Now we expect Louisa Hawthorne every day. Excepting
for the three weeks and a little more occupied by our friends, we have
been quite alone. The 9th of July, our wedding-day, was most heavenly,
and at night there was a most lustrous moon. That night Mr. Allston
died. Nature certainly arrayed herself in her most lovely guise, to
bid him farewell. Mr. Hawthorne has written a little, and cultivated
his garden a great deal; and as you may suppose, such vegetables never
before were tasted. It is a sober fact, dear Mary, that I never ate
any so good. When Apollos tend herds and till the earth, it is but
reasonable to expect unusual effects. I planted flowers, which grow
pretty well. We have voyaged on the river constantly, harvesting
water-lilies; and lately cardinal-flowers, which enrich the borders
with their superb scarlet mantles in great conclaves.
I have just finished Ranke's "History of the Popes." I stumbled quite
accidentally upon ecclesiastical history, lately. I asked my husband
to bring me any book that he chanced to touch upon from his Study, one
day, and it proved to be "Luther, and the Reformation." So I have gone
on and backwards, upon the same subject. I read several volumes of the
Theological Library, fretting all the time over the narrow spirit in
which great men were written about. Finally I took Ranke. He is
splendid and whole-sided, and has given me an idea of the state of
Europe from the first times.
Elizabeth Hoar came while Susan Hillard was here, looking as usual
like the Rose of Sharon, though thinner than ever.
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