Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) (788 page)

[Among my mother's early letters to my father, this poem, written in her fine, delicate hand upon old-fashioned fancy note paper, was evidently her expression of this feeling.]

THE SERAPH AND THE DOVE.

  A Seraph strayed to earth from upper spheres,
  Impelled by inward motion, vague yet strong:
  He knew not wherefore he must leave the throng
  Of kindred hierarchs for a world of tears:
  But, mailed in proof divine, he felt no fears,
  Obedient to an impulse clear of wrong:
  And so he ceased awhile his heavenly song,
  To measure his immortal life by years.
  His arched brow uprose, a throne of light,
  Where ordered thought a rule superior held;
  Within his eyes celestial splendors dwell'd,
  Ready to glow and bless with subject might,
  When he should find why God had sent him here,
  Shot like a star from out his native sphere.

  He was alone; he stood apart from men:
  His simple nature could not solve their ways;
  For he had lived a life of love and praise,
  And they forgot that God their Source had been.
  So mused he on the visions of his mind,
  Which, wondrous fair, recalled his home above:
  He wist not why he was to space confin'd,
  But waited, trusting in Omnific love.
  Then lo! came fluttering to his arms a Dove,
  Which for her foot had never yet found rest:
  The Seraph folded her within his breast,

And as he felt the brooding warmth, he conscious, smiled and said, “Yes,
Father! Heaven can only be where kindred spirits wed!”

[“My Dove” was one of my father's names for my mother; he found her a seal with a dove upon it. She several times referred to this title with joy, in talks with me.]

As his life has literally been so pure from the smallest taint of earthliness, it can only be because he is a Seer, that he knows of crime. Not Julian's little (no, great) angel heart and life are freer from any intention or act of wrong than his. And this is best proof to me of the absurdity of the prevalent idea that it is necessary to go through the fiery ordeal of sin to become wise and good. I think such an idea is blasphemy and the unpardonable sin. It is really abjuring God'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 souls, after all; and the intuitions of genius are identical, necessarily; for what is an intuition of genius but God's truth, revealed to a soul in high communion? I suppose it is not impossible for another Shakespeare to culminate. Even I — little bit of a tot of I — have sometimes recognized my own thought in Shakespeare. But do not tell aunt Pickman of this. Not believing in an absolute source of thought, she would pronounce me either irrecoverably insane or infinitely self-conceited.

Here is John. — No more. SOPHIA.

CHAPTER VI

LENOX

One of the authors in that excellent company congregated at this period in this part of Berkshire — Mr. Mansfield — writes to Mrs. Hawthorne for the pleasure of the thing; and one fairly hears the drone of time as the days hang ripe and sleepy upon his hands. I quote a few paragraphs from his letters: —

HOME, January 15, 1851.

DEAR MADAM, — It was very kind in you to take up my affairs, and I will say here upon the margin of this reply, that I SHOULD have very much liked your opinion of the “Pundison Letters” I sent out; but now — so long ago is it — I have had time to let my whimsical nature find some other occupation; and the “Up-Country Letters” may lie as they are, not unlikely for the next thousand years. I am absorbed and busied with Bishop Butler's Analogy, which is all things to me at this present; and I am not sure that “The House of the Seven Gables” could tempt me away from it until I get my fill. . . . The Bishop is great, and I hope to have him with me until the frost comes out of the ground, and I can busy myself with Nature herself.

I laughed the other day loud and long at a report of the plot of “The House of the Seven Gables,” in a letter to a lady. . . . The remark was, that “the plot of 'The House of the Seven Gables' was — deepening damnably.” . . . You speak of “the crimson and violet sunrises, and the green and gold sunsets,” etc.; and I am glad to get so good an authority for the fact of mixed colors in sunrising. In my little book, I speak somewhere of “the silver and rose tint flame of the morning.” . . . My wife, who sends her love, has taken possession of your note, and is to keep it somewhere “with care.” That is, it is to be so carefully hidden that no one will ever find it. Perhaps she is a little jealous; but, in any case, she wants the autograph. Please make my regards to the man in “The House of the Seven Gables,” and believe me, with sincere respect, Yours — obliged —

L. W. MANSFIELD.

HOME, January 22.

