An American lady, who knows this Englishwoman, sent the other day a bit of a note, torn off, to Mr. Hawthorne, and on this sc.r.a.p 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 Phoebus that shines in England.

I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin's urgent invitation to Mr.

Hawthorne 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."

"CLANDEBOYE, HOLYWOOD."

Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage,--"flummery" Mr.

Hawthorne calls it?

To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. We are going to observe it in memory of the fatherland. Mr. Bright will dine with us by his own invitation, not knowing it was a festival day with us. He has long been projecting a visit, and finally proposed coming this week. He will remain all night, as Sandheys is on the other side of Liverpool, and his mamma does not wish him to cross the river [usually foggy] in the dark.

The English people, the ladies and gentlemen with whom we have become acquainted, are very lovely and affectionate and friendly. They seem lifelong acquaintances. I suppose there is no society in the world that can quite compare to this. It is all stereotyped, crystallized, with the repose and quiet in it of an immovable condition of caste.

There is such a simplicity, such an ease, such an entire cordiality, such sweetness, that it is really beautiful to see. It is only when looking at the matter outside--or rather out of it--that one can see any disadvantage or unloveliness. It is a deep and great question,--this about rank. Birth and wealth often are causes of the superior cultivation and refinement that are found with them. In this old civilization there seems to be no jealousy, no effort to alter position. . . . Provided that the lowest orders could be redeemed from the brutal misery in which they are plunged, there could be a little more enjoyment in contemplating and mingling with the higher. But it seems as if everything must be turned upside down rather than for one moment more to tolerate such suffering, such b.e.s.t.i.a.lity. There have been one or two individual cases that went before the courts that really make it almost wicked ever to smile again. . . . As Mr. Hawthorne delays to go to London, London is beginning to come to him, for Mr.

Holland says he must inevitably be mobbed in England. Two Londoners called lately,--one a Mr. William Jerdan, about seventy years old, a literary man, who for fifty years has been familiar with the best society in London, and knows everybody for whom one cares to ask. He is a perfect mine of rich memories. He pleased me mightily, and made me think of Dr. Johnson. Rose sat on his knee, and gazed with unwinking, earnest eyes into his face. He said he never saw anything like it except the gaze of Talleyrand (whom he knew very well). He said that Talleyrand undertook to look at a man and not allow a man to look into him,--he always fixed such a glance as that upon one.

Imperturbably, baby continued to gaze, without any smile; and he kept dodging from her and making funny contortions, but she was not in the least moved. "Why," he exclaimed, "you would be an admirable judge, and I should not like to be the fellow who would take sentence from your Lordship when you get on your black cap!" At last she smiled confidingly at him. "There," he said, "now I have it! She loves me, she loves me!" At eight they left us for London, intending not to shoot through that night, but sleep at Birmingham, halfway. "Oh," said Mr. Jerdan, "I make nothing of going out to dine an hundred miles and returning!" The gentleman with him was Mr. Bennoch, a patron of poets and artists, and as pleasant, merry, and genial as possible. He told Julian that, if he would go to London with him, he should have a pony as low as the table and a dog as high as the pony; but Julian would not, even in prospect of possessing what his heart desireth most.

December 8.

Yesterday who should come to see me but Mr. James 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. Mrs. Martineau 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 my 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 indeed 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?

I must tell you that there is a splendid show which Mr. Jerdan wants us to see at Lord Warremore de Tabley's; it is a vast salt mine of twenty acres, cut into a symmetrical columned gallery! He says it shall be lighted up, so that we shall walk in a diamond corridor. Mr.

Jerdan said that salt used to be the medium of traffic in those districts; and I think Lord de Tabley [1] is a beauty for having his mines cut in the form of art, instead of hewed and hacked as a Vandal would have done. Mr. Jerdan said that on account of some circ.u.mstance he was called Lord de Tableau for a pseudonym, and in the sense I have heard people exclaim to a good child, "Oh, you picture!"

[1] Mr. Hawthorne's severe taste is annoyed by that expression, but I must let it go for the sake of what follows.

In the "North British Review" this week is a review of Mr. Hawthorne's three last romances. It gives very high praise.

December 18.

I went to Liverpool yesterday for a Christmas present for you, and got a silver pen in a pearl handle, which you will use for Una's sake.

While I was gone, Mr. Martineau and Mrs. Gaskell called! I was very sorry to lose the visit. They left a note from the Misses Yates inviting us to dine to-day and stay all night, and go to Mrs.

Martineau's evening party to-morrow! It would be a charming visitation, if it were possible. Mr. Bright cannot find language to express the Misses Yates' delightsomeness, and was wishing that we knew them.

By this steamer Mr. Ticknor has sent us a Christmas present of a barrel of apples. I wish you could see Rosebud with her bright cheeks and laughing eyes. A lady thought her four years old, the other day!

Julian has to-day gone with his father to the Consulate. Una is in the drawing-room reading Miss Edgeworth. Rose is on the back of my chair.

On Christmas night the bells chimed in the dawn, beginning at twelve and continuing till daybreak. I wish you could hear this chiming of bells. It is the most joyful sound you can imagine,--the most hopeful, the most enlivening. I waked before light, and thought I heard some ineffable music. I thought of the song of the angels on that blessed morn; but while listening, through a sudden opening in the air, or breeze blowing towards us, I found it was not the angels, but the bells of Liverpool. One day when I was driving through Liverpool with Una and Julian, these bells suddenly broke forth on the occasion of a marriage, and I could scarcely keep the children in the carriage. They leaped up and down, and Una declared she would be married in England, if only to hear the chime of the bells. The mummers stood at our gate on Christmas morning and sang in the dawn, acting the part of the heavenly host. The Old Year was tolled out and the New Year chimed in also, and again the mummers sang at the gate.

