THE PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY OE |^^'^
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE ^
By
WILLIAM M. WHITE, JR.
A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE COUNCIL OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE
DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
June, 1953
DEDICATION
To Dr. Harry K. Warfel, n^r te^sher,
and to Ann, my ^fe.
ii
Life is nede up of oarble and mud*
-liathanlel llemthome
If it be true that human nature is evil,
shall cain nothin.^ \yy blinkLnc the fact.
-Julian iiawthome
iii
PREFACE
It is the aia of this studfe-^ to select, classify, and interpr^
those stateaesnts froa the cojnplete m-itings of Nathaniel iiairthorne
^lich indicate the novelist* 3 ■perscmal jMlosc^rf^. Evcas tlK)ngh he
did not adhere to a farml jMlosophy, he did e:^BCQSS his opinicsts
often enough and isith consi0t€3wsy enotigh that the patteam ^ hia
thoa^t msy be ascertaii^d. 'iihen the scattered bits of HawtlKSKiian
qpdnioB are brou^it to@e*hfia* vBod&r a subject classification, and
handled chrcaQologically, they present a clear stata^nt of the
nweiist's cadentation to those phases of life i^iich were of peraiSBiwit
interest to him* The patt^^n thus forsied constitutes the aental
substaaice of \*ich the fiction is the end pax>daet.
This study ^ows the developraent of specific beliefs, the
relationship between diff«r®nt sets of beliefs, and ncsm of the
subtleties -shich underlie them, vmile it is not proposed that the
iiawthomian systsa of thought is of sufficient iugsort to lift the
novelist into the realm of great thinkers, I believe that this
aysteiaatic analysis does establish his thoxi^t pattern as intrinsically
sij^iificant. Indeed, the developed pattern elucidates the key ideas
of one of Merica^s major novelists.
Tne prii^ry material for this study is talcon fSrora Ilasrthomo'a
published works, his journals, and his letters. The evidence I have
used consiarts of 562 stateioKits, which range in length ffcaa • sin&Le
It
short SQfJtence to a passage of several sentences. Those selections,
which stand out boldly as attsjpts at interpreting life, usually
against the backgroxind of an event, a characteriaaticm, or a feeling,
are sententious, fisurative, and decidely moral* One quality of these
statements tnust be mentioned* They are characteristically orotund,
oracular, and universal rather than hesitant, uncertain, or particular*
They are the "truths" with which l^awthome elevates his writings above
a merely local significance* In effect, th^ serve as a distillation
of the pure essence of the nan*
'Then explicatins several phases of the thought pattern it is
necessary to recall pertinent events in Harrthome's life* It is
assumed that the readsr is not unfamiliar with these evcaits* Since
this studfcr does not purport to be biograjSiical in nattire, references
to Hawthorne's life are eniployed only wiien biography relates quite
definitely to tlie ideas under consideratit^ • These ideas or individual
seninfflits of Ilavrbhomian thought are studied as fractions of the bi*oader
concepts of which they are a part rather tlian for their unique interest.
Once the novelist's coniraentary in the various thou,:^t areas is
assiisllated, and once these several areas are taJcen in combination,
the total thoucht pattern thus brought into being affarda an
invaluable background for a surer critical understanding of Hawthorne's
ndnd and art*
I can expre^ bat imp©*f ^rbly lagr iodeljtedn^ to the overall
dir^tlng g«rlus of Dr. Harry R« V?arfel» Ills firm, undesrstaiwiing of
the ^H^ts aad shadosrs" of l^a»thome*s rslnd was of inestiBUsble aid*
His ccaatinued encotxpage^ent ^ss challenging. To Dr. George D,
Bartlett I aa siiaLlarly grateful. His keen and determined jsrobing
of the Ilawthomian concepts wliich I stteaspted to explore repeatedly
brou^xt those concepts into a gharptrar foous» For the careful
readings and awisseations of Dr. Ants Oras, Dr. RobOTt K. Bowers, and
Dr. G(Mrdon E. Bigelow I am deeply appreciative. The ©zperi«ice with
Hassthojoie -was in ev&cy tk^ isade E»re rich and Ewre delightful by the
painstaking and trader tutelage of this group of laoi.
