Then came his son, and then a pretty lady,
Miss Stuart; remarkably pretty she was. We were summoned to tea by
what I at first thought was a distant band of music; but I believe it
was an East Indian gong, merely stirred into a delicate melody. Tea
was at one end of the table, and coffee at the other; and old Mr.
Rathbone presided at the coffee, and Mrs. Thorn at the tea. The house
was hung with pictures from ceiling to floor, every room I entered. In
walking all round the grounds before tea, we came upon a fine view of
the Welsh mountains over the sunny slopes; for it proved the loveliest
afternoon, though in the morning it rained straight down. Mrs. Thorn
spoke to me with great fervor of "The Scarlet Letter." She said that
no book ever produced so powerful an effect upon her. She was obliged
to put it away when half through, to quiet the tumultuous excitement
it caused in her. She said she felt as if each word in it was the only
word that ought to be used, and the wholeness, the unity, the
perfection of art amazed her. . . .
The Chamber of Commerce wished to pay their respects to Mr. Hawthorne;
but Mr. Hawthorne could not receive a cloud of gentlemen at our parlor
there, unless they had all "stood upon their dignity," as the witty
Miss Lynch suggested that Mr. Hawthorne should. The President of the
Chamber was a Mr. Barber, and, behold, when we came out to Rockferry
he called again, and invited us to dine at Poulton Hall, his
country-seat at Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he
resides with his two maiden sisters.
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