About Connections: Love it or hate it, history is a map. Those who hate history think it irrelevant; many who love history think it escapism. In truth, history is the clearest road map to how we got here: America in the 21st century.
You are invited to a dinner party that never happened. What is exceptional is that it could have. All of these people, who shaped American arts and letters, were in the Berkshires 1846 – 1861, a period called the American Renaissance: Cyrus Field, Frederick Church, William Cullen Bryant, Asher Durant, Catharine Sedgwick, Fanny Kemble, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry James Sr., Edward Mansfield, Ogden Haggerty, Oliver Wendell Holmes, George Inness, Richard Upjohn, Nathaniel and Sophia Peabody Hawthorne, Henry Ward Beecher, James T. Fields, Evert Duyckinck, Cornelius Matthews, Herman Melville, William and Caroline Sturgis Tappan.
The party would have been at Highwood (Stockbridge, Massachusetts) the home of Sam and Anna Ward on an evening in the mid-nineteenth century.
* * *
It was just a dirt road, but it was more than a cart-width. Two gentleman’s carriages could not pass on it, but two farm carts could. The road was laid south to north winding along the ridge of a Berkshire hill. The land fell away from the roadbed on the west side, and rose on the east side.
High on the hill to the east of the road, stood a house appropriately named Highwood. Designed by the premier architect Richard Upjohn, Highwood stood tall, square, white, and welcoming. Dinner guests who traveled in carts or on horseback had arrived; guests who walked were still en route.
They walked behind servants who carried lanterns to light the way. Moonless, the night was a remorseless velvet black, only the candlelight in the windows of Highwood relieved the surrounding darkness. It was so dark the candlelight could be seen for a mile, and the lantern light burned bright. They moved slowly like a procession; looked like what it would turn out to be – a ceremonial beginning.
In the house looking out, anticipating the guests, Henry James Sr., was a contented man. He wrote his wife of the charms of the Ward household, but did not tell Mary of the charms of his hostess.
James was hearty and good-natured, but not the most respected of the thinkers of his day. Undaunted, he derided those that history would call his superiors. He scorned society as a place one could find God, looked for the divine in nature, and then found a glimpse of God’s perfection in the face of a woman, in Anna Hazard Ward’s face, in her celebrated perfect white hands, and gentle voice.
Emerson approached, stared out the window and saw only lantern lights bobbing their way to the front door. “A pity it is full dark: the natural beauty of these hills is sacred.”
“Ain’t it nice, old friend,” James said, “that we can agree on one point? What is it you preached only a few weeks ago: every natural fact is the symbol of a spiritual fact? All us listening at your feet yearn for it to be true even while we don’t understand a syllable.”
Emerson laughed, “You love paradox, but that statement is simple: God is to be found in nature, the hand of God, the very meaning of God, is in nature.”
“In all beauty,” James said and looked pointedly at Anna as she greeted the Hawthornes and the Tappans.
Following his gaze, Emerson was somewhat embarrassed at the naked emotion, “This is a night to remember, we agree again: Anna Ward is the loveliest of women.”
Caroline Sturgis Tappan’s voice cut through the convivial din and three words were clear, “Damn it Hawthorne…”
As her voice faded, Emerson said, “Caroline is the most ardent and musical blasphemer,” and slipped away from James.
Edward Mansfield took his place at James’ side, “Dear me, that lady has a unique manner of expression.”
“So, Mansfield, you would teach us our grammar,” James said, derisively referring to Mansfield’s book Political Grammar of the United States.
Joining the circle, Henry Ward Beecher said, “Gently, James, this man must be treated with respect. Mansfield introduced my sister’s writing to the world.”
Beecher was as large, energetic and good-natured a fellow as James without the sarcasm. James loved paradox; Beecher loved life. They called Beecher “the greatest preacher since St. Paul.” Both men, knowing Caroline, were apt to forgive her unpredictable mood swings and colorful language.
Although from a prominent Boston family, Caroline had a tragic and tumultuous life. By the time she was a teen, Caroline Sturgis had witnessed the accidental death of her brother, the resulting malaise of her father, full-blown insanity of her mother, and suicide of her sister. Caroline fled. She found refuge with Emerson, Margaret Fuller, and Sophia Hawthorne.
Caroline continued to abuse Nathaniel like a brother, “Really, must you be so silent and brooding? If we all acknowledge you are the new literary voice of the nation, can you stop exerting artistic temperament and join in the party?”
Sophia intervened, “Dear Caroline, my husband is not temperamental; he is only shy. This is a large gathering of mostly strangers.”
“Balls, Sophia, Nathaniel is the best looking among the men in this room, or most any other room, and probably the smartest. He has no cause to be shy.”
Everyone began talking at once to cover the escalating depravity of both Caroline’s opinion and word choice.
Anna turned to Catharine Sedgwick and said, “It won’t be as interesting as the conversation of these luminaries, because it is purely domestic…”
“I would find simple domesticity refreshing my dear.”
Anna smiled the smile that had won the hearts of almost every man on whom it was bestowed. “Well then, it was touch and go getting any dinner on the table tonight. There are six of us in this house: Samuel and I, the children, Anna and Thomas, Harriet and Mary, cook and chambermaid, and Martha the nurse. I should say there were six; can you believe Harriet and Mary became so frightened, almost catatonic, of the dark, the cold, and the absence of neighbors, that they left me; returned to Boston. If your brother hadn’t sent over an Irish girl from Stockbridge, we would have nothing to eat.”
Catharine was sympathetic, “Is it lonely or disquieting for you in the country?”
