Memories of Hawthorne

by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

ENGLISH DAYS: II

DOUGLAS, MONA, July 18.

MY DEAR FATHER,—I little dreamed that I should next address you from the Isle of Man! Yet here we all are, with one grievous exception, to be sure; for Mr. Hawthorne, after fetching us one day, and staying the two next, went away to the tiresome old Consulate, so conscientious and devoted is he; for his clerk assured him he might stay a little. Yet I know that there are reasons of state why he should not; and therefore, though I am nothing less than infinitely desolate without him, and hate to look at anything new unless he is looking too, I cannot complain. But is it not wonderful that I am here in this remote and interesting and storied spot?—the last retreat of the little people called fairies, the lurking-place of giants and enchanters. . . . At Stonehenge we found a few rude stones for a temple. I could not gather into a small enough focus the wide glances of Julian's great brown, searching eyes to make him see even what there was; and when finally he comprehended that the circle of stones once marked out a temple, and that the Druids really once stood there, he curled his lip, scornfully exclaiming, "Is that all?" and bounded off to pluck flowers. I think that, having heard of Stonehenge and a Druid temple which was built of stones so large that it was considered almost miraculous that they were moved to their places, he expected to see a temple touching the sky, perhaps. . . . Mr. Hawthorne came back the next Friday, much to our joy, and on Saturday afternoon we walked to the Nunnery with him, which was founded by St. Bridget. A few ruins remain, overgrown with old ivy vines of such enormous size that I think they probably hold the walls together. . . . Julian and Una were enchanted with the clear stream, and Julian was wild for turtles; but there are no reptiles in the Isle of Man. . . . I kept thinking, "And this is the rugged, bare, rocky isle which I dreaded to come to,—this soft, rich, verdant paradise!" It really seems as if the giants had thrown aloft the bold, precipitous rocks and headlands round the edge of the island, to guard the sylvan solitudes for the fairies, whose stronghold was the Isle of Man. I should not have been surprised at any time to have seen those small people peeping out of the wild foxgloves, which are their favorite hiding-places. So poetical is the air of these regions that mermaids, fairies, and giants seem quite natural to it. In the morning of the day we went to the Nunnery Mr. Hawthorne took Julian and went to the Douglas market, which is held in the open air. . . . My husband said that living manners were so interesting and valuable that he would not miss the scene for even Peel Castle. One day, when Una and I went to shop in Douglas, we saw in the market square a second-hand bookstall. I had been trying in vain to get "Peveril of the Peak" at the library and bookstores, and hoped this sales-counter might have it. So I looked over the books, and what do you think I saw? A well-read and soiled copy of the handsome edition of Mr. Hawthorne's "Blithedale Romance"! Yes, even in Mona. We have heard of some families in England who keep in use two copies of "The Scarlet Letter;" but I never dreamed of finding either of these books here.

Sunday was the perfectest day in our remembrance. In the morning Mr. Hawthorne walked to Kirk Braddon, and the afternoon we spent on Douglas Head. It is quite impossible to put into words that afternoon. Such softness and splendor and freshness combined in the air; such a clearest sunshine; such a deep blue sea and cloudless blue heaven; such fragrance and such repose. We looked from our great height upon all the beauty and grandeur, and in Mr. Hawthorne's face was a reflection of the incredible loveliness and majesty of the scene. Una was a lily, and Julian a magnolia. I think that for once, at least, Mr. Hawthorne was satisfied with weather and circumstances. Towards sunset the mountains of Cumberland were visible, for the first time during our visit, on the horizon, which proved that even in England the air was clear that day. A pale purple outline of waving hills lay on the silvery sea, which, as it grew later, became opaline in hue. . . .

July 20.

. . . This morning, soon after ten, we summoned a boat, and were rowed to St. Mary's Rock, which has a good beach on one side, and spent two hours there. There was a delicious air and bright sunshine, and we found innumerable pretty pearl shells among the pebbles; and Julian bathed in the sea. Rosebud enjoyed it very much, and kept close to me all the time. I asked her why she kept so near mamma, and she replied, "Oh, dear mamma, I cannot help it." Once she put her little foot into a pool, and I had to take off her sock and shoe to dry them in the sun. Her snowy little foot and pink toes looked, on the rocks, like a new kind of shell, and I told her I was afraid a gentleman who was seeking shells on the other side of the island would come and take it for a conch shell, and put it in his pocket for his little children. She shouted at this; and then threw back her head, with a' silent laugh, like Leatherstocking, showing all her little pearly teeth,—so pretty with her rosy cheeks and streaming hair. I actually seem in a dream, and not here in bodily presence. I cannot imagine myself here; much less realize it. Through the mist Douglas looked like a vast leviathan asleep on the sea, as we approached. It is a pity that steam should come near such a place, for its bustle is not in harmony with the vast repose.