Yl
PREFACE
Chapter
I. SIN
TABLE OF COWENTS
The Nature of Sin
Brotherhood in Sin
Concealed Sin
'rhe ijevil and Dvil
The Transniission of Sin
Sin and Purity
The i:;ffects of Sin
Unpardonable Sin
II. TIE DA^iCS OF III
IV
19
Bart Lne. TfLS TEXTURE OF LIFEs MARBLE AND MOD , . , 20
The Approach
The Cosspound
The £ph®aeral >juality of Life's Texture
Observations on the Texture of Life
Part TiTD. DI:aTH 27
Grief and Sorrow
Part Three. FDKTUHE AHD FAITH 30
The Nature of Fortune
The Governing Power of Fortune
Part Four. MTURE 38
As God's "oetiy
As a Goddess
Hatxzro as iiefuge
Nature as Symbol
III. SENSITIVITY Alffl SOLITUDE ]^
The Senaitive Soul
The Solitary Zaal
vox
IV. REAUTJ AM) SELIGIOH • . 5U
Itofc toe. EEAIJTI 51*
Part Two, RELIGION . . , .«...••• 61.
Scml
Imacartality
God
Aspects of Iteligion
Fta^ml Religion
¥, sociKry «.,.•«•.....,••......•. 80
Tradition
Society at Ijsrge
Political Sociefty
YI. ¥K)M13J ..«..•.«...««,« %
The Ftmcticai of WoRffi«
lowig ifoiaen
liother
Old HOiaen
Public Viojaen
Woiaen in General
Kiarriage and the Hose
Children
Love
?II. MS Mm THE AKTIST .,.•.,..•......•... 123
Architecture
Sculpt iHr©
IMnting
Poetry
Fiction
llmrthomo and I-lctitxi
Taste
Talent and Genius
The Avidience
I'anie
The Artist's Ideal
Metliods and Trobleoas of Art
vni, nimm nature i65
limitations on Iv^ankind
I'fen's Mature
Individual IJatures
viii
Interactions
The Jiature of the Public
The Nature of the Sick
The Twilight Zone
Purpose and Paarer
The Nature of a liero
Proverbs ou Human Nature
IX, NATIONAL NATURES 202
The aiGlish
The Scots
The French
The Italians
The ABjericans
The Puritans
New Ihgland
Similarity of Natures
X* PUDGEESS, MiXjBM, K»TH£RHOOD, AHD '.TAH 223
Bart Ona« FED0RES3 22U
x=art Tiro. REFORM i 233
Part Three. 3SCTHERilC0D 239
The I^tck of Brotheirtiood
Part Four. .AR 2l;5
XI. THE SYNTHESIS 2^0
The Emotional Equation
The Synthesis
BIBLIOORAHff 269
APPENDIX I CITATICK OF PRIK&RI SOURCES . 273
CHiUCTR Z
Sin is prenatal to Haasfthorne»s v/orld. It is nofc adopted l^gr hiai
merely as entertaining subject matter for ficti«m. Neither is the
Hawthomiffln interest in sin a manifestation of an abnorraal ppedileetion
for the seamier side of huraan nattiroj for his interest springs from an
intuitive acceptance of ?mat the novelist felt to be an indisjHJtable
acttiality. Any seriotia att^ipt at establishing the system of Cfpinlons
which underlies Bssithome*& fictlm and wM,ch ctmstitutos the personal
philosophy of the asan wist issaediately accept the araini|a'©s©nce of sin,
for svtch an acceptance neoestarily preeedoa a critical understanding of
the various aspects of life npcm itiich Kawthome reflected and wrote ♦
All questicmings of the cause of the novelist's intei^at in sin
reeain in the conjectural realm, nor do they belie that interest,
11^ Hawthorn© thus ■wrote, y^ the theme of sin so fascinated
him, doEdnating his wltings and inspdi'ins his efforts from a
rsoral jnotivation, is, since no one single trait or definite cause
is obviously accountable, is to be charged, I supjiose to
" teiaperaraent . "^
Hasvthome posited the existence of sin and consistently called it to
the foreground, '.vhile he never once questioned either tiie assmgstion
or the reasons beliind that assuii^ion. Melville eacplores sinj FlairbhcoTie
states it as a fact of life besrond dispute. Sin's certain power was
ICarlos Kllng, "Hairthome's View of Sin," Personalist , XIII
(April 1932), 120.
ever-present to the Hawthorne mind. From that rnental awareness it
broadened outward into his fiction with an astonishing fullness.
The Nature of Sin
But ^at is the nature of sin as Hawthorne viewed it? "In the
very depths of every heart there is a toiab aiid a dungeon, though the
lights, the music, and revelry above may cause us to forget their
existence, and the buried ones, or prisoners, ^om they hide."(l)
The certainty of evil is absolute. "There is evil in every human heart,
which may reiaain latent, periiaps, tiirough tiie whole of life; but
circumstances may rouse it to activity ."( 2 ) i>in and evil are a natural
disposition of man, a coiled serpent awaiting action at the snap of a
twig.
