All Rose's side of the hawthorn is covered with buds, and my wild violets are rampant. I water your hawthorn branches every morning, and as yet they have showed no signs of fading, though Papa, with his usual hopefulness, declares they will. We found today on the hill a lonely violet, the first of that sisterhood.
Julian appears well and jolly, but yesterday we were all killed by eating newly-dug horse-radish, which was as pungent as a constellation of stars. Papa stamped and kicked, and melted into tears, and said he enjoyed it intensely, and I bore equal tortures more quietly; the impregnable Julian being entirely unaffected by it, laughed immoderately at us both.
Papa wants me to leave a place for him, so good-bye.
Your loving daughter,
Una Hawthorne.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Dearest wife.
I have nothing to say except that a hen has vouchsafed to lay two eggs in our barn, and I have directed that one shall be left as a nest egg; so that you can have a fresh dropt egg every morning for breakfast, after your return.
Una has considerably improved our table; and I like this new cook much better than poor Ann.
Do not mind what Una says about staying away longer, but come whenever you like; though I think you have hardly been away long enough to want to see us again.
Thine
N. H.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
Boston, July 3d, 3½ o'clock
Dearest Wife,
Mr. Fields tells me that a proof sheet was sent to Concord to-day, and he wishes it to be sent to him in Boston, so that I may look over it on Monday. You must put two one-cent postage stamps.
This has been a terrifically hot day. I shall leave for Concord (N. H.) at five o'clock, and shall mail this scribble there, so that you may know that I have arrived safely.
With love to the old people,
Thine,
N. H.
TO MRS. HAWTHORNE
The Wayside, Sunday morng., Sept. 29th
Dearest,
We were disappointed in not receiving a letter last night, but doubt not all is going on well with you;—only that miserable headache. Why was this world created? And thy throat too—which thou wilt never be at the trouble of curing.
We get on bravely here, in great quiet and harmony; and except that life is suspended (with me, at least) till thou comest back again, I do not see how things could go better. We tried hard to be wretched on Fast Day, in compliance with thy advice; but I think it did not succeed very well with the two young people; nor could I perceive that anybody really fasted, except myself, who dined on potatoes and squash, as usual. I did purpose indulging myself in a plate of hot soup; but thy exhortations were so earnest that I gave up the idea, and am doubtless the better for my abstinence—though I do not as yet see that the country has profited thereby.
Mr. Wetherbie came to see me with his bill; but I informed him of thy orders not to pay it without some subtraction, and told him he must await thy return—which he seemed not unwilling to do. He is going to the wars!—as a dragoon!!—for he says he has all his life been fond of military service, and the captain of his troop is an "old military associate." Thou wouldst have thought, to hear him talk, that this gallant Wetherbie was a veteran of at least twenty campaigns; but I believe the real motive of his valiant impulses consists in his having nothing else to do, and in his being dazzled by the sight of $200 in gold, which W. brought home—where he could have got it (unless by robbing the dead) I can't imagine; for his wages for three months would not have been more than $40. But really, dearest, the spirit of the people must be flagging terribly, when a sick old man like Wetherbie is accepted as a bold dragoon! It shows that good soldiers cannot be had.
Julian has had his hair cut according to his own notions; so thou must expect to see a scarecrow.
Do not thou come home on Wednesday, if it can do any good either to thyself or Bab to stay longer. But thou hast still another expedition to make, and the cold weather will soon be upon us. Kiss Bab for me and believe me
Thy Own Ownest.
Letter to the Editor of the Literary Review
Lenox, August 29th. 1850.
My dear sir,
I have read Melville's works with a progressive appreciation of the author. No writer ever put the reality before his reader more unflinchingly than he does in "Redburn" and "White Jacket". "Mardi" is a rich book, with depths here and there that compel a man to swim for his life. It is so good that one scarcely pardons the writer for not having brooded long over it, so as to make it a great deal better.
You will see by my wife's note that I have all along had one staunch admirer; and with her to back me, I really believe I should do very well without any other. Nevertheless, I must own that I have read the articles in the Literary World with very great pleasure. The writer has a truly generous heart; nor do I think it necessary to appropriate the whole magnificence of his encomium, any more than to devour everything on the table, when a host of noble hospitality spreads a banquet before me. But he is no common man; and, next to deserving praise, it is good to have beguiled or bewitched such a man into praising me more than I deserve.
Sincerely yours,
Nathl Hawthorne
E.A. Duyckinck, Esq.
New York.
Memoirs
American Notebooks (Volume I & II)
AMERICAN NOTEBOOKS: VOLUME I
Salem,