DEAR MADAM, — I suppose Mr. Hawthorne will smile at the idea of my writing him a letter of condolence, and such I do not intend; but I have been a little provoked at an article in “The Church Review;” and whether Mr. Hawthorne cares for my opinion or not, it will be a relief and satisfaction for me to say my say about it. Nor do I suppose that he can live so exclusively in a world of his own as not to be pleased at knowing that his friends recognize as such any impertinence that may be said about him. In this case also it comes home to the question which I submitted in the “Up-Country Letters,” which I sent you. Now I will say (and I venture to say that I am one of twenty thousand respectable people that would say the same) that the little bits of personal description and reference which Mr. Hawthorne has given in two instances have added — I was going to say tenfold to the interest which attaches to all his writings, and so modestly and quietly, and in such exquisite taste were those references made, that it does strike me as the sublime of stupidity that any one could misunderstand them. . . .

Please excuse my long letter, and believe me, with sincere regards, yours,

L. W. MANSFIELD.

My mother's notes of every-day life proceed: —

January 2. This morning, one cloud in the east looked like a goldfish close to the horizon. I began to build a snow-house with the children, and shoveled paths.

5th. I walked out in the splendid sunset with the children, to meet papa. I told them, on the way, the story of Genevieve.

10th. Walked before dinner with the children along the road, telling them of Mary, Queen of Scots.

11th. My husband read me the preface to the third edition of the “Twice-Told Tales.” It is absolutely perfect, of course.

Sunday, 12th. My husband came down from writing at three. It was reviving to see him. I took dear little Julian and walked to Mr. Wilcox's barn. He enjoyed it as much as I did; the soft hues of the mountains, the slumbering sunshine, and the sparkling snow which towards sunset became violet color. He stooped down to lap up snow, and shouted, “Oh, how pretty!” and I found he was admiring the shining globes. “They lie on the air, mamma!” said he. Mr. Hawthorne received a request for an autograph, and an autobiography!

13th. In the evening my husband said he should begin to read his book [“The House of the Seven Gables “]. Oh, joy unspeakable!

14th. When the children had gone to bed, my husband took his manuscript again. I am always so dazzled and bewildered with the richness of beauty in his productions, that I look forward to a second reading during which I can ponder and muse. The reading closed with a legend, so graphic, so powerful, with such a strain of grace and witchery through it, that I seemed to be in a trance. Such a vision as Alice, with so few touches, such a real existence! The sturdy, handsome, and strong Maule; the inevitable fate, “the innocent suffering for the guilty,” seemingly so dark, yet so clear a law!

15th. Sewed all day, thinking only of Maule's Well. The sunset was a great, red ball of fire.

In the evening, the manuscript was again read from. How ever more wonderful! How transparent are all events in life to my husband's awful power of insight; and how he perpetually brings up out of the muddied wells the pearl of price!

16th. The sun rose fiery red, like a dog-day sun. Julian is a prisoner, because his india-rubbers are worn out. I looked forward all day to listening to my husband's inspirations in the evening; but behold! he has no more as yet to read. This morning Julian sat down in a little chair and took his father's foot on his lap. “I want to be papa's toadstool!” said Julian, making one of his funniest mistakes. My husband proposed reading “Thalaba.” I was glad, though Southey is no favorite of mine. But I like to be familiar with such things, and to hear my husband's voice is the best music. Mrs. Sedgwick called to see us.

18th. In the morning I took the children and went to Luther's. We went to the barn to find him, and there he was, grinding oats. The children were much grieved and very indignant because the horse was in a treadmill, and could not stop if he would.

22d. Mild. In the morning Anna Greene appeared at my door. I was rejoiced to see her. She stayed two hours. In the evening Herman Melville came, and Anna again, also.

23d. Anna Greene came early, and wanted us to walk with her, on this warm, radiant day. We went to the Lake, with the children, and had a delightful talk. In the evening Anna and Caroline Tappan came; and we had champagne and beaten egg, which they thought ethereal beverage. Caroline said she had wanted just this all winter.

24th. In the evening my husband read De Quincey.

Sunday, 26th. I read all over to myself “The House of the Seven
Gables,” in manuscript.

29th. In the midst of a storm, who should appear at the door of our shanty but Sarah Shaw! Anna Greene only began the glories of arrivals. I cannot tell how glad I was to see her. It was perfectly delightful to talk with her again, after a separation of four years.

February I. In the evening my husband read “David Copperfield.” I cannot express how much I enjoy it, made vocal by him. He reads so wonderfully. Each person is so distinct; his tones are so various, apt, and rich. I believe that in his breast is Gabriel's harp. It is better than any acting I ever saw on the stage.

5th. My husband answered a letter from Robert Adair, of Kentucky, which was to appoint him an honorary member of the Prescott Literary Society there. I took a walk with the children to the brook.