Among the old problems of i\iritanism the most exalted is sin,
hawtii.-.rue had inixeidted the problem but not the accompanying answers of
election, atonement, and irresistible grace, i^or the study of
Hawthorne's mind it is necessary to cut back iimiiediately into tlie
principles of Calvinism, for in rejecting Calvinism as a religion he
retained it as the raw material of his intellectual probings. "As
Franklin translated into secular terms the moral discipline of New
jLi-ngland, so naw-uioi-ne translated into eii5)irical truths the essential
doctrines of Calvinism, "^ iiawth.^me had broken tiirough the heavy
2Arabic numbers within parentheses refer to the primary sources
ox ttiis study, that is, the $62 quotations . The citation of their
location in iiawthome literature is in the appendix entitled "Citations
of Primary Sources."
3aerbert W. Schneider, The Ihiritan i-iind (New York, 1930), p. 256,
Calvinistic tapestry, but he was xmable to shake himself free from the
encircling strands of its shattered fibers. It is patent from the
Hswthomian commentary that the sin-cloud is latent in every heart.
Moreover, corrupted mankind is forced to act, and when it acts it sins#
"J'or our natiire is not only destitute of all good, but is so fertile in
all evils that it cannot reiiiain inactive. "'■^ Hawthorne's statements
rest snuiily in Calvinistic teaching.
"what is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. "(3) Chdlt proceeds
inevitably frcan a sinful act| it is one with sin. Vfiiereas, formally,
sin Kiay be understood to imply any want of conf ormiby unto, or
transgj?es6ion of, the laws of ciod, hawthorae notes in a brief but
forcef\il manner that it is "a stain upon isian's soul."
Hawthoiixe is not displeased to personify sin as the evil
mistress to whose call all loankind harkens. "3ut Sin, alasj is careful
of her bond-slaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest
moment, and are constrained to go whither she suuiraons them.^d^)
Again, he eoraments on the unlianited quantity and unmanageable quality
of the sin present in everyday life.
Perhaps, if we could i^enetrate Nature's secrets, we could find
that wiiat we call weeds are more essential to the well-being of
the ^^forld than the most precious f jniit or grain. This may be
doubted, howeverj for there is an unmistakeable Csid analogy
between these mcked weeds and the bad habits and sinfiil
propensities which have overmm the moral worldj and we may as well
imagine that there is good in one as in the other. (5)
Cotton Mather voiced the wratii of God in his iiafinalia Christi
^John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Iteligion, trans.
John Allen (Philadelphia, 1936;, I, 275.
Americana , a work not unfandliar to ilawthome.-'
Every sin both oricinal and actual being a transcression of the
richteous law of God, and contrary thereunto, doth, in its own
nature, bring guilt upon the sinner, whereby he is bound over to
the wrath of God, and the curse of the law, and so made subject to
death, vilth all its miseries spiritual, temporal and eternal.^
The novelist's ideas appear in accord witii the expressed theological
sentiaent. "0 Judgement Seat, not b;; the pure in heart wast taou
established, nor in the siuplicity of nature; but by hard and wrinkled
men, and upon the accumulated heap of eairthly wrong. Thou art the
very symbol of man's perverted state." (6)
Sin and evil permit neither balance nor repair in this life.
And be the stern and sad truth spoken, tJiat the breach v/hich
guilt has once made into the human soul is never, in tliis mortal
state, repaired. It may be watched and guarued; so that the eneiTiy
shall not force liis way again into the citadel, nnd might even, in
his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in preference
to that -"There he hp.d formerly succeeded. Birb there is still the
ruined wall, and, near it, the stealthy tread of the foe that would
win over arrain his unforgotten triumph, (7)
Calvin's statements on the nature of original sin express a similar
belief.
Original sin, tiicrefore, appears to be an hereditary/ pravity
and corruption of our nature, diffused through all the parts of
the soul, rendering us obnoxious to the Divine wrath, and producing
in us those works wiiich the Scrixjture calls 'works of the flesh.''
Hawthorne, with precedent in Calvinism, and in the great majority of
Christian dogmas, mt;ets sin by intensifying its heinous aspects and by
5?:Iarion L. Kesselring, Hawthorne's Reading; 1828-1850 (New
York, 19U9), p. $6,
Cotton !<Jather, I^^gnalia Christi Americana (Hartford, 1820),
II, 162.
7calvin, Institutes , I, 27li.
insisting on the irreparable breach in human affections occasioned by ^-
an evil action.
"So it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed
invests itself idth the character of doom." (8) Sin, evil, and doom are
an xinholy synonjmious trinity. "IThat is there ao ponderous in evil, tiiat
a thumb's bignesa of it should outweigh the jnass of thing.g not evil
which \Yere heaped into the other scalel"(5») Here, in a word, is the
one incontestible truth. Hawthorne here as elsewhere exclaims | he
neither doubts nor questions. The blot on man's soul niay not be
eradicated, niay not be ignored.
