in my father, and which appears in all her accounts of him, is shown when she replies to an appeal from her father for a portrait of herself : —

“I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, because I am not handsome enough. . . . But I will endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and Rosebud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks supremely handsome here ; handsomer than anybody I see. Every other face looks coarse, compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose lie were an Englishman — till he speaks. This is a high compliment from the English. They look at him as much as they can, covertly; as much as they can without being uncivil and staring as if they wanted to assure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does not observe this ; but it is nuts to me, and I observe it. The lofty, sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought lie was born for a palace, and he shows that he was.”

I have disregarded a strict chronological order in these letters in order to bring together the scattered references to the Bright family. I now take up the narrative in my mother’s letters. A few weeks after our arrival in Liverpool, the confinement of city life led to a removal across the Mersey to Rock Ferry.

“ We have at last found a house,” my mother writes to her father, “ which we shall take for a year, at least. It is a great stone house, fashioned in castellated style, with grounds in perfect order, and surrounded by thick hedges. The rent first asked was £200 ; but they will take £160. It made a great deal of difference when the lady found it was the United States Consul who wanted the house, instead of Mr. Nobody, so much influence has any rank and title in dear old England. As for Mr. Hawthorne, the author, the lady did not seem to know about him. My husband wishes to escape from too constant invitations to dinner in Liverpool, and by living here will always have a good excuse for refusing, when there is really no reason or rhyme in accepting; for the last steamer leaves Liverpool at ten in the evening. And I shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all company I do not very much covet. I have no particular fancy for Liverpool society, except the Rathbones and Brights. Mr. Hawthorne was obliged, the other day, to bury an American captain who died at his boarding-house. My husband paid for his funeral out of his private purse ; though I believe he expects some brother captains will subscribe a part of the amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral, and in one of those plumed carriages he followed the friendless captain. I am not very brisk. My husband is always well.”

ROCK PAKK, Sept. 29, 1853.

I wish you could be undeceived about the income of this Consulate. Mr. Hawthorne now knows actually everything about it. . . . He goes from us at nine, and we do not see him again till five ! ! !

I only wish we could be pelted within an inch of our lives with a hailstorm of sovereigns, so as to satisfy every one’s most gorgeous hopes ; but I am afraid we shall have but a gentle shower, after all. ... I am sorry I have had the expectation of so much, because I am rather disappointed to be so circumscribed. With my husband’s present constant devotion to the duties of his office, he could no more write a syllable than he could build a cathedral. . . . He never writes by candle-light. . . . Mr. Crittendon tells Mr. Hawthorne that he thinks he may save five thousand dollars a year by economy. He himself, living in a very quiet manner, not going into society, has spent four thousand dollars a year. He thinks we must spend move. People will not let Mr. Hawthorne alone, as they have Mr. Crittendon, because they feel as if they had a right to him, and he cannot well forego their claim. The Scarlet Letter seems to have placed him on a pinnacle of fame and love here. ... It will give you pleasure, I think, to hear that Mr. Cecil read a volume of The Scarlet Letter the other day which was one of the thirty-fifth thousand of one publisher. Is it not provoking that the author should not have even one penny a volume ? . . . He is perpetually at the Consulate, and attends to everything from ten to half past four. It is a terrible loss to us, as you may conceive. His time is much frittered by visits. His own office is within the clerk’s office, and they do not let any one disturb him that they can help, but visits of ceremony they cannot prevent. . . . The head clerk is highly delighted when lie is the bearer of a good heap of gold. He delivers to Mr. Hawthorne in the morning the receipts of the day before, and the old man’s face shines with a ruddy benevolence when he lays down a good day’s income. I have been to the office. It is in Brunswick Street, in a great white stone building, — a very unlovely part of the town. The Consul’s sanctum is a gloomy room with two windows. Nothing worth looking at can be seen out of it. and there is nothing worth seeing inside of it, except my husband, and that gentleman Mr. Hawthorne cannot see. So I think lie cannot enjoy himself much there. In the middle of the day he walks out, and sees strange sights in Liverpool.

Sept. 30th. I was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Ticknor from Chester. They had a fine excursion, and were so occupied in examining Old Chester that no time was left for Eaton Hall. Julian is quite well today. and has been parading round the garden this morning, blowing a trumpet which papa brought him from Chester, and dragging after him a portentous wooden cannon which would not help to gain the smallest battle. It is actually a sunny day! . . . A very great joy it is to Rosebud to see the lovely little English robins come to pick up crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They have great faith in man, and come close to the window without fear. They have told the linnets and thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets actually come, though with dread and trembling, and they carry off the largest crumbs for their families and neighbors. The English robin is very dear. . . .

Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and says he is a noble old man and eloquent, and wins hearts in personal intercourse. His three daughters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very attractive and cultivated, and they are all most impatient to see my husband.