“Well, well, last summer there was lightning that seemed to split the sky, and the thunder rolled across the lake and felt as if it slammed into Highwood. China fell from the plate rack, the laundry was whipped off the line and deposited in the Berkshire mud, and the pigs got loose.” Anna laughed, “But I said I shall be mistress of myself though all the china fall and the bedding and freshly bleached linen must be put back in the wash. The storm passed and so did my discomfort. I now think Mr. Emerson is right: this is God’s country.”
“That painter, Asher Durant certainly thinks so.” Catharine nodded in his direction, “Have you seen his painting of the very view you have from your front windows?”
Anna smiled and nodded.
“And you know, the man, the one Mr. Haggerty has in tow, painted a scene just like the one you described, and again painted it from a spot outside your window. I think it very clever of him to paint changing light and the wind’s motion. I think I would like to use a work of his.”
Emerson, Matthews, James, Duyckinck, and James Fields were in a corner with their shoulders turned to the company as if in private conference.
Fields said, “What she says of Hawthorne is right. He is the new voice of the new country.”
Matthews said, “I don’t have him as one of my Young Americans.”
Duyckinck laughed, “He ain’t so young.”
Fields said, “Perhaps not but this is the time for an American voice and Hawthorne will be one of the strongest articulators.”
Emerson said, “Yes, there is a moment in history when perceptive powers reach full ripeness. In this country, that time is now.”
“It will go down in history,” James said, “In a little adorned parlor with snow drifts of a Massachusetts winter piled up against its windows is a group of serious and sensitive people.”
Duychinck said, “I never know if you are serious, but I tell you; you are right. We can no longer look to Europe for art and literature, we…”
William Cullen Bryant, who was nearby, chimed in, “We did it, we formed the Century Association. We will shepherd, patronize, and invent the new American aesthetic.”
“Alright Bryant, you are preaching to the converted. Look around you. I am a Century Association member,” James said, then turned and pointed with his chin, “and so is Durant over there, Church, and here comes Haggerty.”
Ogden Haggerty, his arm around a promising looking young man, approached, “Did I hear the words Century Association?”
They nodded and looked at the young man.
“Allow me to introduce George Inness. Now here is an example of the strength and almost immediate success of the Century Association. I met this young, saw his work, and now I tell you he is going to be great and help create an American vision,” Ogden said with pleasure.
“As Hawthorne will create an American voice,” Fields added.
At that moment, snow covered and windblown, with a great black Newfoundland dog at his side, Herman Melville entered the drawing room.
Sophia went to him, “Herman did you walk over to us from Pittsfield? I cannot imagine; it must be eight miles.”
Melville only smiled and looked around for his hostess. “I have this great beast to keep me company but I don’t imagine you want him in your parlor and I can’t leave him outside…” He stopped and looked around rather helplessly.
Tappan came over, and with a smile that Sophia described as always hospitable, said, “We have a fellow around here somewhere. I’ll call him and he can take the dog to one of our barns.” Tappan was tall, loose limbed, and pleasantly ugly. “We have a bit of land just across the way with a house and barns and so on.”
Tappan went out to find the “fellow” and took the great dog with him.
“Oh, now we will have stories worth hearing,” Sophia said almost clapping her hands. “I do wish the children were here to listen to you Mr. Melville and your extraordinary adventures.”
“Melville must be 15 years younger than Hawthorne, does he have a place in this in your Young Americans; in the development of an American aesthetic?” James asked Matthews.
Matthews shrugged. Duyckinck hesitated and then said, “Melville’s powers of narration are exceptional, and he can create the powerful suggestion of a great storyteller, but is he a great writer?”
Fields snorted.
Oliver Wendell Holmes joined the group and said, “I saw not long ago the most incredible experiment. At the hospital in Boston they gave a patient a mixture and then performed surgery and do you know? He did not feel a thing. Nothing. I have written to the doctors and suggested the name for the mixture: anesthesia. You know from the Greek meaning no sensation.”
“Fascinating but does it relate to our conversation about American arts and letters?” Matthews asked.
Holmes said, “It does indeed and also to what Emerson was saying. In this country at this time, we can do anything. In art, letters, medicine, state craft, on the field of battle, we are at our zenith; it is our time.”
Bryant said, “Exactly right and we will develop a set of principles to guide the creation of our art forms that is uniquely American.”
“No more relying on England for literature and France for art.”
“What caused this great awakening?” Sophia asked in wonder.
Nathaniel answered his wife, “The Puritan dogma is dead. With an end to the suffocation of infant damnation, predestination, and a doctrine based on human depravity, we can breathe. Our God as presently constituted is a God of love. With such a God we can create just as man in love procreates.”
“Well well,” Caroline said, “The man speaks.”
“And gives us the synopsis of The Scarlet Letter,” James said.
Melville looked on in wonder and with a deepening regard.
The party was a gay one. Fanny Kemble read Shakespeare, and Hawthorne read a tantalizing sliver of the uncompleted House of Seven Gables. Melville was not asked to read but told a rollicking story about pirates, high seas, and a powerful black cudgel that enthralled some if not all. The party stretched into the wee hours.
The discussion of developing American art forms rather than mimicking the Europeans punctuated the party. Throughout the evening writers artists, patrons, and publishers sat together at Highwood and made common cause. In the dark night, in the rural silence, far from city lights and crowds, it was a simple beginning; the dawn of a good thing.
In the mid-nineteenth century there was a second revolution to free the new country from the art forms of Europe. These writers, artists, patrons, and publishers banded together to create an American voice. At one time or another they were all in this small rural outpost, and they all knew the Wards. So it could have happened just like this but it did not.
