The distinctive flavor of the neighborhood derived nothing more from any of its households than from that of Mr. and Mrs. Fields. Their dining—room and drawing-room[1]—that green assembling-place of books, pictures, music, persons, associations, all to be treasured—were the natural resort, not only of the whole notable local company of writers whose publisher was also their true and valued friend, but, besides, of many of the eminent visitors to Boston, of the type represented most conspicuously by Charles Dickens. After the death of Mr. Fields there was far more than a tradition carried on in the Charles Street house. Not merely for what it had meant, but for all that the gracious personality of Mrs. Fields caused it to go on meaning, it continued through her lifetime—extending beyond that of Miss Sarah Orne Jewett, for so many years of Mrs. Fields’s widowhood her delightful sister-hostess—the resort of older and younger friends, whose present thus drew a constant enrichment from the past.
It was not till 1863, nearly ten years after her marriage, that Mrs. Fields, who had kept a diary during a visit to Europe in 1859-60 with her husband, and for other brief periods, applied herself regularly to this practice, maintained through 1876, and thereafter renewed but intermittently. She wrote on the cover of the first slender volume: “No. 1. Journal of Literary Events and Glimpses of Interesting People.” A few of its earliest pages, revealing its general purpose and character, may well precede the passages relating, in accordance with the plan already indicated, to individual friends and groups of friends. In the first pages of all, on which Mrs. Fields built a few sentences for her “Biographical Notes,” I find:—
July 26, 1863.—What a strange history this literary life in America at the present day would make. An editor and publisher at once, and at this date, stands at a confluence of tides where all humanity seems to surge up in little waves; some larger than the rest (every seventh it may be) dashes up in music to which the others love to listen; or some springing to a great height retire to tell the story of their flight to those who stay below.
Mr. Longfellow is quietly at Nahant. His translation of Dante is finished, but will not be completely published until the Year 1865, that being the 600th anniversary since the death of the great Italian. Dr. Holmes was never in healthier mood than at present. His oration delivered before a large audience upon the Fourth of July this year places him high in the rank of native orators. It is a little doubtful how soon he will feel like writing again. He has contributed much during the last two years to the “Atlantic” magazine. He may well take a temporary rest.
Mr. Lowell is not well. He is now travelling. Mr. Hawthorne is in Concord. He has just completed a volume of English Sketches of which a few have been printed in the “Atlantic Monthly.” He will dedicate the volume to Franklin Pierce, the Democrat—a most unpopular thing just now, but friendship of the purest stimulates him, and the ruin in prospect for his book because of this resolve does not move him from his purpose. Such adherence is indeed noble. Hawthorne requires all that popularity can give him in a pecuniary way for the support of his family.
The “Atlantic Monthly” is at present an interesting feature of America. Purely literary, it has nevertheless a subscription list, daily increasing, of 32,000. Of course the editor’s labors are not slight. We have been waiting for Mr. Emerson to publish his new volume containing his address upon Henry Thoreau; but he is careful of words and finds many to be considered again and again, until it is almost impossible to extort a manuscript from his hands. He has written but little, of late.
July 28.—George William Curtis has done at least one great good work. He has by a gentle but continuously brave pressure transformed the “Harper’s Weekly,” which was semi-Secession, into an anti-slavery and Republican journal. The last issue is covered with pictures as well as words which tend to ameliorate the condition of the colored race. Mr. Curtis’s own house at Staten Island has been threatened by the mob; therefore his wife and children came last week to New England. I fear the death of Colonel Shaw, her brother, commanding the 54th Massachusetts (colored infantry), will induce them to return home. His death is one of our severest strokes.
July 31, 1863.—We have been in Concord this week, making a short visit at the Hawthornes’. He has just finished his volume of English Sketches, about to be dedicated to Franklin Pierce. It is a beautiful incident in Hawthorne’s life, the determination at all hazards to dedicate this book to his friend. Mr. P.’s politics at present shut him away from the faith of patriots, but Hawthorne has loved him since college days and he will not relent.[2] Mrs. Hawthorne is the stay of the house.
The wood-work, the tables and chairs and pedestals, are all ornamented by her artistic hand or what she has prompted her children to do. Una is full of exquisite maidenhood. Julian was away, but his beautiful illuminations lay upon the table. The one illustrating a portion of King Arthur’s address to Queen Guinevere (Tennyson) was remarkably fine.