"It must be very tedious to listen, day after day, to the
minute and coitimonplace iniquities of the multitude of penitents, and it
cannot be often that these are redeemed by tiie treasixre-trove of a
great sin." (10) liarely, indeed, is liavrbhorne in as playful a mood
over GO serious a subject. Herein lies the grim root of the moralist's
humor—that sin is so basic to life that it may occasionally be jested
about. Sin is the form givint: cause from v;hich life's substance evolves.
It is so lElxed v,lth the sundry/ aspects of life that mortal man may
function onl^y witiiin its shadov-ra.
Basic to j^iritan theology were the doctrines of original sin
and hui:ian depravity. Christianity tends to offer an outlet for sin
Tivith penance, sacrifice, repentance, or by a combination thereof.
Hawthorne failed to see a ready and easy exit to the problem; he
continued to reflect Instead upon the natuie of sin, its effect on the
individual and the group, and on the subtle and miraculous manner in
■which it teinpers the whole of life. To the certain knoirledge of
HaTithome, the nature of sin is self-evident to all who would look at
life unflinchingly. Sin is decidedly more vivid tlian that which falls
before the eye of man, for it is intuitive and, to a degree, experioiced
hy aU the senses.
Brotherhood in Sin
It is inherent in the very nature of sin that each individual -
must fall heir to an indistinguishable brotherhood. "Man must not
disclaim his brotherhood, even with the guiltiest, since, thou^ his
hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting
phantoos of iniqiaity."(ll) Hawthorne lashes out occasiaially at the
holier-than-thou attitude encountered in bigots and hypocrites. "In
God's name, wiiich of us miserable sinners does deseirve anything?" (12)
We are alike sianers before God, for the encircling sweep of sin
brings all within her orbit.
IJo sin is individual and ended in tine; rather, it creeps like
concentric circles from a splash in the millpond. "It is a terrible
thought, that an individual wrong-doing melts into the great mass of
human crime, and makes us, — ^7^0 dreamed only of o\ir otto little
separate sin, — makes us guilty of the wliole."(l3) Individual
Instances have universal reverberations in that each specific enactment
of a sinful deed echoes the depravity of the race. "Eveiy crime
destroys more Ldens than our ownl"(ll4) No human being, however agile,
may leap free of the far-reaching splash of sin. Vdiereas it is
scarcelj^ a frolicking and optimistic fraternity, this brotherhood in
sin, sorrow and death, there is every indication that Hawthorne thought ^
it, sad though it be, the only legitimate one.
Concealed Sin
One noteworthy aspect of sin is that a scarlet "S" is seldom
stamped on the foreheads of mankind. *• Nothing is more remarkable than
the various deceptions by Tsrriich guilt conceals itself frcsn the ^
perpetrator's conscience, and oftenest, perhaps, ty the splendor of its
gaKBents.^d^) Attention is again called to the splendid but hollow
delusion so frequently referred in Hasjthorne's fiction. "Decency and
external conscience often produce a far fairer outside than is
warranted by the stain mthin**'(l6) Sin often wears a fair exterior
and is no longer sought out and exposed to shame. Were secret sins to
be unmasked, life's thoroughfares would abound in a swarming mass of
bearers. It is the natiure of sin, however, that it should eat inward
instead of being merely an outward burden.
The corrosive nature of sin leads to atteispts to hide guilt. ^
Concealment causes hypocrisj'-, and hypocrisy leads the errant one into
the region of shadows. "To the untrue man, the T?hole universe is
false,— it is in^xalpable, — it shrinks to nothing within Ms grasp. And
he Iiifflself, in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a
shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist," (17) Hypocrisj^ also leads to
confusion. "No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to
himself, and another to the imiltitude, vrithout finally getting
bewildered as to which ma^r be the true."(l8)
Through the ages man has become deft in the art of concealment.
"At no time are people so sedulously careful to keep their trifling
appointments, attend to their ordinar:,- occv^iatians, and thus put a
coramonplace aspect on life, as vhen conscious of some secret that if
suspected would naJre them look nonstrous in the general e:,'e."(19;
Both the external, or sociological, and internal, or spiritual-
peychological aspects of concealed sin indicate that the majority of
huiaan sins are hidden from view, and that this practiced concealnjent
of an acknowledged evil is in the seeds of the race and necessitates
a deterioration of the inner man. The assumption is, too, that social
intercourse reflects the aanKJ unhealthy concealment.