I suppose the world could scarcely furnish another such stately and salubrious spot as exactly this; for the climate of the Isle of Man is extremely mild and genial. From my parlor windows, in the Fort Anne Hotel, I look out on the beautiful crescent harbor from a good height. . . . Mountains rise above high hills on the horizon in soft, large, mellow lines, which I am never weary of gazing at. The hills are of precious emerald stone; the sea is an opal; the distant mountains are a pile of topazes; and the sky is turquoise and gold. But why attempt to put into ink such a magnificent setting as this? No jewels could be compared to it. God alone could mingle these colors and pencil these grand lines. . . .

ROCK PARK, August 2.

DEAR ELIZABETH,—We returned last Saturday, after a delightful visit to Mona of a fortnight. We had constantly splendid weather, and there was one day which Mr. Hawthorne and I concluded we had never seen equaled in any hemisphere. . . . I took Una and Julian to Glen Darragh to see the ruins of a Druidical temple. . . . We ascended Mount Murray . . . and a magnificent landscape was revealed to us; a fertile valley of immense extent. . . . But before we arrived at Glen Darragh we came to Kirk Braddon, an uncommonly lovely place. I knew that in the churchyard were two very old Runic monuments, so we alighted. . . . The family residence of the late Duke of Atholl is situated at the extremity of a flat meadow; and as far as I could see, it did not seem a very princely residence. But in this country I am often struck with the simplicity and freedom from show which those of real rank are contented with. They seem really to agree with Burns that "the man's the gawd." At Knowsley, the residence of the Earls of Derby, the inside of the mansion was very simple, and they are the proudest nobles of England.

We finally arrived at Glen Darragh, and I gazed about in vain to see the ruins of a temple. . . . We came at last to some mounds of earth, with rough stones on their tops, but I could discover no design or order to them, and was quite cast down. But then I saw more, at a short distance, of better hope, and I ran to them, and found they were stones placed in a circular form, inclosing about fourteen yards diameter. These stones, however, were unhewn and of moderate size. And this was all. I broke off a crumb of one of the stones, and looked around me. It was quite desolate, for a large space. Not a tree or a shrub grew near, but grand mountains rose up on every side. Glen Darragh means the vale of oaks, but not an oak could be seen. The singular destruction of trees in this be-battled, be-conquered island is unaccountable. Why invaders should uproot such innocent adorners of the earth is a mystery. It is said that the Druids found a great many pine woods there, and that they up-rooted them and planted their favorite oaks. But pines, oaks, Druids, temples, and all are gone now, except these few stones. I wondered whether any terrible human sacrifices had been offered on the spot where I was standing. The mountains were the same, and the sky was the same; but all else had changed since those fearful days. . . . Of course Rome was here, for where did that proud queen not set her imperial foot? But the only sign of her left is at Castletown: it is an ancient altar. I looked out of the chamber window one night, and at twelve o'clock the golden flush of sunset still glowed in the west, and in the east was an enormous star. We often see Venus very large at home, but this was three times as large as we ever see it. I do not know what this star was. It must have been Venus, however. The star of beauty should surely rise over such a day as this had been. Once we rowed about the island, and it was truly superb—this circumnavigation. We were near enough to the shore to see every house and animal and tree, but far off from dangerous rocks. We passed St. Manghold's Head. The saint was an Irish prince, converted by St. Patrick, and became so eminent for sanctity that St. Bridget came from Ireland to receive the veil from him. It is the most eastern point of the island, and its summit is crested with rocks. Under one is a spring, called St. Manghold's Well, which is thought to have medicinal virtues; and if any one who drinks the waters sits at the same time in the saint's chair,—a rude stone seat near,—they will certainly prove beneficial. We landed at Ramsey, and walked through the town. Towns fade into utter insignificance in that island. Nature is so grand there that houses and streets seem impertinences, and make no account, unless some stately castle towers up. The towns look like barnacles clinging to a majestic ship's sides. . . . This evening Mr. Hawthorne brings me news of the death of L. Howes! We were thinking yesterday what a mournful change had come over that family since we used to go every Saturday evening and see them, in most charming family group, all those bright, intelligent, happy faces gathered round the centre-table or fireside, beaming with life, and mind, and heart. . . .