ROCK PARK, February 16, 1854.

I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandhays, the domain of Mr. Bright. Mr. Bright has been urging all winter that we should go and dine and stay all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. Bright wrote a cordial note and invited Mr. Hawthorne and Una and me to go and meet Mr. and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. It seemed not possible to refuse without being uncivil, though I did not like to leave Julian and baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended to stay but one night, and the next morning would come home and see Julian and Rose, and take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate with him; and we left King, that excellent butler, in the house. It was really safe enough; only, you know, mothers have, perhaps, unfounded alarms. We took a carriage at the Pier-head (Una and I), and drove to the Consulate, where we took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Henry Bright.... We arrived at about six o'clock, and Una and I had to dress for dinner after our arrival. It was a party of twelve. . . . Mrs. H. is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in season, and out of season at Norris Green. She was dressed in crimson velvet, with pearls and diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair and

pretty. . . . Mr. Martineau . . . has a kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But the full dress of gentlemen now requiring a white muslin cravat and tie, they all looked ministerial to me, except the United States Consul, who will hold on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. He does not choose to do as the Romans do while in Rome. At least, he is not yet broken in. I suppose it is useless for me to say that he was by far the handsomest person present, and might have been taken for the king of them all. The chandelier that poured floods of light down on the heads beneath was very becoming to him; for the more light there is, the better he looks always. The dinner was exceedingly elegant, and the service as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and crystal could make it. could make it. And one of the attendants, the coachman, diverted me very much by the air with which he carried off his black satin breeches, white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with silver. Not the autocrat of all the Russias feels grander than these livery servants. The butler, who is really above the livery servants in position, looked meek in his black suit and white vest and cravat, though he had a right to look down on the varlet in smallclothes. This last, however, was much the most imposing in figure, and fair round red cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear me, what is man! At the sound of a bell, when the dessert was put upon the table, the children came in. They never dine with mamma and papa, . . . and all troop in at dessert, looking so pretty, in full dress, . . thin white muslin or tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long streaming sashes. I found the next day that it was just the same when there was no great party at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white vest and muslin cravat, like a picture of the old régime. In the evening we had music, weaving

golden threads into our talk. Ellen Martineau played Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. Mrs. H. laid regular siege to Mr. Hawthorne, resolved to tease him into consent to go to her ball. Just imagine him in the clutches of a lady of fashion! But he always behaves so superbly under the most trying circumstances that I was exceedingly proud of him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she could not tell whether he would accept or not, and said she would leave the matter to me, with confidence that I would prevail. . . . Just after luncheon on Tuesday, Mrs. Bright's brother came to tell her that the Great Britain had come, and she would not believe it, because her husband had not telegraphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come back from Australia.

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This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is the lady of ladies; her children are all clever (in English sense), and one son a prodigy. . . . They are all good as well as clever; well educated, accomplished, and most entirely united. It is all peace and love and happiness there, and I cannot discover where the shadow is, - health, wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces and virtues. I cannot see the trail of the serpent anywhere in that Paradise. . . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little talks. She told me elaborately how she admired and loved Mr. Hawthorne's books; how she had found expressed in them what she had found nowhere else; with what rapture one of her sisters read, re-read, and read again the WonderBook; ... how Mrs. H. thought him peerless, and so on. There is not the least extravagance about Mrs. Bright, but remarkable sobriety; and so what she said had double force.

plies to an appeal from her father for a portrait of herself:

"I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, because I am not handsome enough. . . . But I will endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and Rosebud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks supremely handsome here; handsomer than anybody I see. Every other face looks coarse, compared; and his air and bearing are far superior to those of any Englishman I have seen. The English say that they should suppose he were an Englishman — till he speaks. This is a high compliment from the English. They look at him as much as they can, covertly; as much as they can without being uncivil and staring as if they wanted to assure themselves that he really were so wondrous handsome. He does not observe this; but it is nuts to me, and I observe it. The lofty, sumptuous apartments become him very much. I always thought he was born for a palace, and he shows that he was."

I have disregarded a strict chronological order in these letters in order to bring together the scattered references to the Bright family. I now take up the narrative in my mother's letters. A few weeks after our arrival in Liverpool, the confinement of city life led to a removal across the Mersey to Rock Ferry.