The Devil and Evil
Satan is not alive to iiawthome in the sense tiiat he sniells of
sulphur and brimstone. i!e does exist, however, as a metaphor for sin,
"Die fiend in liis own ciiape is less hideous than when he races in the
breast of man." (20) "Unfatlionable to mere nvortals is the lore of
fiends." (21) "I.Vexy human being, when given over to the Devil, is
sizre to liave the wizard mark upon him, in one form or another." (22)
it is possible tliat the novelist adopts the Devil as the convenient
and logical sjnabol for sin and evil, or it is also possible tJiat he
conceives of hiw as pride.^ Ilawthome frequents shadowy realms in \/
more than one piece of fiction, and it is indeed probable that he liad
not completely shaken off the world of Increase l&ther. "And as there
are many tremendous instances confirming the truth hereof, so that of
Hawthorne presents the Devil as Pride in "I^lcotismj or, the
Bosom Serfjent."
Satan's taking bodil;- posiaession oi' men is none of the least*"^
There ai-e no letter or jo'jrnal references to the i)evil. Indeed,
he furnishes Hawthorne's iaaginaticxi with scant reflective material.
Although a flesh anci blood Satan does appeal to Hawthorne the romancez—
the stiniggle for a rum's soul reaches the height of roinance and drama,—
he did not attract Hawthorne the nian« Hawthorne's cij.nd examined in -^
detail the problens of sin, Crod, and iEETK>rtality, and ^ile it held
t^aciouslj' to and repeatedly probed these concepts, it cared little
for the preacher's Hell tath its living Satan. It is not likely that a
Hs^hortie detached fi«oin the threads of formal religion would give lauch
credulity to a Biblical or to a aitonic Satan, i^liether specifically
named, or whether referred to as the ''fiend," "foe," or "enein7,« the
devil does play a leading role in several pieces of Havrfchorne's fiction.
Creative writers work within a limited and somewhat conventional frame
of reference, but they need not always believe, for their ovm part, in
the traditional concepts wiiich they express in fiction. It may be
doubted v;hether or not Hawthorne cherished an actual belief in the
Devil. Indeed, Ms lack of reflection on the subject would indicate
that he was not interested in the devil, or that he did not believe in
him.
The Transmission of Sin
Red-loaired cliildren arc frequently born of red-haired parents.
Sin is transmitted from one ceneration to the next with a greater
^Increase J%ther, Re):iar!:able Providences. (London, 1690 ), p. 120,
10
certainty. "... t}ie weakiiosses and defects, the bad passions, the
mean tendencies, and tiio moral diseases wliich lead to crime are handed
down from one generation to another, by a far srirer process of
trons-nission than hrnnan law iias been able to establish in respect to
the riches and honors irh Ich it seeks to entail upon posterity." (23)
l&irtality is nevei' allowed a fresh start, for it niust awaken always to
.. tlie burden of the past. "To the thoughtful inind there will be no
tinge of superstition in what we figuratively express, by affirming
that the ghost of a dead progenitor— p^haps as a porticm of his own
punishniait — is often doomed to becoiM the lA-ll Genius of his family, "(ali)
Sin, then, may be transrittod through the blood in rraich tJie manner of
iMBredltary social diseases, liawthome is here stating a rather
traditiaial concept — that is, the sins of the father are visited on the -
son. The consequence of an evil deed does not cease with the death of
its perpetrator, but continues to rankle in generations of offspring.
Sin and Purity
Good and bad angels have long been a coraionplace in literature.
The conflict in -shich these two entities perpettially engage is seen by
F^wthoi-no in terns cf the relationship existing b^ween sin and purity.
Purity wears the haloj its touch is nlraculous and hoi;/, "/.ith
strong 3r truth be it said, tliat a devout heart mai" consecrate a den of
thieves, as aii evil one si^ convert a teniple to the sair.o."(25) "Thus
it is, that, bad as the ■srorld is said to have gro^m, innocence
continues to malce a paradise around itself, and keep it still
unf alien. "(26) Purity, JiaAvthome fears, is but an earl;;', teniporary
n
alcove in the Gothic structure of life, iHtho-ugh sone few persons ,
survive in a white innocence, the great majority are besnsarec -with
the imid of sin»
Hawthorne's conceptic« of lean's brotherhood in sin does not ^
permit the innocent to shun the guilty for the salcc of maintaining a
cloistered virtue.''
10
Who more need the tender succor of the innccent, than
wretches stained vd.th gviiltl And rmst a selfish care for the
spotlessnesp of our o?/n ^^arinents keep us fi-cn pressinr; the ,?:uilty
ones close to oxir hearts, idierein, for the verj'- reason that we
are innocent, lies their securest refuge frotn further ill? (27)
Innocence or purity serves as a buffer for iniquity. It is clear
enough, however, that raan's praiisposition to sin is ovsrwhelaing, and
that purity's pedestal is a tenuous one.