9th. Two proofs came of “The House of the Seven Gables,” which I read with fresh interest. There never was such perfection of style.

12th. We all walked out, papa and Una to the Lake, and across it, and Julian and I on the sunny side of the house. There was a golden sunset.

19th. My husband took the children out on the ice-bound lake. He read aloud “Samson Agonistes” in the evening.

March 3. Una's birthday. She is seven years old. My husband began
“Wallenstein.”

5th. Mr. Ticknor sent five engraved heads of Mr. Hawthorne. The face is very melancholy.

8th. Mr. Tappan thinks Mr. Hawthorne's portrait looks like Tennyson.

10th. Mrs. Sedgwick brought me a letter from Elizabeth Bartol. My husband read me Pope's “Epistles.”

12th. At dusk arrived Herman Melville from Pittsfield. He was entertained with champagne foam, manufactured of beaten eggs, loaf sugar, and champagne. He invited us all to go and spend to-morrow with him. My husband decided to go, with Una.

13th. Snowstorm. My husband has gone to Pittsfield. As soon as he and Una drove off in the wagon, dear little Julian for the first time thought of himself, and burst into a heart-breaking cry. To comfort him, I told him I would read him “The Bear and the Skrattel,” and “Sam, the Cockerel,” which made him laugh through floods of tears. Then he relapsed, and said he would do nothing without Una. So I told him he should have the Swiss cottage, the pearls, and the velvet furniture. This was enchantment.

During his dinner he discoursed all the time about Giant Despair and Christian. He improvised, while playing ball, a sad tragedy, and among other things said, “I wept, and pitied myself.” Now he has stopped playing, for the lambs have come to graze before the windows, and he is talking incessantly about having one for his own pet lamb. It is now snowing thickly. I cannot see the Lake; no farther than the fringe of trees upon the banks. The lambs look anything but snow-white, half covered with snowflakes. Julian ran for his slate, and drew one pretty well. Then Midnight came [dog, man, or cat is not known] and frightened them away, and Julian reminded me of my promise to read “The Bear.” This I did, squeaking as sharply as occasion required. “I feel very lonely without papa or Una,” said Julian. After dinner he asked me to read to him the story of Sir William Phips. When I put him to bed, he said, as he jumped into it, that the angels were lying down beside him.

14th. What a superb day! But Julian and I are worn out with waiting. Prince Rose-Red talked without one second's intermission the whole time I was dressing him; and I allowed it, as papa and Una were not here to be disturbed by the clishmaclaver. At breakfast we were dismal. Julian mourned for his father most touchingly, and more than for Una. “Oh, dear,” said he, “I feel as if I were alone on a great mountain, without papa!” I have clipped off the ends of his long curls; and all of these he has tenderly shut up in a domino-box, to distribute among his friends hereafter. After his dinner, I dressed him to go out. He hopes to meet his father, and get into the wagon. But before he went out I took down the “Twice-Told Tales” from the shelf, to look at the engraving. We enjoyed it very much. Blessed be Phillebrown, blessed be Ticknor, Reed and Fields, blessed be Thompson, C. G. Julian was struck with its life. “It is not a drawn papa,” said he, “for it smiles at me, though he does not speak. It is a real papa!” Now that he has gone out, I have put it up before me, so that I can see it every time I lift my eyes. Was ever one so loved?

George W. Curtis sends a letter, once more: —

BOSTON, March 19, 1851.

MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE, — You will see by the book which I send you with this note [“Nile Notes of a Howadji”] that I break our long silence by a speech of some length; and I should not have waited until now to tell you that I had returned, had I not wished to tell you at the same time something of the delights that kept me so long away. For, like a young lover, I think, of course, that no one had ever so good a time as I. In this book I have aimed to convey the character of the satisfaction that I experienced, and that, I am sure, every man like me must needs experience upon the Nile.

But you will believe — if you still believe in me — that I have seized this small paper, only that I may not send you preserved in cold ink those fruits of travel that I hope one day to shake upon you, warm from the tongue.

I am passing a brace of days only in Boston, having as yet seen no one, and in despair and disgust at the storm. You, I think of in Lenox — which is a summer spot only to my memory; alas! with nothing summery now, I fancy, but your rage at the equinoctial. Does Mrs. Hawthorne yet remember that she sent me a golden key to the studio of Crawford, in Rome? I have neither forgotten that, nor any smallest token of her frequent courtesy in the Concord days. Such be our days forever! Yours truly,

GEORGE W. CURTIS.