An old seaman, seventy years of age—he has spent seven years in the British Navy (being of English birth) and nine in ours; has voyaged all over the world—for instance, I asked if he had ever been in the Red Sea, and he had, in the American sloop of war that carried General Eaton, in 1803. His hair is brown—without a single visible gray hair in it; and he would seem not much above fifty. He is of particularly quiet demeanor—but observant of all things, and reflective—a philosopher in a check shirt and sail-cloth trousers. Giving an impression of the strictest integrity—of inability not to do his duty, and his whole duty. Seemingly, he does not take a very strong interest in the world, being a widower without children; but he feels kindly towards it, and judges mildly of it; and enjoys it very tolerably well, although he has so slight a hold on it that it would not trouble him much to give it up. He said he hoped he should die at sea, because then it would be so little trouble to bury him. Me is a skeptic,—and when I asked him if he would not wish to live again, he spoke doubtfully and coldly. He said that he had been in England within two or three years—in his native county, Yorkshire—and finding his brother's children in very poor condition, he gave them sixty golden sovereigns. "I have always had too many poor friends," he said, "and that has kept me poor." This old man kept tally of the Alfred Tyler's cargo, on behalf of the Captain, diligently marking all day long, and calling "tally, Sir," to me at every sixth tub. Often would he have to attend to some call of the stevedores, or wheelers, or shovelers—now for a piece of spun-yarn—now for a handspike—now for a hammer, or some nails—now for some of the ship's molasses, to sweeten water—the which the Captain afterwards reprehended him for giving. These calls would keep him in about movement enough to give variety to his tallying—he moving quietly about the decks, as if he belonged aboard ship and nowhere else. Then sitting down he would converse (though by no means forward to talk) about the weather, about his recent or former voyages, etc., etc., etc., we dodging the intense sun round the main mast.
Sophia writes to Hawthorne from Milton:—
Sunday A. M., May 30, 1841.
DEAREST,—The chilling atmosphere keeps me from church to-day. . . . Since I saw you at the Farm, I wish far more than ever to have a home for you to come to, after associating with men at the Farm [Brook Farm] all day. A sacred retreat you should have, of all men. Most people would not desire or like it, but notwithstanding your exquisite courtesy and conformableness and geniality there, I could see very plainly that you were not leading your ideal life. Never upon the face of any mortal was there such a divine expression of sweetness and kindliness as I saw upon yours during the various transactions and witticisms of the excellent fraternity. Yet it was also the expression of a witness and hearer, rather than of comradeship. Had I perceived a particle of even the highest kind of pride in your manner, it would have spoiled the perfect beauty and fitness.
M. L. Sturgis, in a little note, gives a glimpse of Sophia's world at that date:—
"I have seen your 'Gentle Boy' to-night. I like it very much indeed. The boy I love already. Do you see Mr. Hawthorne often? It was a shame he did not talk more that night at the Farm. Just recall that beautiful moon over the water, and those dear trees!"
Ellen Hooper, when the engagement is known, shows how people felt about the new author:—
"Your note seems to require a mood quite apart from the 'every day' of one's life, wherein to be read and answered. . . . I do not know Mr. Hawthorne—and yet I do; and I love him with that eminently Platonic love which one has for a friend in black and white [print]. He seems very near to me, for he is not only a dreamer, but wakes now and then with a pleasant 'Good-morrow' for shabby human interests. I am glad to hear that he is healthful, for I profoundly admire this quality; and particularly in one who is not entitled to it on the ground of being stupid!"
Sophia's aptness for writing poetry led her to inclose this poem to her future husband in one of her letters:—
God granteth not to man a richer boon
Than tow'rd himself to draw the waiting soul,
Making it swift to pray this high control.
Would with according grace its jars attune.
And man on man the largest gift bestows
When from the vision-mount he sings aloud,
And pours upon the unascended crowd
Pure Order's heavenly stream that o'er him flows.
So thou, my friend, hast risen through thought supreme
To central insight of eternal law.
Thy golden-cadenced intuitions gleam
From that new heaven which John of Patmos saw;
And I my spirit lowly bend to thine,
In recognition of thy words divine.