In Ms vision of purity flawthorne does allcw a brief sunbeam
to p^ietrats life's darkened pattern. In the sane breath, however, the
writer resicns hiraself to the inevitable awakeninj;- of the pure by the
world evil.
It was that disrial cei-fcainty of the existence of evil in the
world, vrhich, thoii^h we rm^f fane;/ ourselves fully assured of the
sad H^.'sterj'' long before, never becomes a portior: of our practical
belief until it takes su.bstance anc^ reality fr-on the sin of soiae ■^
guide, wiioin we have deeply trusted and revered, or some friend
whon we have dearly loved. (26)
Cliildhood's innocence is destroyed in turn.
It is a ver:!" useral/lc epoch, when the evil necessities of life,
in oxir tortuous world, first get the better of us so far as to
conpel us to attecgjt thTom.nz a cloud over our transparency,
^^Hawthome would appear to condemn Hilda in The 'farble Faun on
the grounds that she fails to comfort the guilty Miriam.
IS
Simplicity increases in value the longer tre can keep it, and the
further we carry it onvyard into lifej the loss of a cltild's
simplicity, in the inevitable lapse of years, causes but a
natural sigh or two, because even his mother feared tiiat he could
not keep it always. Bxit after a younc man has brought it through
his childhood, and has still worn it in his boson, not as an early
dew-clrop, but as a diamond of pure, white, lustre,— it is a pity
to lose it, then. (29)
hKH speaking of the awakening to evil, HaEwthome gives moral —
warning for the necessity of a good life. "Lert us reflect, that the
highest path is pointed out by the pure Ideal of those who look up to
us, and vrho, if v/e tread loss loftily, may never look so high again." (30)
Yet, innocence must learn through direct observation of life the
eternal presence of evil.
The young and pure are not apt to find out that miserable truth
until it is tarought home to them iiy the guiltiness of some ti-usted
friend, T ley may have heard much of the evil of the world, and
seem to know it, but only as an in^jalpable theory. In due time,
some moirtal, whom they reverence too hir^hly, is commissioned bj'
Providence to teach them this direful lesson; he perpetrates a sinj
and Adam falls anew, and Paradise, heretofore in unfaded bloom, is
lost again, and closed forever, with the fiery swords gloam:lnc at
its gates. (31)
Vhereaa Hawthorne does not question, and shows conparatively little
interest in the fact that the pure are inevitably awakened to evil, he
shows a permanent interest in iiie psychological readjustments
accompanying that atralcening.
"Hence come angels or fiends into our twlll{^t musings,
according as we may have peopled them in by-gone years. "(32) Here
again we recognise the dual possibility of the human personality.
Although the "rood life," which llawbhome recognized as a rarity, aaj'
prove an effective ballast, nonetheless man's true leanings are toward
sin.
13
The Sffects of Sin
If the act of sinning held little interest, the consequences
of that act hTpnotized Hawthorne's mind. Actual sin normally precedes
the opening of a Hartliorne tale, and is more often liinted at than
specifically described. The temporary exaltation of sinning, the iron
link of a mutual sin, the bliinting effect, the s^ibsequoit isolation — |
these, rather than the event itself, stir the inner recesses of
Hawthorne's imagination. The nether world of the sinner beckons to the
inquisitive author. "Fain would I search out the meaning of words,
faintly gasped with inteirmingled sobs and broken sentences, half
audibly spoken between earth and the ^judgeisent seat." (33) It is in
this tortured realm that much of ilawthorne ' s best fiction finds its
expression.
Actual performance of a siji is a -matter of strength and
resolution, not of tejnerity. "Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have
their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert
their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off
at oncel"(3ii) Once the sin has been enacted, the initial resolve
subsides rapidly, only to be replaced hir a variety of perplexing
impulses .
But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and
inevitable tliat it has the force of doom, vriiich almost invariably
compels/uunan beings to linger around and haunt, ghostlike, the
spot where some great and inarked event has given the color to
their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly, the darker the
tinge that saddens it. (35)
Tlie sinner returns to the scene of his deed— drawi by a ma^^etic inner
compulsion.
Ill
Hawthorne pondered the effects of sin as thej-- evidenced
themselves in two distinct directions. "For, "what other dungeon is so
dark as one's own heart! V.hat jailer so inexorable as one's self J "(36)
The internal eatinc, here alluded to, and the social manifestations of
sin both provide an^jle food for an observer psychological!;'' alert.
