Memories of Hawthorne by Lathrop, Rose Hawthorne, 1851-1926

MARY T. PEABODY.

From this point, the letters and fragments of journals bring to view what Hawthorne saw, and make real to us the woman he soon loved.

SALEM, October 22, 1832.

I have been in old native Salem for ten days. Betty and I returned by seven o'clock to our minimum of a house, and upon entering I really felt a slight want of breath to find the walls so near together and the ceiling nearly upon my head. But there stood my beloved mother, all in white, her face radiant with welcome and love, and in her arms there was no want of room. In September or October I live _par excellence_. I feel in the abstract just as an autumn leaf _looks_. I step abroad from my clay house, and become a part of the splendor and claritude and vigor around.

DEAR BETTY,--I forgot to tell you that mother's garden has been arranged. She is quite happy in it. Father presided over a man as he uprooted and planted. The man was quite an original. He came looking very nice, very gentlemanly, in broadcloth and cambric cravat. But after disappearing into the barn for several minutes, he came forth transformed into a dirty workman, though still somewhat distinguished by his figure and air. He expressed himself in very courtly phrase, also, and was quite sentimental about the shrubbery round the tombs. [A graveyard was close to the house.] I should much like to know the history of his mind and career. . . . The clematis which climbs into my window is all sprouting. My glorious tree--my hieroglyphic for the everlasting forests--is also putting forth leaves, and the robins sing among the branches.