Memories of Hawthorne | Page 4

Palmer, wrote to her in Revolutionary days the following letter, wherein very mild words stand for very strong emotions:--
GERMANTOWN, February 12, 1775.
DEAR SISTER,--It is a long time since we have heard from you, except by transient reports that your family was pretty well. I suppose you are all anxious about publick affairs as well as other folks. 'T is a dreadful dull time for writing; this suspense that we are in seems to absorb every Faculty of the mind, especially in our situation where we seldom see anybody from the busy world.
Mr. Palmer has been gone a fortnight to Congress, and we have never heard a word from him. The folks are almost impatient to hear what they are about.
Certainly we at this time want every motive of Religion to strengthen our souls and bear up our spirits, that we may not faint in the evil time. Why should not there be religious as well as Political correspondencies? I believe much good might be done by such means, as those who are sincerely good would be able to strengthen each other--oh dear! I am so stupid! I wonder whether you feel so, too; but you have little ones about you that will keep you rousing. My Love to them all, together with my Brother.
Your affectionate sister, M. PALMER.
Literature, art, and intercourse were the three gracious deities of the Peabody home, and many persons came to join the family in worshiping them; so that the pages of all the letters and journals, from which but a fragmentary gleaning has been made, blossom daily with name after name of callers. Elizabeth was profoundly interesting, Mary was brilliant, and Sophia was lovely in her studio, to which everybody eagerly mounted. At about the time when I begin to levy upon the letters, the efforts of these young ladies to establish common ground of friendship with the Hawthornes peep forth in small messages, bequeathed to me by my recluse aunt Ebie Hawthorne.
Elizabeth Peabody was the first and most frequent angler at the brookside, and actually succeeded in establishing a sturdy friendship with the young author, who was being sought for by the best people in Salem. His mother and sisters, walks and books, were the principal factors in his capture by the admiring enemy. Elizabeth had already a high intercourse upon high themes with the best minds among manly American thought. Her perfect simplicity of motive and abandonment of selfish, vain effeminateness made her the delight of the great men she met. She was a connoisseur in this field. To such a genial cultivator of development it seemed folly for the women of the Hawthorne family so to conceal their value; it was positively non-permissible for the genius of the family to conceal his, and so this New World Walton fished him forth. She sends a note to Herbert Street:--
MY DEAR MRS. HAWTHORNE,--I have taken the liberty to have your book bound before I returned it to you, as it was somewhat abused at the printing-office. And besides, I thought there should be some attempt at harmony between the outside and the inside; and more than that, I wanted in some slight degree to express my respect for it. How happy you must be in reading these tales! For if the genius which produced them is independent of all source but the divine bounty, the holiness and virtue which breathe on every page may be fairly attributed to the sacred influences of a pure New England home, in no small degree. But to enter upon the satisfactions of a mother in such a case I feel to be intruding upon consecrated ground. Yet you will easily pardon the feeling that impels me.
With the greatest respect, yours,
ELIZABETH P. PEABODY.
My mother joins in the pursuit, though interested only in catching a glimpse of the widow and the shy eldest daughter. It must have been worth many experiments to gently succeed in putting their skill in hiding to naught. She slaps a dainty fishing-line through the leaves:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--I send you a volume of Carlyle, lately published. It is well worth reading; and your mother--will she like to read it? I shall charge Bridget to inquire how your mother's and Louisa's headaches are. I should have gone myself to-day to ask, had not the wind been east. Won't you come to walk to-morrow afternoon with my mother, dear Elizabeth, and then I shall see you a few minutes? I want very much to see you, and to show you a certain white vase filled with brilliant flowers, which would charm your eye. I hope you enjoyed the music last evening.
Truly yours and Louisa's,
S. A. PEABODY.
I can imagine nothing more curious to the Peabodys than people who withdrew themselves from choice. My mother was often hidden, because of