Sunset. I left you to go out again and join my husband on the hilltop, while the children's voices kept us advised of their welfare somewhere about the place. My husband and I sat on a terrace on the side of the hill, both looking off upon the tranquil horizon, beginning to be veiled with a dim blue haze. Una ran up, calling out that Mr. Hosmer wished to see papa and mamma. So we descended, and met the old gentleman on a lower terrace, where I invited him to sit on the green sofa; and we grouped about him. Julian at first went rushing through our ranks like a young Olympian exercising heroic games, and finally extended himself on the grass to listen to the palaver. Mr. Hosmer began with the Great Daniel [Webster], who died at three o'clock this morning. He expressed admiration of him, as we all did; and I thought his death an immense loss. Mr. Hosmer was very glad that he died in the fullness of his power of mind, and not sunken in the socket. He discoursed upon the massive grandeur of his speeches, his wonderful letters, and of all that was mighty in him. Also of his shortcomings and their retribution. You would have liked to have heard Mr. Hosmer glorify John Adams—even his appearance. He said that at eighty-three (when he sat near him every Sunday at church) he was a "perfect beauty;" that his cheeks were as unwrinkled as a girl's, and as fair and white, and his head was a noble crown; and that any woman would fall in love with him. So we talked of great men, till I came in to watch baby's sleep. She soon waked, all smiles and love; and then Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Hosmer came in, still upon the theme of great men. Mr. Hosmer thought Oliver Cromwell greatest of all, I believe. Una and I made you a wreath of richly tinted oak leaves to-day, and when I go to Newton I will take it. I wish you could hear her repeat poetry in her dulcet, touching tones. I never heard any one repeat poetry so much to my mind.
Evening. Mr. Hawthorne is drawn forcibly out of doors by the moon's rays, they are so clear and superb to-night. He looked out and sighed, for he did not really want to go; but he felt under a moral necessity. I walk out in him, being mamma and nurse [Rosebud was still up]. When you write to Mr. Plumly, bless him for me for the mantle [his gift to Mrs. Peabody] and his beautiful, refreshing letter about it. I had a great mind to write to him myself of his appreciation of you and of my husband. What a noble, lovely person he is!
Your child, SOPHY.
April 14, 1853.
My husband went off in a dark rain this morning, on his way to Washington. Mary Herne called to baby to come and take care of her dolly, who was upon the floor in the kitchen. Rose rushed in a breakneck manner across the parlor, exclaiming as if in the utmost maternal distress, "Oh, mershy, mershy!" and rescued Dolly from her peril. She was quite happy and still in the kitchen; and then I heard her shout, "I like it—I like it motch!" I asked Mary what it was that baby liked so "motch." When Mary got up to investigate, she found baby in the closet at the molasses jug, still crying, "I like it—I like it motch!" She was very much diverted by our consternation; and when, at tea-time, I was speaking of it, she burst into inextinguishable laughter; and as soon as she could speak, said, "I glad! Was ever such a mischief?" Twice to-day she began to go into the Study for "papa take her." I sent Julian to the village at five, and he returned in a pouring rain. His sack kept him dry, but he thought he was soaked to the skin because his nose was wet. He brought a letter from Charlotte Bridge, inclosing two notes to my husband from Mr. Bridge. To-day I found nothing in the post-office but Mr. Emerson. He walked along with me and said he had a letter from Mr. Synge [whom Hawthorne met, later, in England], an attache of the British Legation, asking for an autograph of Mr. Hawthorne. Grandpapa, baby, and I sat in the parlor in the afternoon, and baby was in the highest spirits, and conversed for the first time in the most facetious manner, casting side glances, and laughing with a great pretense of being vastly amused, and of superior insight into the bearing of things.
April 19. The great day of the Concord fight. I was awakened by cannon and the ringing of bells. The cannon thundered all around the welkin, in a very grand, stately, and leisurely manner. I read the history of the day to the children. What made the morning beautiful and springlike to me was a letter which Julian brought from my husband.
April 21. A day like a dulcimer. It was so charming to rake and plant and prune that I remained out a long time, and tore my hands nicely.
Julian requested to go and take a quiet walk in the woods, and returned just as I was becoming anxious about him, shouting, with a sweet-brier bush which he had pulled up by the roots in the wood. I took a spade, and dug a great cave, and planted it beneath his western window; and I am sure it must grow for him, for he sent sunshine down into the earth from his eyes upon the roots while I was setting it out.
The stage-coach drove up and brought me Mrs. S. G. Ward and Sarah Clarke. Mrs. Ward was cruelly disappointed not to see Mr. Hawthorne; and I told her that he would probably tear his hair when he came back and found what he had lost. "Tell him," said she, "that I tore out all mine." She was splendid and radiant beyond my power to tell; dressed in rich green and a rose-colored bonnet, and her beautiful hair curling round her wonderful face. I do not believe there is another such woman in the world. When she had stepped from the house, Julian begged me to run after her, and tell her she must go to England [whither the family now expected to journey]; and with the most enchanting grace she laughed, and said, "Tell him I certainly shall!"
Sunday. At ten, my little flock gathered [Mrs. Hawthorne taught reading, geography, drawing, etc., to several children besides her own, for love, and gave them Sunday-school lessons also]; and I read them the story of Balaam's ass, and about the death of Moses. They were much afflicted that Moses was not allowed to go to the Promised Land. I read that he looked down from Mount Pisgah and saw Canaan and the City of Palms, and showed them my Cuban sketch of a palm, describing exactly how they looked and grew; and the vision of the City of Palms became very beautiful to them. Poor little Mary Ellen felt ill, but she was so interested that I could not persuade her to go home.