Passages From the English Notebooks, Volume 2.

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Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger

PASSAGES FROM THE ENGLISH NOTE-BOOKS

OF

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

VOL. II.

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S ENGLISH NOTE-BOOKS.

LONDON.--MILTON-CLUB DINNER.

April 4th, 1856.--On Tuesday I went to No. 14 Ludgate Hill, to dine with
Bennoch at the Milton Club; a club recently founded for dissenters,
nonconformists, and people whose ideas, religious or political, are not
precisely in train with the establishment in church and state. I was
shown into a large reading-room, well provided with periodicals and
newspapers, and found two or three persons there; but Bennoch had not yet
arrived. In a few moments, a tall gentleman with white hair came in,--a
fine and intelligent-looking man, whom I guessed to be one of those who
were to meet me. He walked about, glancing at the periodicals; and soon
entered Mr. Tupper, and, without seeing me, exchanged warm greetings with
the white-haired gentleman. "I suppose," began Mr. Tupper, "you have
come to meet--" Now, conscious that my name was going to be spoken, and
not knowing but the excellent Mr. Tupper might say something which he
would not, quite like me to overhear, I advanced at once, with
outstretched hand, and saluted him. He expressed great joy at the
recognition, and immediately introduced me to Mr. Hall.

The dining-room was pretty large and lofty, and there were sixteen guests
at table, most of them authors, or people connected with the press; so
that the party represented a great deal of the working intellect of
London at this present day and moment,--the men whose plays, whose songs,
whose articles, are just now in vogue. Mr. Tom Taylor was one of the
very few whose writings I had known anything about. He is a tall,
slender, dark young man, not English-looking, and wearing colored
spectacles, so that I should readily have taken him for an American
literary man. I did not have much opportunity of talking with him, nor
with anybody else, except Dr. ------, who seemed a shrewd, sensible man,
with a certain slight acerbity of thought. Mr. Herbert Ingram, recently
elected member of Parliament, was likewise present, and sat on Bennoch's
left.

It was a very good dinner, with an abundance of wine, which Bennoch sent
round faster than was for the next day's comfort of his guests. It is
singular that I should thus far have quite forgotten W------ H--------,
whose books I know better than those of any other person there. He is a
white-headed, stout, firm-looking, and rather wrinkled-faced old
gentleman, whose temper, I should imagine, was not the very sweetest in
the world. There is all abruptness, a kind of sub-acidity, if not
bitterness, in his address; he seemed not to be, in short, so genial as I
should have anticipated from his books.

As soon as the cloth was removed, Bennoch, without rising from his chair,
made a speech in honor of his eminent and distinguished guest, which
illustrious person happened to be sitting in the selfsame chair that I
myself occupied. I have no recollection of what he said, nor of what I
said in reply, but I remember that both of us were cheered and applauded
much more than the occasion deserved. Then followed about fifty other
speeches; for every single individual at table was called up (as Tupper
said, "toasted and roasted"), and, for my part, I was done entirely brown
(to continue T-----'s figure). Everybody said something kind, not a word
or idea of which can I find in my memory. Certainly, if I never get any
more praise in my life, I have had enough of it for once. I made another
little bit of a speech, too, in response to something that was said in
reference to the present difficulties between England and America, and
ended, as a proof that I deemed war impossible, with drinking success to
the British army, and calling on Lieutenant Shaw, of the Aldershott Camp,
to reply. I am afraid I must have said something very wrong, for the
applause was vociferous, and I could hear the gentlemen whispering about
the table, "Good!" "Good!" "Yes, he is a fine fellow,"--and other such
ill-earned praises; and I took shame to myself, and held my tongue
(publicly) the rest of the evening. But in such cases something must be
allowed to the excitement of the moment, and to the effect of kindness
and goodwill, so broadly and warmly displayed; and even a sincere man
must not be held to speak as if he were under oath.

We separated, in a blessed state of contentment with one another, at
about eleven; and (lest I should starve before morning) I went with Mr.
D------ to take supper at his house in Park Lane. Mr. D------ is a pale
young gentleman, of American aspect, being a West-Indian by birth. He is
one of the principal writers of editorials for the Times. We were
accompanied in the carriage by another gentleman, Mr. M------, who is
connected with the management of the same paper. He wrote the letters
from Scutari, which drew so much attention to the state of the hospitals.
Mr. D------ is the husband of the former Miss ------, the actress, and
when we reached his house, we found that she had just come home from the
theatre, and was taking off her stage-dress. Anon she came down to the
drawing-room,--a seemingly good, simple, and intelligent lady, not at all
pretty, and, I should think, older than her husband. She was very kind
to me, and told me that she had read one of my books--The House of the
Seven Gables--thirteen years ago; which I thought remarkable, because I
did not write it till eight or nine years afterwards.