"We have at last found a house," my mother writes to her father, "which we shall take for a year, at least. It is a great stone house, fashioned in castellated style, with grounds in perfect order, and surrounded by thick hedges. The rent first asked was £200; but they will take £160. It made a great deal of difference when the lady found it was the United States Consul who wanted the house, instead of Mr. Nobody, so much influence has any rank and title in dear old England. As for Mr. Hawthorne, the author, the lady did not seem to know about him. My husband wishes to escape from too constant invitations

to dinner in Liverpool, and by living here will always have a good excuse for refusing, when there is really no reason or rhyme in accepting; for the last steamer leaves Liverpool at ten in the evening. And I shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all company I do not very much covet. I have no particular fancy for Liverpool society, except the Rathbones and Brights. Mr. Hawthorne was obliged, the other day, to bury an American captain who died at his boarding-house. My husband paid for his funeral out of his private purse; though I believe he expects some brother captains will subscribe a part of the amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral, and in one of those plumed carriages he followed the friendless captain. I am not very brisk. My husband is always well."

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ROCK PARK, Sept. 29, 1853.

I wish you could be undeceived about the income of this Consulate. Mr. Hawthorne now knows actually everything about it. . . He goes from us at nine, and we do not see him again till five!!! I only wish we could be pelted within an inch of our lives with a hailstorm of sovereigns, so as to satisfy every one's most gorgeous hopes; but I am afraid we shall have but a gentle shower, after all. . . . I am sorry I have had the expectation of so much, because I am rather disappointed to be so circumscribed. With my husband's present constant devotion to the duties of his office, he could no more write a syllable than he could build a cathedral.... He never writes by candle-light. . . . Mr. Crittendon tells Mr. Hawthorne that he thinks he may save five thousand dollars a year by economy. He himself, living in a very quiet manner, not going into society, has spent four thousand dollars a year. He thinks we must spend more. People will not let Mr. Hawthorne alone, as they have Mr. Crittendon, because they feel as if they had a right to him, and he cannot well forego their

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claim. The Scarlet Letter seems to have placed him on a pinnacle of fame and love here.... It will give you pleasure, I think, to hear that Mr. Cecil read a volume of The Scarlet Letter the other day which was one of the thirty-fifth thousand of one publisher. Is it not provoking that the author should not have even one penny a volume? . . . He is perpetually at the Consulate, and attends to everything from ten to half past four. It is a terrible loss to us, as

you may conceive. His time is much frittered by visits. His own office is within the clerk's office, and they do not let any one disturb him that they can help, but visits of ceremony they cannot prevent. . . . The head clerk is highly delighted when he is the bearer of a good heap of gold. He delivers to Mr. Hawthorne in the morning the receipts of the day before, and the old man's face shines with a ruddy benevolence when he lays down a good day's income. I have been to the office. It is in Brunswick Street, in a great white stone building, — a very unlovely part of the town. The Consul's sanctum is a gloomy room with two windows. Nothing worth looking at can be seen out of it, and there is nothing worth seeing inside of it, except my husband, and that gentleman Mr. Hawthorne cannot see. So I think he cannot enjoy himself much there. In the middle of the day he walks out, and sees strange sights in Liverpool.

Sept. 30th. I was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Ticknor from Chester. They had a fine excursion, and were so occupied in examining Old Chester that no time was left for Eaton Hall. Julian is quite well today, and has been parading round the garden this morning, blowing a trumpet which papa brought him from Chester, and dragging after him a portentous wooden cannon which would not help to gain the smallest battle. It is actually a sunny day! . . . A very great joy

it is to Rosebud to see the lovely little English robins come to pick up crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They have great faith in man, and come close to the window without fear. They have told the linnets and thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets actually come, though with dread and trembling, and they carry off the largest crumbs for their families and neighbors. The English robin is very dear. . . .

Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and says he is a noble old man and eloquent, and wins hearts in personal intercourse. His three daughters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very attractive and cultivated, and they are all most impatient to see my husband. ... From London an American traveler writes to Mr. Hawthorne, "A great day I spent with Sir William Hamilton, and two blessed evenings with De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey's house yours is the only portrait. They spoke of you with the greatest enthusiasm, and I was loved for even having seen you. Sir William Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says your House of the Seven Gables is more powerful in description than The Scarlet Letter." Did I tell you once of an English lady who went to the Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and introduced her self as a literary sister? She had never been in Liverpool before, and desired him to show her the lions, and he actually escorted her about. An American lady who knows this Englishwoman sent, the other day, a bit of a note, torn off, to my husband, and on this scrap the English lady says, "I admire Mr. Hawthorne as a man and as an author more than any other human being." I have diligently taken cold these four months, and now have a hard cough. It is very noisy and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind fog, chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly well, and is the only Phoebus that shines in England. I told you in my last of Lord

Dufferin's urgent invitation to him to go to his seat of Clandeboye in Ireland, four or five hours from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then came another note. The first was quite formal, but this begins, "My dear Mr. Hawthorne, ... Mrs. Norton [his aunt, the Honorable Mrs. Norton] hopes... that you will allow her to have the pleasure of receiving you at her house in Chesterfield Street; and I trust you will always remember that I shall esteem it an honor to be allowed to receive you here whenever you may be disposed to pay this country a visit. Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne, yours very truly, DUFFERIN." Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage? of homage? "Flummery," my husband

calls it.