. . . From London an American traveler writes to Mr. Hawthorne, “ A great day I spent with Sir William Hamilton, and two blessed evenings with De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey s house yours is the only portrait. They spoke of you with the greatest enthusiasm, and I was loved for even having seen you. Sir William Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says your House of the Seven Gables is more powerful in description than The Scarlet Letter.” Did I tell you once of an English lady who went to the Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and introduced herself as a literary sister ? She had never been in Liverpool before, and desired him to show her the lions, and he actually escorted her about. An American lady who knows this Englishwoman sent, the other day, a bit of a note, torn off, to my husband, and on this scrap the English lady says, “ I admire Mr. Hawthorne as a man and as an author more than any other human being.” I have diligently taken cold these four months, and now have a hard cough. It is very noisy and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind fog, chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly well, and is the only Phœbus that shines in England. I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin’s urgent invitation to him to go to his seat of Clandeboye in Ireland, four or five hours from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then came another note. The first was quite formal, but this begins, “ My dear Mr. Hawthorne, . . . Mrs. Norton [his aunt, the Honorable Mrs. Norton] hopes . . . that you will allow’ her to have the pleasure of receiving you at her house in Chesterfield Street; and I trust you will always remember that I shall esteem it an honor to be allowed to receive you here whenever you may be disposed to pay this country a visit. Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne, yours very truly, DuFFERIN.”

Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage? “ Flummery,” my husband calls it.

December 8th.

Yesterday, who should come to see me but Mr. James Martineau [the brother of Harriet Martineau] and his wife.

I have the greatest admiration for him as a divine, and I do not know what I expected to see in the outward man. But I was well pleased with his aspect as I found it. He is not tall, and he is pale, though not thin, with the most perfectly simple manners and beautiful expression. It seemed as if he had always been my brother ; as if I could find in him counselor, friend, saint, and sage ; and I have no doubt it is so, so potent is the aroma of character, without a word or sign. How worse than folly it is to imagine that character can either be cried up or cried down ! No veil can conceal, no blazonry exalt, either the good or the evil. A man has only to come in and sit down, and there he is, for better, for worse. I, at least, am always, as it were, hit by a person’s sphere; and either the music of the spheres or the contrary supervenes, and sometimes, also, nothing at all, if there is not much strength of character. Mr. Martineau did not say much ; but his voice was very pleasant and sympathetic, and he won regard merely by his manner of being. Mrs. Martineau sat with her back to the only dim light there was, and I could receive no impression from her face ; but she seemed pleasant and friendly. She said she wished very much that we would go to her party on the 19th, which was their silver-wedding day. She said we should meet Mrs. Gaskell — the author of Mary Barton, Ruth, and Cranford — and several other friends. It is the greatest pity that we cannot go; but it would be madness to think of going out at night, in these solid fogs, with mv cough. They live beyond Liverpool, in Prince’s Park. Mrs. Martineau showed herself perfectly well bred by not being importunate. It was a delightful call; and I feel as if I had friends in deed and in need, just from that one interview. Mr. Martineau said Una would be homesick until she had some friends of her own age, and that he had a daughter, a little older, who might do for one of them. They wished to see Mr. Hawthorne, and came pretty near it, for they could not have got out of the lodge gate before he came home ! Was not that a shame ?

January 5, 1854.

. . . Perhaps you have heard of Miss Charlotte Cushman, the actress ? The summer before we left America, she sent a note to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting him to sit to a lady for his miniature, which she wished to take to England. Mr. Hawthorne could not refuse, though you can imagine his repugnance on every account.

He went and did penance, and was then introduced to Miss Cushman. He liked her for a very sensible person, with perfectly simple manners. The other day he met her in Liverpool, and she told him she had been intending to call on me ever since she had been at her sister’s, at Rose Hill Hall, Woolton, seven miles from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne wished me to invite her to dine and pass the night. I invited her to dine on the 29th of December. She accepted, and came. I found her tall as her famous character, Meg Merrilies, with a face of peculiar, square form, most amiable in expression, and so very untheatrical in manner and bearing that I should never suspect her to be an actress. She has left the stage now two years, and retires upon the fortune she has made; for she was a very great favorite on the English stage, and retired in the height of her fame. The children liked her prodigiously, and Rose was never weary of the treasures attached to her watchchain. I could not recount to you the gems clustered there, such as a fairy tiny gold palette, with all the colors arranged ; a tiny easel with a colored landscape quarter of an inch wide ; a tragic and comic mask, just big enough for a gnome; a cross of the Legion of Honor ; a wallet, opening with a spring, and disclosing compartments just of a size for the keeper of the privy purse of the fairy queen ; a dagger for a pygmy ; two minute daguerreotypes of friends, each as large as a small pea, in a gold case ; an opera-glass ; faith, hope, and charity, represented by a golden heart and anchor — and I forget what — a little harp. I cannot remember any more. These were all. I think, memorials of friends.

