would he have to attend to some call of the stevedores, or wheelers, or shovelers--now for a piece of spun-yarn--now for a handspike--now for a hammer, or some nails--now for some of the ship's molasses, to sweeten water--the which the Captain afterwards reprehended him for giving. These calls would keep him in about movement enough to give variety to his tallying--he moving quietly about the decks, as if he belonged aboard ship and nowhere else. Then sitting down he would converse (though by no means forward to talk) about the weather, about his recent or former voyages, etc., etc., etc., we dodging the intense sun round the main mast. Sophia writes to Hawthorne from Milton:-- Sunday A. M., May 30, 1841. DEAREST,--The chilling atmosphere keeps me from church to-day. . . . Since I saw you at the Farm, I wish far more than ever to have a home for you to come to, after associating with men at the Farm [Brook Farm] all day. A sacred retreat you should have, of all men. Most people would not desire or like it, but notwithstanding your exquisite courtesy and conformableness and geniality there, I could see very plainly that you were not leading your ideal life. Never upon the face of any mortal was there such a divine expression of sweetness and kindliness as I saw upon yours during the various transactions and witticisms of the excellent fraternity. Yet it was also the expression of a witness and hearer, rather than of comradeship. Had I perceived a particle of even the highest kind of pride in your manner, it would have spoiled the perfect beauty and fitness. M. L. Sturgis, in a little note, gives a glimpse of Sophia's world at that date:-- "I have seen your 'Gentle Boy' to-night. I like it very much indeed. The boy I love already. Do you see Mr. Hawthorne often? It was a shame he did not talk more that night at the Farm. Just recall that beautiful moon over the water, and those dear trees!" Ellen Hooper, when the engagement is known, shows how people felt about the new author:-- "Your note seems to require a mood quite apart from the 'every day' of one's life, wherein to be read and answered. . . . I do not know Mr. Hawthorne--and yet I do; and I love him with that eminently Platonic love which one has for a friend in black and white [print]. He seems very near to me, for he is not only a dreamer, but wakes now and then with a pleasant 'Good-morrow' for shabby human interests. I am glad to hear that he is healthful, for I profoundly admire this quality; and particularly in one who is not entitled to it on the ground of being stupid!" Sophia's aptness for writing poetry led her to inclose this poem to her future husband in one of her letters:--