The principal talk during supper (which consisted of Welsh-rabbit and
biscuits, with champagne and sodawater) was about the Times, and the two
contributors expressed vast admiration of Mr. ------, who has the chief
editorial management of the paper. It is odd to find how little we
outsiders know of men who really exercise a vast influence on affairs,
for this Mr. ------ is certainly of far more importance in the world than
a minister of state. He writes nothing himself; but the character of the
Times seems to depend upon his intuitive, unerring judgment; and if ever
he is absent from his post, even for a day or two, they say that the
paper immediately shows it. In reply to my questions, they appeared to
acknowledge that he was a man of expediency, but of a very high
expediency, and that he gave the public the very best principles which it
was capable of receiving. Perhaps it may be so: the Times's articles are
certainly not written in so high a moral vein as might be wished; but
what they lack in height they gain in breadth. Every sensible man in
England finds his own best common-sense there; and, in effect, I think
its influence is wholesome.

Apropos of public speaking, Dr. ------ said that Sir Lytton Bulwer asked
him (I think the anecdote was personal to himself) whether he felt his
heart beat when he was going to speak. "Yes." "Does your voice frighten
you?" "Yes." "Do all your ideas forsake you?" "Yes." "Do you wish the
floor to open and swallow you?" "Yes." "Why, then, you'll make an
orator!" Dr. ------ told of Canning, too, how once, before rising to
speak in the House of Commons, he bade his friend feel his pulse, which
was throbbing terrifically. "I know I shall make one of my best
speeches," said Canning, "because I'm in such an awful funk!" President
Pierce, who has a great deal of oratorical power, is subject to a similar
horror and reluctance.

REFORM-CLUB DINNER.

April 5th.--On Thursday, at eight o'clock, I went to the Reform Club, to
dine with Dr. ------. The waiter admitted me into a great basement hall,
with a tessellated or mosaic or somehow figured floor of stone, and
lighted from a dome of lofty height. In a few minutes Dr. ------
appeared, and showed me about the edifice, which is very noble and of a
substantial magnificence that was most satisfactory to behold,--no
wood-work imitating better materials, but pillars and balustrades of
marble, and everything what it purports to be. The reading-room is very
large, and luxuriously comfortable, and contains an admirable library:
there are rooms and conveniences for every possible purpose; and whatever
material for enjoyment a bachelor may need, or ought to have, he can
surely find it here, and on such reasonable terms that a small income
will do as much for him as a far greater one on any other system.

In a colonnade, on the first floor, surrounding the great basement hall,
there are portraits of distinguished reformers, and black niches for
others yet to come. Joseph Hume, I believe, is destined to fill one of
these blanks; but I remarked that the larger part of the portraits,
already hung up, are of men of high rank,--the Duke of Sussex, for
instance; Lord Durham, Lord Grey; and, indeed, I remember no commoner.
In one room, I saw on the wall the fac-simile, so common in the United
States, of our Declaration of Independence.

Descending again to the basement hall, an elderly gentleman came in, and
was warmly welcomed by Dr. ------. He was a very short man, but with
breadth enough, and a back excessively bent,--bowed almost to deformity;
very gray hair, and a face and expression of remarkable briskness and
intelligence. His profile came out pretty boldly, and his eyes had the
prominence that indicates, I believe, volubility of speech, nor did he
fail to talk from the instant of his appearance; and in the tone of his
voice, and in his glance, and in the whole man, there was something
racy,--a flavor of the humorist. His step was that of an aged man, and
he put his stick down very decidedly at every footfall; though as he
afterwards told me that he was only fifty-two, he need not yet have been
infirm. But perhaps he has had the gout; his feet, however, are by no
means swollen, but unusually small. Dr. ------ introduced him as Mr.
Douglas Jerrold, and we went into the coffee-room to dine.

The coffee-room occupies one whole side of the edifice, and is provided
with a great many tables, calculated for three or four persons to dine
at; and we sat down at one of these, and Dr. ------ ordered some
mulligatawny soup, and a bottle of white French wine. The waiters in the
coffee-room are very numerous, and most of them dressed in the livery of
the Club, comprising plush breeches and white-silk stockings; for these
English Reformers do not seem to include Republican simplicity of manners
in their system. Neither, perhaps, is it anywise essential.