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 pa.s.s 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 watch-chain. I could not recount to you the gems cl.u.s.tered 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-gla.s.s; 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. In the morning she sat down to 'Una's beautifully toned piano, and sang one of Lockhart's Spanish ballads, with eloquent expression, so as to make my blood tingle.

Hospitality was quite frequent now in our first English home, as many letters affirm. The delightful novelty to my small self of a peep at the glitter of little dinner-parties 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-gla.s.s, 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 surpa.s.sed 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 lost the lesson of how much more beautiful her n.o.ble 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 mult.i.tude 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 un broken 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.

Julian came home from Liverpool with papa one afternoon with four masks, with which we made merry for several days. One was the face of a simpleton, and that was very funny upon papa,--such a transformation! A spectacled old beldame, looking exactly like a terrific auld wife at Lenox, was very diverting upon Julian, turning him into a gnome; and Una was irresistible beneath the mask of a meaningless young miss, resembling a silly-looking doll. Julian put on another with a portentous nose, and then danced the schottische with Una in her doll's mask. Hearing this morning that a gentleman had sent to some regiments 50 pounds worth of postage stamps, he said he thought it would be better to have an arrangement for all the soldiers' letters to go and come free. I do not know but he had better send this suggestion to the "London Times."

March 12.

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., the aunt of Henry Bright, 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. Mr. Hawthorne 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 n.o.bly 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 c.o.c.ked 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 16.

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 clay, 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! We expected Mr. Warren here to dine afterwards, but he has gone home to Hull.

Mrs. Sanders again sent a peremptory summons for us all to go to London and make her a visit. I wish Mr. Hawthorne could leave his affairs and go, for she lives in Portman Square, and Mr. Buchanan would get us admitted everywhere. Mr. Sanders has been rejected by the Senate; but I do not suppose he cares much, since he is worth a half million of dollars.

Sir Thomas Talfourd, the author of "Ion," suddenly died the other day, universally mourned. I believe his brother Field, who came to England with us, is again in America, now. I trust the rest of the notable men of England will live till I have seen them. This gentleman wished very much to meet Mr. Hawthorne.

March 30.

Mr. Hawthorne went to Norris Green and dined with the H----s, Martineaus, and Brights, and others, and stayed all night, as appointed. He declared that, when he looked in the gla.s.s before going down to dinner, he presented the appearance of a respectable butler, with his white cravat--and thought of hiring himself out. He liked Mr.

H. . . . He gives away 7000 pounds a year in charity! Mrs. H. is good, too, for she goes herself and sees into the condition of a whole district in Liverpool, though a dainty lady of fashion. She showed Mr.

Hawthorne a miniature of the famous Sir Kenelm Digby, who was her ancestor; and so through his family she is connected with the Percys and the Stanleys, Earls of Derby. Everything was in sumptuous fashion, served by gorgeous footmen. Mr. Hawthorne was chief guest. . . . Mrs.

H. has sense, and is rather sentimental, too. She has no children, and had the a.s.surance to tell Mr. Hawthorne she preferred chickens to children.

The next day Mr. Bright invited Mr. Hawthorne to drive. Mr. Bright wanted to call on his cousin, Sir Thomas Birch. And as he was the nearest neighbor of the Earl of Derby, he took them to Knowsley, Lord Derby's seat. At Sir Thomas's, Mr. Hawthorne saw a rookery for the first time; and a picture of Lady Birch, his mother, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, but not quite finished. It is said to be one of his best pictures. Mr. Hawthorne was disappointed in the house at Knowsley. It was lower than he had imagined, and of various eras, but so large as to be able to entertain an hundred guests.

April 14, Good Friday.

MY DEAR FATHER,--This is a day of great and solemn fast in England; when all business is suspended, and no work is done in house or street; when there is really a mighty pause in worldly affairs, and all people remind themselves that Christ was crucified, and died for us. From early morning till late evening, all churches are open and service is performed.

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 circ.u.mscribed. 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 $5000 a year by economy. He himself, living in a very quiet manner, not going into society, has spent $4000 a year. He thinks we must spend more. 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?

I have only room to put in the truest, warmest sympathy with all your efforts and trials, and the wish that I could lift you up out of all, and sorrow that I cannot. Mr. Hawthorne has relations and personal friends who look to him, I think, with great desires. I can demand nothing for mine.

Though the great Reform Bill of Lord John Russell was deferred by him the other night to another period on account of war, yet reforms on every point in social life are going on here, or moving to go on.

Nothing seems to escape some eye that has suddenly opened. The Earl of Shaftesbury is one of G.o.d's Angels of Benefits. The hideous condition of the very poor and even of tradesmen is being demonstrated to the nation; a condition in which, a writer in the London "Athenaeum" says, "Virtue is impossible"! From this most crying and worst evil, up through all things, sounds the trumpet of reform.

Such abuse of the good President as there is, is sickening. I hope those who vilify him for doing what he considers his duty have a quarter of his conscience and uprightness. He is a brave man. . . . He wrote Mr. Hawthorne that he had no hope of being popular during the first part of his administration at least. He can be neither bribed, bought, nor tempted in his political course; he will do what he thinks const.i.tutional and right, and find content in it. . . . I wish our Senators had as good manners as the n.o.ble lords of Parliament. But we are perfect savages in manners as yet, and have no self-control, nor reverence. The dignity and serenity of maturer age will, I trust, come at last to us. . . .

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 coa.r.s.e, compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose he 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 a.s.sure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does not observe this; but it is nuts to me, and / observe it. The lofty, sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought he was born for a palace, and he shows that he was.