[Manchester—Tuesday, 24 July 1866]
Tuesday. A glorious day, by six o’clock the Sun had won the victory. We could not resist the beach directly after breakfast although the sun shot his gold darts through us reflected from the sea and sands. Three small French children joined us in our walk. Louise, Therése, Ida, the oldest about six years old—our names are much prettier pronounced in French they said and they thereupon gave us a long catalogue of fanciful names belonging to each.
We left just before eleven for Amesbury to see Mr Whittier, driving over to Beverly in an open wagon. It was one of the perfect days. As Keats said once, the sky sat “upon our senses like a sapphire crown.” We turned away after a time from the high road into a wood path picking our way somewhat slowly to avoid the over-hanging bushes and the rainy-pools left in the ruts. We soon found ourselves near a place called Mt. Serat where we knew Miss Hawthorne lived, the only surviving sister of Nathaniel and Mr Fields determined at once to call upon her. To my surprise in spite of the fine weather and her woodland life habitually, she was at home and came down immediately as if she were sincerely glad to see us. She is a small woman, with small fine features, round full face, fresh looking in spite of years, brilliant eyes—nervous brow, which twitches as she speaks, and very nervous fingers. In one respect she differed from her brother,—she was exquisitely neat (nor do I mean to convey the idea by this that he was unneat, but he always gave you a sense of disregarded trifles about his person and we frequently recall his reply to me when I offered to brush his coat one morning “no, no, I never brush my coat, it wears it out!”) and gave you a sense of being particular in little things. I seemed to see in her another difference—a deterioration because of too great solitude—powers rusted—a decaying beauty while with Hawthorne solitude fed his genius, solitude and the pressure of necessity. Utter solitude lames the native power of a woman even more than that of a man for her natural growth is through her sympathies. She is a woman of no common mould however. Lucy Larcom calls her a hamadryad and says she belongs in the woods and should be seen there. I wish to see her again upon her own ground. She asked us almost immediately if we would not come with her to the woods but our time was too short.
From thence we held our way and soon came by train to Newburyport and Amesbury. Whittier was at home ready with an enthousiastic welcome. He talked about the early days of his anti-slavery experience in 1835 or 6 when George Thompson first came to this country. The latter had been suffering from mobs and frequent speaking with as frequent abuse when Whittier thought he would invite him to Haverhill to make him a visit that he might be rested from fatigue during the warm weather—so he said Thompson came up and stayed a fortnight; they used to rake hay together and go about the farm there, no one being any the wiser nor asking who George Thompson was. At length however a pressing invitation came that Thompson should go to Concord N.H. to speak in the cause of freedom and afterward continue on to the village of Plymouth and make his friend N.P. Rogers a visit. He decided to accept and Whittier concluded to accompany him. They kept on very quietly to Concord until the speech was delivered but when they attempted to leave the hall to go back to Mr Evans house where they were staying they found it almost impossible,—a raging mob of several hundred people followed them with the intention of stoning and killing them. “I understand how St. Paul felt when he was thrice stoned.” The missiles fell around and upon them like hail; not touching their heads providentially although he said he could remember the sound as they struck the wooden fence when they missed. He was made very lame by the blows but they contrived to reach their friends house. “I can remember springing up the steps three at once into the house, before the crowd knew where we were going and Evans [sic] showing himself immediately at the door saying if anyone went in it was over his dead body.” The door was barricaded and the crowd rushed round then to the back of the house thinking we intended to go out that way but we waited until it was dark and then I exchanged my light hat and any other garment which would betray me and passed out unregarded among the crowd. Upon our way to Plymouth we stopped one night at a small inn where the landlord asked us if we had heard anything of the riot in Concord—there had been two men there he said, one an Englishman by the name of Thompson who had been making abominable speeches, though he heard they were very able and exciting sedition about the “niggers”; the other was a young quaker by the name of Whittier who was always making speeches—he had heard him lecture (a thing Whittier never did) himself some time ago—!!! It was well the people had taken active measures against them. We heard him through, said Whittier and then just as we were about to start away when I had my foot on the step of the chaise I said, Wouldn’t you like to see that Thompson of whom you have been speaking (I took care not to use plain language)—“Yes, indeed I should” said the man. “Well this is Mr Thompson!” I said as I jumped in, “and this is the Quaker Whittier” said Thompson as we drove away as fast as possible. “I looked back and saw him standing mouth open gazing after us in the greatest astonishment.” They kept on to Plymouth where they were nearly mobbed the second time, barely escaping. He said years afterward he was passing through Portland when a man seeing him go by stepped out of his shop and asked if his name was Whittier and if he were not the man who was stoned years before by a mob at Concord. The answer being in the affirmative he said he believed a devil possessed him that night for he had no reason for wishing evil to befall either Thompson or Whittier yet he was filled by a desire to kill them and thought he should have done so if they had not escaped. He said the mob was like a crowd of demons and he knew one man who had mixed a pot of black dye to dip them in which he said would be almost impossible to get off, it might never come off as long as they lived. He could not explain either to himself or another the state of mind he was in.
We soon went out to walk in the little garden where he showed us his grapes which are evidently a source of great pleasure—one he called his own seedling—one, very flourishing, is only on the third summer of it[’s] growth having come up from a tiny rootlet sent by Charles Sumner in a letter from Washington. It was hard and dry enough when it arrived. We sat on the piazza and talked a little and then walked out of the village with Poe hill on our right to the Quaker church—there we sat on the steps while he told of a lady living near who was a Spiritualist. He has himself planted the trees around this church—they are already large.
The time for our departure was approaching so we strolled again towards the house. We observed a large village had grown up around his small house which was once in the heart of the country—but he allows none of these things to trouble him, indeed as the solemn years gather round and he sits by his fire-side alone he learns to love the people round about. They love him so well that he knew he cares still more for them. His niece Lissie who lives with him is a sad contrast to that other vanished Lissie we were accustomed to see there. How lonely those rooms seemed and I wonder at the greatness of the man who preserves such a fount of good cheer among the shadows of his banishes. The visit was one of blessed memory—we left him Standing in Sunshine.
After our return I walked to the beach in the resplendant moonlight with Lissie Bartol—but Dr Hedge held Jamie and he could not visit from Mrs Cabot & Miss Howes.