December 8th.

Yesterday, who should come to see me but Mr. James Martineau [the brother of Harriet Martineau] and his wife. I have the greatest admiration for him as a divine, and I do not know what I expected to see in the outward man. But I was well pleased with his aspect as I found it. He is not tall, and he is pale, though not thin, with the most perfectly simple manners and beautiful expression. It seemed as if he had always been my brother; as if I could find in him counselor, friend, saint, and sage; and I have no doubt it is so, so potent is the aroma of character, without a word or sign. How worse than folly it is to imagine that character can either be cried up or cried down! No veil can conceal, no blazonry exalt, either the good or the evil. A man has only to come in and sit down, and there he is, for better, for worse. I, at least, am always, as it were, hit by a person's sphere; and either the music of the spheres or the contrary supervenes, and sometimes, also, nothing at all, if there is not much strength of character. Mr. Martineau did not say much; but his voice was very pleasant and sympathetic, and he won regard merely by his manner of being. Mrs.

Martineau sat with her back to the only dim light there was, and I could receive no impression from her face; but she seemed pleasant and friendly. She said she wished very much that we would go to her party on the 19th, which was their silver-wedding day. She said we should meet Mrs. Gaskell - the author of Mary Barton, Ruth, and Cranford and several other friends. It is the greatest pity that we cannot go; but it would be madness to think of going out at night, in these solid fogs, with my cough. They live beyond Liverpool, in Prince's Park. Mrs. Martineau showed herself perfectly well bred by not being importunate. It was a delightful call; and I feel as if I had friends in deed and in need, just from that one interview. Mr. Martineau said Una would be homesick until she had some friends of her own age, and that he had a daughter, a little older, who might do for one of them. They wished to see Mr. Hawthorne, and came pretty near it, for they could not have got out of the lodge gate before he came home! Was not that a shame ?

January 5, 1854.

. . Perhaps you have heard of Miss Charlotte Cushman, the actress? The summer before we left America, she sent a note to Mr. Hawthorne, requesting him to sit to a lady for his miniature, which she wished to take to England. Mr. Hawthorne could not refuse, though you can imagine his repugnance on every account. He went and did penance, and was then introduced to Miss Cushman. He liked

her for a very sensible person, with perfectly simple manners. The other day he met her in Liverpool, and she told him she had been intending to call on me ever since she had been at her sister's, at Rose Hill Hall, Woolton, seven miles from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne wished me to invite her to dine and pass the night. I invited her to dine on the 29th of December. She accepted, and came. I found her tall as her famous

character, Meg Merrilies, with a face of peculiar, square form, most amiable in expression, and so very untheatrical in manner and bearing that I should never suspect her to be an actress. She has left the stage now two years, and retires upon the fortune she has made; for she was a very great favorite on the English stage, and retired in the height of her fame. The children liked her prodigiously, and Rose was never weary of the treasures attached to her watchchain. chain. I could not recount to you the gems clustered there, such as a fairy tiny gold palette, with all the colors arranged; a tiny easel with a colored landscape quarter of an inch wide; a tragic and comic mask, just big enough for a gnome; a cross of the Legion of Honor; a wallet, opening with a spring, and disclosing compartments just of a size for the keeper of the privy purse of the fairy queen; a dagger for a pygmy; two minute daguerreotypes of friends, each as large as a small pea, in a gold case; an opera-glass; faith, hope, and charity, represented by a golden heart and anchor and I forget what a little harp. I cannot remember any more. These were all, I think, memorials of friends.

March 12, 1854.

Mr. Hawthorne dined at Aigbarth, one of the suburbs of Liverpool, with Mr. Bramley Moore, an M. P. Mr. Moore took an effectual way to secure Mr. Hawthorne, for he went one day himself to his office, and asked him for the very same evening; thus bearding the lion in his den and clutching him. And Mrs. H. would not be discouraged. She could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splendid fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and all the aristocracy of the county, but wrote him a note, telling him that if he wished for her forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day when we would go and dine with her. He delayed, . . . and then she wrote me a note, appointing the