"For, guilt has its moment of rapture too. The foremost
result of a broken law is ever an ecstatic sense of freodoni,''(37) ^
Cnce raore the matter of a temporar/ rapture is alluded to. A ^rcat sin
Hawthorne finds exciting, its effects on human nature dynamic.
Itomentary passions are delusive, however.
Yet how tame and wearisome is the impression of all ordinary
things in the contrast with such a facti How sick and trenrulous,
the next rooming, is the spirit that lias dai-ed so nuch only the
night before I Hov/ icy cold is the heart, vshcn the fervor, the
wild ecstasy of passion, has faded away, and suak dc?m anong the
dead ashes of the fire that blazed so fiercely, and was fed \ytr the
very substance of its lifel How faintly docs a criminal stagcer
onward, laclcing the iiiipulse of that strong madness that hurried
hiin into Tuilt, and treacherously deserts him in the midst of
itiOO)
"Possibly, moreover, the nice action of the mind is set ajar by any
violent shock, as of great misfortune or great crime, so that the finer
perceptions may be blurred thenceforth, and the effect be traceable in
all the rninutest conduct of life." (39) Ordinary life is duller now,
for the power of the moment melts iramodiately and man's sensibilities
remain henceforth in a blunted condition.
Beyond all else there is manifest an interest in the isolating Z'
effect of sin.
For it is one of the chief eartiily incomraodities of some
species of nisforbune, or of a great crime, that it malccs the
actor in the one, or the sufferer of the other, an alien in the
world, by interposing a wholly unsyrapathetic medium bet-wlxt
himself and those vrhora iie yearns to meet.(liO)
The normal, the good people of society vmose company the sinner iidghb
wish to enjoy are no\? beyond reach. The sinner, by virtue of his sin,
is alienated from society.
Psychological observations on the effect of sin offer a
mottled but striking opportunity for the coniplex turns of Hawthorne's
nand. The over-all impression derived from a study of these
observations is a gloorsy one, and it -nay api^ear to a reader of
Hawthorne that tiiis seemingly undue dwelling on sin is abnormal. It
is both a blemish and a blessing- of the IlaiTthome intellect that it
held fast to its concepts. Unwillingly it turned an idea loosej by
preference it retained and continued to exajnine each idea from every
conceivable angle.
Representative v/riters of various Giiristian sects help to
substantiate Hawthorne's acceptance of sin. "Let us notice noiT some
of the bad effects that mortal sin produces in the soul. ... It
leaves a hideous stain in the soul, deforms it, and nakes it hateful
in the sight of heaven. • • • It renders man a slave of sin, and of
his evil desires. ''•^■'- Catholicism recognizes "the stain upon the
soul," and also notes that man is a "slave" to inistress sin.
Calvin, the Presbyterian Creed, the Lutheran Creed, and the
Roman Catholic Creed are in basic acrecment on the nature of sin.
11 J. FM' "Di iiruno. Catholic I^lief (Mew York, 1922), p. 68,
16
Our perdition therefore proceeds fron tlie oinfulneas of our
flesh, not £rom God; it being only a consequence of ovx
degenerating from our primitive condition. ^^
In proportion as God is creat and glorious Calvinism
recocniaes the sin of roan to be heinous and fatal.l3
The Lutheran church has alwaj-s regarded the doctrine of human
depravity as a fundamental article of the Christian System. . , ,
Tiic doctrine is, noreover, so frequently and forcibly inculcated
in the word of '"od, that no nan ought to profenn to be a believer
in tiie Scriptures, -who denies its truths. li;
Of original sin, in which we are bom, we are not personally
guilty with our o-.'<ti personal -srill, but oiar nature is guilty by the
ndll of Man our head, mth wliom we form one laoral body throu"-h
the hanan nature which wo derive from hi.-n,l5
?^an»s soul and man's body, his vihole nature, are vitiated by
original sin. This deprav3.ty is an ordained fact of experience behind
irhich Hawthome does not go. Ho fi.nds it necessar;^ on traditional,
intuitive, and ernpirical grounds to accept the fact—a fact stated
emphatically in tiie oajority of Christian doctrines-^without entering
into the theolo'::ical niceties of those doctrines.
Unpardonable Sin
Unpardonable sins violate the sacredness of God's temple, the
human heart. "Supposing tliat the power arises frora the transfusion of
one spirit into another, it seen© to ne that the sacredness of an
individual is violated by itj there would be an intruder into the holy
^Calvin, Institutes. I, 277.
13;jgbert ^i'atson Sndth, The Creed of Presbyte rians (liichmond,
Virginia, 1901), p. 1.8.