After the soup, we had turbot, and by and by a bottle of Chateau Margaux,
very delectable; and then some lambs' feet, delicately done, and some
cutlets of I know not what peculiar type; and finally a ptarmigan, which
is of the same race of birds as the grouse, but feeds high up towards the
summits of the Scotch mountains. Then some cheese, and a bottle of
Chambertin. It was a very pleasant dinner, and my companions were both
very agreeable men; both taking a shrewd, satirical, yet not ill-natured,
view of life and people, and as for Mr. Douglas Jerrold, he often
reminded me of E---- C------, in the richer veins of the latter, both by
his face and expression, and by a tincture of something at once wise and
humorously absurd in what he said. But I think he has a kinder, more
genial, wholesomer nature than E----, and under a very thin crust of
outward acerbity I grew sensible of a very warm heart, and even of much
simplicity of character in this man, born in London, and accustomed
always to London life.

I wish I had any faculty whatever of remembering what people say; but,
though I appreciate anything good at the moment, it never stays in my
memory; nor do I think, in fact, that anything definite, rounded,
pointed, separable, and transferable from the general lump of
conversation was said by anybody. I recollect that they laughed at
Mr. ------, and at his shedding a tear into a Scottish river, on occasion
of some literary festival. . . . They spoke approvingly of Bulwer, as
valuing his literary position, and holding himself one of the brotherhood
of authors; and not so approvingly of Charles Dickens, who, born a
plebeian, aspires to aristocratic society. But I said that it was easy
to condescend, and that Bulwer knew he could not put off his rank, and
that he would have all the advantages of it in spite of his authorship.
We talked about the position of men of letters in England, and they said
that the aristocracy hated and despised and feared them; and I asked why
it was that literary men, having really so much power in their hands,
were content to live unrecognized in the State.

Douglas Jerrold talked of Thackeray and his success in America, and said
that he himself purposed going and had been invited thither to lecture.
I asked him whether it was pleasant to a writer of plays to see them
performed; and he said it was intolerable, the presentation of the
author's idea being so imperfect; and Dr. ------ observed that it was
excruciating to hear one of his own songs sung. Jerrold spoke of the
Duke of Devonshire with great warmth, as a true, honest, simple, most
kind-hearted man, from whom he himself had received great courtesies and
kindnesses (not, as I understood, in the way of patronage or essential
favors); and I (Heaven forgive me!) queried within myself whether this
English reforming author would have been quite so sensible of the Duke's
excellence if his Grace had not been a duke. But indeed, a nobleman, who
is at the same time a true and whole-hearted man, feeling his brotherhood
with men, does really deserve some credit for it.

In the course of the evening, Jerrold spoke with high appreciation of
Emerson; and of Longfellow, whose Hiawatha he considered a wonderful
performance; and of Lowell, whose Fable for Critics he especially
admired. I mentioned Thoreau, and proposed to send his works to Dr.
------, who, being connected with the Illustrated News, and otherwise a
writer, might be inclined to draw attention to then. Douglas Jerrold
asked why he should not have them too. I hesitated a little, but as he
pressed me, and would have an answer, I said that I did not feel quite so
sure of his kindly judgment on Thoreau's books; and it so chanced that I
used the word "acrid" for lack of a better, in endeavoring to express my
idea of Jerrold's way of looking at men and books. It was not quite what
I meant; but, in fact, he often is acrid, and has written pages and
volumes of acridity, though, no doubt, with an honest purpose, and from a
manly disgust at the cant and humbug of the world. Jerrold said no more,
and I went on talking with Dr. ------; but, in a minute or two, I became
aware that something had gone wrong, and, looking at Douglas Jerrold,
there was an expression of pain and emotion on his face. By this time a
second bottle of Burgundy had been opened (Clos Vougeot, the best the
Club could produce, and far richer than the Chambertin), and that warm
and potent wine may have had something to do with the depth and vivacity
of Mr. Jerrold's feelings. But he was indeed greatly hurt by that little
word "acrid." "He knew," he said, "that the world considered him a sour,
bitter, ill-natured man; but that such a man as I should have the sane
opinion was almost more than he could bear." As he spoke, he threw out
his arms, sank back in his seat, and I was really a little apprehensive
of his actual dissolution into tears. Hereupon I spoke, as was good
need, and though, as usual, I have forgotten everything I said, I am
quite sure it was to the purpose, and went to this good fellow's heart,
as it came warmly from my own. I do remember saying that I felt him to
be as genial as the glass of Burgundy which I held in my hand; and I
think that touched the very right spot; for he smiled, and said he was
afraid the Burgundy was better than he, but yet he was comforted. Dr.
------ said that he likewise had a reputation for bitterness; and I
assured him, if I might venture to join myself to the brotherhood of two
such men, that I was considered a very ill-natured person by many people
in my own country. Douglas Jerrold said he was glad of it.

