Memories of Hawthorne

s requested to see what chance there was for a home near the ocean, to which Hawth

NAVY YARD, POR

t 6,

it can be hired, it is just the place. . . . We are busy in fixing ourselves in our new quarters, where we shall be m

ever

not mention the year, is a specimen of

LPHIA,

over "The Gentle Boy." When I had read it until I thought myself quite hardened to its influence, I offered to read it to our dear old nurse, who had been the patient listener to the whole family for many a year. I prided myself upon my nursery reputation for stoicism, which I should lose if my voice faltered. I was beginning to doubt my ability to get calmly through the next page, when the old lady exclaimed, in such a truly yet ludicrously indi

regard, tr

. BR

r of misfortune, arriv

dearest friends,

ND, Septemb

ffair, dear Sophia; at least, I find it so. . . . We have felt, that Bob [Colonel Robert Shaw] required to be removed from home influences, as he has no brothers; and, being unwilling to send him to a school of the usual order, we chose the Jesuit College at Fordham, near New York, where there are a hundred and fifty boys, and a great many holy fathers to teach and take care of them. I inclose a check from Frank, which he hopes Mr. Hawthorne will accept as it is offered,

for restful death I c

d needy nothing t

Sophia,-as He has, n

er most affectionatel

r Charles, who died in youth, writes letters of regr

here in Concord for so many fair days is a page of romance which I shall not f

H

hem. I found myself quite a lion because I knew Mr. Hawthorne; and became a sort of author in my turn, by telling stories of the inhabitants of the Old Manse, omitted in the printed books. Father was charmed with them, and wrote to me quite at length about them.

onately

BETH

riend of my mother's, sends beautiful letters, from wh

tholic feeling that enshrines and appeals to her. It has its root in the very deepest principle of life. . . . James is very well, and to say that he is very happy, too, is unnecessary to any one who knows his elastic, joyful nature. . . . When I feel well and strong, I feel so well and strong that I

going on in the world, else why all this shouting, and bedecking of every weed in its best, this endless strain from every tiny weed or great oaken flute? All that cannot sing, dances; the gnats in the air and the long-legged spiders on the water. Even the ants and beetles, the workers that are quoted for examples by hoarding men, run about doing nothing, putting their busy antennae into everything, tumbling over the brown mould for sheer enjoyment, and running home at last without the little white paper parcel in their mouths which gives them so respectable an

hy and love, Aff

A WH

er," showing with what interest he preserved this friend's criticism and praise. On the other side of the envelope is writte

March

to me. How comes it that with so thoroughly healthy an organization as you have, you have such a taste for the morbid anatomy of the human heart, and such knowledge of it, too? I should fancy from your books that you were burdened with secret sorrow; that you had some blue chamber in your soul, into which you hardly dared to enter yourself; but when I see you, you give me the impression of a

S. HI

hich the Hawthornes hired

an of that, which Mr. Tappan drew for Mr. Hawthorne, and I will give you one of this. There are four good sleeping-rooms upstairs, but without fireplaces, and could only be ameliorated in winter by an entry stove. The house is pleasantly situated, having a view of the Lake, as you know. The road

onately

INE T

pleasantly ended for the Hawthornes. The transfer of the little family to Lenox soon occurred, and to the "red house," which was in existence until lat

cinder explains in these words why it is treasured and why the people gaze at it: 'Relic from the Hawthorne Cottage.' The Hawthorne Cottage stood half a mile out of Stockbridge on the road to Lenox. It was burned two months ago. It was a little red story-and-a-half house on a lonely

pples. On the hillslope in the middle of the orchard and overlooking the famous 'Stockbridge Bowl'-a round deep tarn among the hills-are the brick cellar walls and brick underpinning of what was a very humble dwelling-the Hawthorne Cottage. About the ruins is a quiet, modest, New England neighborhood. There is not mu

-righteous harangues he turned as one who had heard a divine voice that alone deserved to declare. He taught as Nature does, always leading to thoughts of something higher than the dictum of men, and nobler than their greatest beauty of action. He said it was difficult for him to write in the presence of such a view as the "little red house" commande

re of her family, in spite of her growing cares,

rain in Boston, I write now, to request father to go to Oak Hall, or to some ready-made linen-store, and buy Mr. Hawthorne two linen sacks, well made, and good linen. He is a perfect bunch of rags,

hat it is too late to change the plan. He says, he is bound by his engagement, and cannot recede; but that if you can change their purposes independently of him,-if they are willing, he is. Mr. Fields has n