March 12, 1854.

. . Mr. Hawthorne dined at Aigbarth, one of the suburbs of Liverpool, with Mr. Bramley Moore, an M. P. Mr. Moore took an effectual way to secure Mr. Hawthorne, for he went one day himself to his office, and asked him for the very same evening; thus bearding the lion in his den and clutching him. And Mrs. H. would not be discouraged. She could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splendid fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and all the aristocracy of the county, ... but wrote him a note, telling him that if he wished for her forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day when we would go and dine with her. He delayed, . . . and then she wrote me a note, appointing the 16th of March for us to go and meet the Martineaus and Brights, and remain all night. There was no evading this ; so he is going, but I refused. Her husband is a mighty banker, and she is sister of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, W. E. Gladstone ; and they are nobly connected all round. . . . Mr. Hawthorne does not want to go, and especially curses the hour when white muslin cravats became the sine qua non of a gentleman ’s full dress. Just think how reverend he must look ! I believe he would even rather wear a sword and cocked hat; for he declares a white muslin cravat the last abomination, the chief enormity of fashion, and that all the natural feelings of a man cry out against it, and that it is alike abhorrent to taste and to sentiment. To all this I reply that he looks a great deal handsomer with white about his throat than with a stiff old black satin stock, which always to me looks like the stocks, and that it is habit only which makes him prefer it. . . .

March 16th. My dear father, Mr. Hawthorne has gone to West Derby to dine . . . and stay all night. He left me with a powerful anathema against all dinner-parties, declaring he did not believe anybody liked them, and therefore they were a malicious invention for destroying human comfort.

Mr. Bramley Moore again seized Mr. Hawthorne in the Consulate, the other day, and dragged him to Aigbarth to dine with Mr. Warren, the author of Ten Thousand a Year and The Diary of a Physician. Mr. Hawthorne liked him very well. Mr. Warren commenced to say something very complimentary to Mr. Hawthorne in a low tone, across an intermediate gentleman, when Mr. Bramley Moore requested that the company might have the benefit of it. So Mr. Warren spoke aloud ; and then Mr. Hawthorne had to make a speech in return !

Hospitality was abundant in our first

English home, as many letters affirm. The delightful novelty to my small self of a peep at the glitter of little dinnerparties was as surprising to me as if I could have had a real consciousness of its contrast to all the former simplicity of my parents’ life. Down the damask trooped the splendid silver covers, entrancingly catching a hundred reflections from candle - flame and cut glass, and my own face as I hovered for a moment upon the scene while the butler was gliding hither and thither to complete his artistic arrangements. On my father’s side of the family there had been a distinct trait of material elegance, appearing in such evidences as an exquisite tea-service, brought from China by my grandfather, with the intricate monogram and dainty shapes and decoration of a hundred years ago; and in a few chairs and tables that could not be surpassed for graceful design and finish ; and so on. As for my mother’s traits of inborn refinement, they were marked enough, but she writes of herself to her sister at this time, “ You cannot think how I cannot be in the least tonish. such is my indomitable simplicity of style.”Her opinion of herself was always humble ; and I can testify to the distinguished figure she made as she wore the first ball-dress I ever detected her in. I was supposed to be fast asleep, and she had come to look at me before going out to some social function, as she has told me she never failed to do when leaving the house for a party. Her superb brocade, pale-tinted, low-necked and short-sleeved, her happy, airy manner, her glowing though pale face, her dancing eyes, her ever-hovering smile of perfect kindness, all flashed upon me in the sudden light as I roused myself. I insisted upon gazing and admiring, yet I ended by indignantly weeping to find that my gentle little mother could be so splendid and wear so triumphant an expression. “ She is frightened at my fine gown ! ” my mother exclaimed, with a changed look of self-forgetting concern ; and I never forgot how much more beautiful her noble glance was than her triumphant one. A faded bill has been preserved, for the humor of it, from Salem days, in which it is recorded that for the year 1841 she ordered ten pairs of number two kid slippers, — which was not precisely economical for a young lady who needed to earn money by painting, and who denied herself a multitude of pleasures and comforts which were enjoyed by relatives and friends.

In our early experience of English society my mother’s suppressed fondness for the superb burst into fruition, and the remnants of such indulgence have turned up among severest humdrum for many years ; but soon she refused to permit herself even momentary extravagances. To those who will remember duty hosts of duties appeal, and it was not long before my father and mother began to save for their children’s future the money which flowed in. Miss Cushman’s vagary of an amusing watch-chain was exactly the sort of thing which they never imitated; they smiled at it as the saucy tyranny, over a great character, of great wealth. My father’s rigid economy was perhaps more unbroken than my mother’s. Still, she has written. “ I never knew what charity meant till I knew my husband.” There are many records of his having heard clearly the teaching that home duties are not so necessary or loving as duty towards the homeless.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop.