July 30th, 1857
MANCHESTER.
MY DEAR ELIZABETH, —
We are now at Old Trafford, close by the Palace of Art Treasures, which we have come here expressly to see. There is no confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, though there are thousands of the second-class people there every day. If you shut your eyes, you only hear the low thunder of movement… .
Yesterday we were all there, and met — now, whom do you think?
Sophia Hawthorne
Over to Nathaniel to spill the beans.
While I was among the Dutch painters, a gentleman accosted me. It was Mr. J — — — , whom I once met at dinner with Bennoch. He told me that “the Poet Laureate” (as he called him) was in the Exhibition rooms; and as I expressed great interest, Mr. J — — — was kind enough to go in quest of him. Not for the purpose of introduction, however, for he was not acquainted with Tennyson.
Soon Mr. J — — — returned, and said that he had found the Poet Laureate, — and, going into the saloon of the old masters, we saw him there, in company with Mr. Woolner, whose bust of him is now in the Exhibition.
Gazing at him with all my eyes, I liked him well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other wonders of the Exhibition. How strange that in these two or three pages I cannot get one single touch that may call him up hereafter! I would most gladly have seen more of this one poet of our day, but forbore to follow him; for I must own that it seemed mean to be dogging him through the saloons, or even to look at him, since it was to be done stealthily, if at all.
He is as un-English as possible; indeed an Englishman of genius usually lacks the national characteristics, and is great abnormally. Even the great sailor, Nelson, was unlike his countrymen in the qualities that constituted him a hero; he was not the perfection of an Englishman, but a creature of another kind, — sensitive, nervous, excitable, and really more like a Frenchman.
Un-English as he was, Tennyson had not, however, an American look. I cannot well describe the difference; but there was something more mellow in him, — softer, sweeter, broader, more simple than we are apt to be. Living apart from men as he does would hurt any one of us more than it does him. I may as well leave him here, for I cannot touch the central point.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Rather gushing, don’t you think? At this time Hawthorne was 53 and Tennyson 48, but Nathaniel is speaking like a giddy fan boy. Let’s see what Sophia makes of him.
Tennyson. He is the most picturesque of men, very handsome and careless-looking, with a wide-awake hat, a black beard, round shoulders, and slouching gait; most romantic, poetic, and interesting.
He was in the saloons of the ancient masters. Was not that rare luck for us? Is it not a wonder that we should meet?
He is clearly the “love of love and hate of hate,” and “in a golden clime was born.”
He is the Morte d’Arthur, In Memoriam, and Maud.
He is Mariana in the moated grange.
He is the Lady Clara Vere de Vere and “rare, pale Margaret.”
There is a fine bust of him in the exhibition . . .
Sophia Hawthorne
Sophia obviously weak at the knees too.
Lady Clare Vere de Vere . . .
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Of me you shall not win renown;
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.
Rare pale Margaret . . .
O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' [1] you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.
In a follow up letter Sophia had this to say:
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,
— My last letter I had not time to even double up myself, as Mr. Hawthorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool before I was aware, and everything was huddled up in a hasty manner.
It was something about Tennyson’s family that I was saying. I wanted you to know how happy and loving they all seemed together. As Tennyson is in very ill health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes thought his wife might look worn and sad. I was delighted, therefore, to see her serene and sweet face.
I cannot say, however, that there was no solicitude in it, but it was a solicitude entirely penetrated with satisfied tenderness… .
Sophia Hawthorne
This is how Rose remembered it in her biography of Nathaniel Hawthorne (remember she was seven at the time).
Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the Palace all day. We went up into the gallery of engraving to listen to the music; and suddenly Una exclaimed, “Mamma! there is Tennyson!”
He was sitting by the organ, listening to the orchestra. He had a child with him [Hallum Tennyson, aged 4, later Governor of Australia], a little boy, in whose emotions and impressions he evidently had great interest; and I presumed it was his son. I was soon convinced that I saw also his wife and another little son [Lionel, aged 3]— and all this proved true.
It was charming to watch the group. Mrs. Tennyson had a sweet face, and the very sweetest smile I ever saw; and when she spoke to her husband or listened to him, her face showered a tender, happy rain of light. She was graceful, too, and gentle, but at the same time had a slightly peasant air… .
The children were very pretty and picturesque, and Tennyson seemed to love them immensely. He devoted himself to them, and was absorbed in their interest. In him is a careless ease and a noble air which show him of the gentle blood he is.
He is the most romantic-looking person. His complexion is brun, and he looks in ill health and has a hollow line in his cheeks… .
When he moved to go, we also moved, and followed him and his family faithfully. By this means we saw him stop at his own photograph, to show it to his wife and children; and then I heard them exclaim in sweet voices, “That is papa!”
Passing a table where catalogues were sold, … his youngest son stopped with the maid to buy one, while Tennyson and his wife went on and downstairs. So then I seized the youngest darling with gold hair, and kissed him to my heart’s content; and he smiled and seemed well pleased. And I was well pleased to have had in my arms Tennyson’s child. After my raid I went on… .
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
I’m surprised neither of the parents mentioned this, after all everyone knows you can’t put your arms around a Tennyson. I've tried to find out something about Lionel, the Tennyson that Rose hugged, but you know how it is with second born sons. For the first there are hundreds of photos, hand prints kept, Governorship of Australia granted, while for the second son, nothing.
James T Field, author and name dropper later wrote:
It was during one of his rambles with Alexander Ireland through the Manchester Exhibition rooms that Hawthorne saw Tennyson wandering about. I have always thought it unfortunate that these two men of genius could not have been introduced on that occasion. Hawthorne was too shy to seek an introduction, and Tennyson was not aware that the American author was present.
Hawthorne records in his journal that he gazed at Tennyson with all his eyes, "and rejoiced more in him than in all the other wonders of the Exhibition."
When I afterwards told Tennyson that the author whose "Twice-Told Tales" he happened to be then reading at Farringford had met him at Manchester, but did not make himself known, the Laureate said in his frank and hearty manner: "Why didn't he come up and let me shake hands with him? I am sure I should have been glad to meet a man like Hawthorne anywhere."
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