We were now in sweetest harmony, and Jerrold spoke more than it would
become me to repeat in praise of my own books, which he said he admired,
and he found the man more admirable than his books! I hope so,
certainly.

We now went to the Haymarket Theatre, where Douglas Jerrold is on the
free list; and after seeing a ballet by some Spanish dancers, we
separated, and betook ourselves to our several homes. I like Douglas
Jerrold very much.

April 8th.--On Saturday evening, at ten o'clock, I went to a supper-party
at Mr. D------'s, and there met five or six people,--Mr. Faed, a young
and distinguished artist; Dr. Eliotson, a dark, sombre, taciturn,
powerful-looking man, with coal-black hair, and a beard as black,
fringing round his face; Mr. Charles Reade, author of Christie Johnstone
and other novels, and many plays,--a tall man, more than thirty,
fair-haired, and of agreeable talk and demeanor.

On April 6th, I went to the Waterloo station, and there meeting Bennoch
and Dr. ------, took the rail for Woking, where we found Mr. Hall's
carriage waiting to convey us to Addlestone, about five miles off. On
arriving we found that Mr. and Mrs. Hall had not yet returned from
church. Their place is an exceedingly pretty one, and arranged in very
good taste. The house is not large; but is filled, in every room, with
fine engravings, statuettes, ingenious prettinesses or beautifulnesses in
the way of flower-stands, cabinets, and things that seem to have bloomed
naturally out of the characters of its occupants. There is a
conservatory connected with the drawing-room, and enriched with lovely
plants, one of which has a certain interest as being the plant on which
Coleridge's eyes were fixed when he died. This conservatory is likewise
beautified with several very fine casts of statues by modern sculptors,
among which was the Greek Slave of Powers, which my English friends
criticised as being too thin and meagre; but I defended it as in
accordance with American ideas of feminine beauty. From the conservatory
we passed into the garden, but did not minutely examine it, knowing that
Mr. Hall would wish to lead us through it in person. So, in the mean
time, we took a walk in the neighborhood, over stiles and along by-paths,
for two or three miles, till we reached the old village of Chertsey. In
one of its streets stands an ancient house, gabled, and with the second
story projecting over the first, and bearing an inscription to the
purport that the poet Cowley had once resided, and, I think, died there.
Thence we passed on till we reached a bridge over the Thames, which at
this point, about twenty-five miles from London, is a narrow river, but
looks clean and pure, and unconscious what abominations the city sewers
will pour into it anon. We were caught in two or three showers in the
course of our walk; but got back to Firfield without being very much
wetted.

Our host and hostess had by this time returned from church, and Mrs. Hall
came frankly and heartily to the door to greet us, scolding us (kindly)
for having got wet. . . . I liked her simple, easy, gentle, quiet
manners, and I liked her husband too.

He has a wide and quick sympathy, and expresses it freely. . . . The
world is the better for him.

The shower being now over, we went out upon the beautiful lawn before his
house, where there were a good many trees of various kinds, many of which
have been set out by persons of great or small distinction, and are
labelled with their names. Thomas Moore's name was appended to one;
Maria Edgeworth's to another; likewise Fredrika Bremer's, Jenny Lind's;
also Grace Greenwood's, and I know not whose besides. This is really a
pleasant method of enriching one's grounds with memorials of friends, nor
is there any harm in making a shrubbery of celebrities. Three holes were
already dug, and three new trees lay ready to be planted, and for me
there was a sumach to plant,--a tree I never liked; but Mr. Hall said
that they had tried to dig up a hawthorn, but found it clung too fast to
the soil. So, since better might not be, and telling Mr. Hall that I
supposed I should have a right to hang myself on this tree whenever I
chose, I seized a spade, and speedily shovelled in a great deal of dirt;
and there stands my sumach, an object of interest to posterity! Bennoch
also and Dr. ------ set out their trees, and indeed, it was in some sense
a joint affair, for the rest of the party held up each tree, while its
godfather shovelled in the earth; but, after all, the gardener had more
to do with it than we. After this important business was over, Mr. Hall
led us about his rounds, which are very nicely planned and ordered; and
all this he has bought, and built, and laid out, from the profits of his
own and his wife's literary exertions.

We dined early, and had a very pleasant dinner, and, after the cloth was
removed, Mr. Hall was graciously pleased to drink my health, following it
with a long tribute to my genius. I answered briefly; and one half of my
short speech was in all probability very foolish. . . .

