Memories of Hawthorne

by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

W. W. SYNGE.

I will quote two letters from Mr. Chorley, written before we left England, to show that even writers and friends there could be a trifle irksome in comment. My mother amused me sometimes by telling me how she had written warringly to this noted critic (a cherished acquaintance), when he had printed a disquisition upon "Monte Beni" which did not hit the bull's-eye. But the last supplementary chapter in the Romance was due to his fainting desire for more revelation,—a chapter which my father and mother looked upon as entirely useless, and British.

13 EATON PLACE, WEST, March 6, '60.

DEAR MRS. HAWTHORNE,—I cannot but affectionately thank you for your remembrance of me, and your patience with my note.—If I do not return on my own critical fancies about the "Romance" (and pray, recollect, I am the last who would assume that critics wear a mail celestial, and as such can do no wrong)—it may be from some knowledge, that those who have lived with a work while it is growing—and those who greet it, when it is born, complete into life,—cannot see with the same eyes. I don't think, if we three sate together, and could talk the whole dream out, a matter, by the way, hardly possible, we should have so much difference as you fancy—so much did I enjoy, and so deeply was I stirred by the book, that (let alone past associations and predilections) I neither read, nor wrote (meant to write, that is) in a caviling spirit: but that which simply and clearly seemed to present itself in regard to a book which had possessed me (for better for worse) in no common degree—by one on whom (I think is known) I set no common store.—If I have seemed to yourselves hasty or superficial or flippant—all I can say is, such was not my meaning.—Surely the best things can bear the closest looking at,—whether as regards beauty or blemish.—

I repeat that, while I thank you affectionately for the trouble you have taken to expostulate with my frowardness (if so it be)—I am just as much concerned if what was printed gave any pain. But, when I look again (I have been interrupted twenty times since I began this)—did I not say that Hilda was "cousin"—that is, family likeness, not identity—though it means, what I meant, the same sort of light of purity and grace, and redemption let into a maze, through somewhat the same sort of chink.—I totally resist any idea of mannerism, dear friend Hawthorne,—on your part,—and as to the story growing on you, as you grow into it: well, I dare' say that has happened ere this:—the best creations have come by chance: and if Hawthorne did not mean to excite an interest when he wanted merely to make a Roman idyl, why did we go into those Catacombs?—

Might I say (like Moliere's old woman) how earnestly I desire, that for a second edition, a few more openings of the door should be added to the story—towards its close?

You have been so kind in bearing with me,—in coming to me when in London,—and in remembering the nothing I could do here to make you welcome, as I fancied you might like best to be welcomed,—that I venture to send you this letter out of my heart,—and if there be nonsense in it, or what may seem spectacled critical pedantry, I must trust to your good nature to allow for them.

Won't you come to town again? and wont you eat another cosy dinner at my table?—And pray, dear friend Hawthorne, don't be so long again:—and pray, once for all, recollect that you have no more faithful nor real literary friend (perhaps, too, in other ways might I show it) Than yours as always,

HENRY N. CHORLEY.

P. S. This is a sort of salad note, written both to "He" and "She" (as they said in old duetts)—once again, excuse every incoherence. I am still very ill—and have all the day been interrupted.