HIE

nd

one little leg over the other, in a nonchalant attitude; Una also in negligent position. They were discussing their prisoners, Hopeful and Christian, in very gruff and unamiable voices. "Well, what had we better do with them?" "Oh, beat them pretty well, every day!" The air of the two figures, and their tones, in comparison with the faces and forms, were v

ay,

e, with the hobby-horse. Julian was upon the horse,-as a king; Una at his side, presenting ambrosia. In the P. M. I read them Andersen's "Angel and Child," "The Swineherd," and "Li

baskets and went to find flowers. They were gone a great while, and ca

oods and mountains, and brought home arbutus; and Julian, laur

ke beds, and held cotton for me to wind, watched Mr. Tappan at his young trees, and when his father came down [from writ

reat many papers. I wish you would tell me whether you think Tall Ann is able to do our work; but from what she said about being deprived of the Church services and Holy

ck, and brought

ver and sweet-scented grass. Julian is getting nut-brown. He is a real chestnut. We are all wonderfully happy, and I can conceive of no greater peace and content. Last Sunday afternoon we all went to the Lake, and Una and I wove a laurel wreath, and Una crowned her father. For mountain-la

other writes to he

8,

all bear blessings to ages yet unborn!' He must write-therefore you must court the love of the humble, whose destiny it is to lighten the labors of the gifted ones of the earth. I feel ashamed when I detect myself in thinking that a kitchen-maid is lower in the scale of being than I am. What would the learned and the gifted do if there was no humble one to make the bread that

MOT

ust

time. Mr. Hawthorne thinks it is Salem which he is dragging at his ankles still. . . . Yes, we find kindest friends on every side. The truest friendliness is the great characteristic of the Sedgwick family in all its branches. They seem to delight to make happy, and they are as happy as summer days themselves. They really take the responsibility of my being comfortable, as if they were mother, father, brother, sister. We have fallen into the arms of loving-kindness, and cannot suffer for any aid or support in emergencies. This I know will give you a reposeful content concerning us. Mr. Tappan is a horn of benefits. He seems to have the sweetest disposition; and his shy, dark eyes are always gl

ming visit. Mrs. Field carried me to the scene of the sacrifice of Everell in "Hope Leslie," for it is upon her estate,-a superb hill covered with laurels,-and this sacrifice rock near the summit, and the council chambers beneath. That was where the noble Magawesca's arm was stricken off. The children enjoyed themselves extremely, and behaved so beautifully that they won all hearts. They thought that there never was such a superb child as Julian, nor such a grace as Una. "They are neither too shy, nor bold," said Mrs. Field, "but just right." There was a huge black Newfoundland dog, Hero, which delighted Julian, and he rode on its back; and a little white silk dog, Fay, very piquant and intelligent. It was a large, rambling mansion, with ind

ouquet of bright flowers, as they sat waving farewells, and receiving with smiles the cheers of all the young gentlemen, who raised their torches and shouted, "Hurrah!" Poor, dear Mrs. Charles! She looked so warm and so flushed-just like a torch, herself!-and so lovely, kind, and happy, in the midst of her living roses. Above, serenely shone myriads of pale stars in the clear sky; around the horizon, heat-lightning flashed. The moon was rising in the east; and in the north, the aurora borealis bloo

ffecti

HIE

embe

d reverent; very tender and modest. And I am not sure that he is not a very great man; but I have not quite decided upon my own opinion. I should say, I am not quite sure that I do not think him a very great man; for my opinion is, of course, as far as possible from settling the matter. He has very keen perceptive power; but what astonishes me is, that his eyes are not large and deep. He seems to see everything very accurately; and how he can do so with his small eyes, I cannot tell. They are not keen eyes, either, but quite undistinguished in any way. His nose is straight and rather handsome, his mouth expressive of sensibility and emotion. He is tall and erect, with an air free, brave, and manly. When conversing, he is full of gesture and force, and loses himself in his subject. There is no grace nor polish. Once in a while, his animation gives place to a singularly quiet expression, out of these eyes to which I have objected; an indrawn, dim look, but which at the same time makes you f

written in her fine, delicate hand upon old-fashioned fanc

PH AND T

d to earth from

ward motion, v

refore he must

rarchs for a w

proof divine, h

an impulse c

ed awhile his

is immortal

w uprose, a th

thought a rule

s celestial sp

and bless with

find why God ha

ar from out hi

; he stood a

re could not so

ed a life of l

that God their

n the visions

fair, recalled

hy he was to

trusting in

fluttering to

foot had never

lded her with

ing warmth, he conscious

only be where kin

he found her a seal with a dove upon it. She several ti

d's voice within. We have not received, as we ought to have done, the last Saturday's number of "The Literary World." I have a great curiosity to read about "Mr. Noble Melancholy." Poor aunty! [Her aunt Pickman.] I really do not believe Shakespeare will be injured by being spoken of in the same paper with Mr. Hawthorne. But no comparison is made between them, though there is no reason why one great man may not be compared to another. There is no absolute difference in created sou

hn.-No mor