After the ladies (there were three, one being a girl of seventeen, with
rich auburn hair, the adopted daughter of the Halls) had retired, Dr.
------ having been toasted himself, proposed Mrs. Hall's health.

I did not have a great deal of conversation with Mrs. Hall; but enough to
make me think her a genuine and good woman, unspoilt by a literary
career, and retaining more sentiment than even most girls keep beyond
seventeen. She told me that it had been the dream of her life to see
Longfellow and myself! . . . . Her dream is half accomplished now, and,
as they say Longfellow is coming over this summer, the remainder may soon
be rounded out. On taking leave, our kind hosts presented me with some
beautiful flowers, and with three volumes of a work, by themselves, on
Ireland; and Dr. ------ was favored also with some flowers, and a plant
in a pot, and Bennoch too had his hands full, . . . . and we went on our
way rejoicing.

[Here follows an account of the Lord Mayor's dinner, taken mostly for Our
Old Home; but I think I will copy this more exact description of the lady
mentioned in "Civic Banquets."--ED.]

. . . . My eyes were mostly drawn to a young lady, who sat nearly
opposite me, across the table. She was, I suppose, dark, and yet not
dark, but rather seemed to be of pure white marble, yet not white; but
the purest and finest complexion, without a shade of color in it, yet
anything but sallow or sickly. Her hair was a wonderful deep
raven-black, black as night, black as death; not raven-black, for that
has a shiny gloss, and hers had not, but it was hair never to be painted
nor described,--wonderful hair, Jewish hair. Her nose had a beautiful
outline, though I could see that it was Jewish too; and that, and all her
features, were so fine that sculpture seemed a despicable art beside her,
and certainly my pen is good for nothing. If any likeness could be
given, however; it must be by sculpture, not painting. She was slender
and youthful, and yet had a stately and cold, though soft and womanly
grace; and, looking at her, I saw what were the wives of the old
patriarchs in their maiden or early-married days,--what Judith was, for,
womanly as she looked, I doubt, not she could have slain a man in a just
cause,--what Bathsheba was, only she seemed to have no sin in her,--
perhaps what Eve was, though one could hardly think her weak enough to
eat the apple. . . . Whether owing to distinctness of race, my sense
that she was a Jewess, or whatever else, I felt a sort of repugnance,
simultaneously with my perception that she was an admirable creature.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

At ten o'clock the next day [after the Lord Mayor's dinner] I went to
lunch with Bennoch, and afterwards accompanied him to one of the
government offices in Downing Street. He went thither, not on official
business, but on a matter connected with a monument to Miss Mitford, in
which Mr. Harness, a clergyman and some sort of a government clerk, is
interested. I gathered from this conversation that there is no great
enthusiasm about the monumental affair among the British public. It
surprised me to hear allusions indicating that Miss Mitford was not the
invariably amiable person that her writings would suggest; but the whole
drift of what they said tended, nevertheless, towards the idea that she
was an excellent and generous person, loved most by those who knew her
best.

From Downing Street we crossed over and entered Westminster Hall, and
passed through it, and up the flight of steps at its farthest end, and
along the avenue of statues, into the vestibule of the House of Commons.
It was now somewhat past five, and we stood at the inner entrance of the
House, to see the members pass in, Bennoch pointing out to me the
distinguished ones. I was not much impressed with the appearance of the
members generally; they seemed to me rather shabbier than English
gentlemen usually, and I saw or fancied in many of them a certain
self-importance, as they passed into the interior, betokening them to be
very full of their dignity. Some of them looked more American--more like
American politicians--than most Englishmen do. There was now and then a
gray-headed country gentleman, the very type of stupidity; and two or
three city members came up and spoke to Bennoch, and showed themselves
quite as dull, in their aldermanic way, as the country squires. . . .
Bennoch pointed out Lord John Russell, a small, very short, elderly
gentleman, in a brown coat, and so large a hat--not large of brim, but
large like a peck-measure--that I saw really no face beneath it. By and
by came a rather tall, slender person, in a black frock-coat, buttoned
up, and black pantaloons, taking long steps, but I thought rather feebly
or listlessly. His shoulders were round, or else he had a habitual stoop
in them. He had a prominent nose, a thin face, and a sallow, very sallow
complexion; . . . . and had I seen him in America I should have taken him
for a hard-worked editor of a newspaper, weary and worn with night-labor
and want of exercise,--aged before his time. It was Disraeli, and I
never saw any other Englishman look in the least like him; though, in
America, his appearance would not attract notice as being unusual. I do
not remember any other noteworthy person whom we saw enter; in fact, the
House had already been some time in session, and most of the members were
in their places.

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