Memories of Hawthorne

e most enchanting web and woof of good feeling and high thought. A luxuriant fruit garden, attached to the "red house," seems to have sudd

embe

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 b

n 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 stipul

sed 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 pla

. 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 s

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

y 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. Tappa

ruit 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 t

part a pleasant and spirited flavor to the preserves and jams, when they come upon your table. At any rate, ta

regards to

uly you

es to her sister, M

te 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 tho

. Peabody describe

ber 7,

ansiveness, 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 al

ng!" 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

d 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, s

d 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

borhood of Boston, and for a short ti

mber

her grandmother Peabody on Thanksgiving Day, who was charmed with my smiling, fair baby. Una reads her grandm

ectionat

PH

N, Decembe

nd 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 tha

ectionat

PH

new collection of tales; but you shall no

shed on Thursday; and yesterday Mr. Ticknor told Nathaniel that he had alr

song of a wood-thrush to the author, its dicti

N; July

oing 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 g

d years after, when my heart was just uplifting itself from a deep sorrow, I read the introduction to your "Mosses from an Old Manse;" a

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,-

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 id

same folly, and entreating that by no accident may

s with mu

A. PO

st 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 refi

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

g from Miss Peabody that Mr. James Freeman Clarke had talked with

es 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

been that of visionary plenipotentiary, and one which was

ust

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

truly

NSON A

time. You are very kind to propose copying the Young Christ [for Mr. Alcott

ber 12

om 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 tast

NSON A

of some drawings which my mother had made for

them as a treasure to be shown to all my friends who have good or capable eyes, that they may rejoice with me in th

end and servant,

la

January

f 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-

wed one of them to go in manuscript out of my family. The first one of the course, which is the most presentable, I will

rs. Tell your sister Elizabeth that her account of Mr. Very interested me much, and I have alread

. EM

allion which Mrs. Hawth

after h

, May 1

ay for the medallion to go to Waterford, and the one for New Yor

. 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 les

he second week in June? If neither of these dates suits yo

end and

. EM

oung artist to Concord for the

d, 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

. EM

April 2

pt from my sister Elizabeth Hoar a

el), 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 someth

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

end and

LDO E

onger. I am also to thank your sister Elizabeth for the summons t

exemplifying Emerson's quaint agility o

an get my errands ready, I shall stop the passing coach, and load you with freight and commissions; not complime

, R.

rriage, as thoughtfully as the rest. Her personality never ceased to hove

sen, 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 com

MARGA

father received the fol

ng 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

GAR

ag

, May 22

hought I would not reply, for so much had been said and written about my pamphlet that I was weary of it, a

ps, sweet hours [fragment torn away] and if all works well, I hope to come. Una alone will be changed; yet sti

at the threshold of T

1852,

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

vet. 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,

red 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 sum

ion 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 St

PH

ly

wthorne 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 w

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 th

ld 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. W

n 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 unf

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 th

hild,