^S. S. Schraucker, Lutheran iJaniial on Scriptu ral Principles
(Fhiladelpiiia, 1655), p. ^6~, ^—
^^Di Bruno, Catholic belief , p. 20,
17
of holies. . . ."(Ill) A genuine concern with sin appears old-fashioned
when set beside the laonstrous creations and expectaticais of twentieth
century America. Such a concern is no longer fashionable.l^ Hawthorne
was vitally concerned Tffith the sacredness of the heart, the soxa, the
spirit, tlie persoijaLLity.l7 The personalists, a contenporary groxsp
represented by B. P. Bowne and :^ar Brightman, present one interesting
eorollary to Hawthorne's interpretation of the unpardonable sin. "For
the pOTSonalist, then, the moral will is at the center of personality
and hence of religion. Any violation of or disi-espect for the laoral
will is wrong, even if co^dtted in the name of religion. "^^ '.vhereas
the personalists deplore an intrusion into the personality by social,
political, or theological forces, llaTrthoi-ne condeans the violation of ^
one personality by another.
The energizing subject of Hawthorne's art WcS the subject of
all great art; for lacaan life in all its wayward cosgjlexity. Sin is not
the cardinal subject of Hawthorne's fiction j it is but a keyhole, an
approach through which to viet life. All writers have an approach to
their material J a«wthome's approach is through sin. It is necessary
to en^jhasiae p^^perly th^ naturalness, the conplete assurance -ivith
l^iiowever, a conparativeiy recent religious rnovement in this
country/ designates itself "Gliristian realism" or "realistic theology.'
It insists upon the doctrine that man is a sinner. For a discussion,
see Mary Frances Thelen, llan as a Sinner (New York, 15 U6).
l^Both l^han Brand and I'loger Chillingwoarth coismt the
unpardonable sin of violating an individual personality.
l^H, N. V/ieman and 3. E. Meland, American Fhilosopnies of
Eelinion (Chicago, 1936), p. Ili3.
13
which Hawrthome follows out liis approach, 3in is the coloring agent
in the Hairthamian vision.
Christian theology places on sin an enphaais ■which is often
atrikinEly Pauline. Folloirlns Saint Paul, Saint Au^rustine wove at the
same loom. Roth Calvin and Luther patterned their interpretation of
sin on the "writings of Saint Paul and "aint Augustine. The J'ather
dynasty carried fonrard Calvin's lancntation of inan's depravity.
Though a child of the liberation, Harrbhcame is still of Pm-itan stocl:,
and, nore important, of Puritan instinct. The Hawthorne "who xs
soraewhat shocked by the sculptiarLng of nakedness evidences the same
Puritan instinct which could never question the eternal presence of
sin. It is only through acknowledging the universality of sin that
one may bej^in to enter the Hawthomien pattern of thought.
CHAPTER II
THE DANCE OF LIFB
Havrtihomo -was an Interested observer of the pare and imyielding
substance of wiiioh the daily course of nwrtal existence is composed.
Life, considered as an entity, is seen to have a specific nature or
co?istitution which is present to a like degree at all tijties. In the
physical process of livinf;, raan perforras a brief dance >?hose every
step is dictated by this constitution — ^which, thouf^li it is infinitely
complex, is definable within limits. The Hawthomian vie^ of life
formed itself around intangible eleiaents, yet these eleaents are
presented in a remarkably concrete terminolor^^. It is well to stucfy
those basic ingredients which fterathorne saw in life before atteiapting
to bring :tnan into the developing thought pattern.
Four phases of life upon ■sv'iich the novelist formed a definite
set of opinions are* the texture of life, fortune and fate, death, and
nature. These coriiponents are actualities to be reckoned with, in much
the manner that sin was reckoned with, for they too are assumed by the
Hawthorne mind to be prenatal. The sifTiificance of sin lies in the
background of all Kawthomian thought. To assume the existence of sin,
for exasaple, is to assume at the saiue time that the dance of life is
scarcely a festal one. Once it is understood what ilawthome meant by
sin and what he nxsant by the rock-ribbed dance of life— once tliis
concept is se^ and felt in all its dark rigidity—than and only then
IS
20
may a reader co':prehend the native trend of :^awthome's thought.
1
THE TKXTUR5: OF LIFEj MARBLE AND MUD
The actual texture of life was envisioned by Hawthorne in bold
outlines. He manages, fyom his point ol view, to observe, reflect upon,
and state succinctly with a scientific deftness and self-certainty this
texture wherein the nature of life resides. In essence, the concept is
one of marble and mud, AlthoUj-^h the texture is not destitute of actual
evil, as the turner sonian would sec it, neither is it totally devoid of
good. It is constituted instead of balanced ingredients vrhich the mind
of Hawthorne perceived and coraTiented upon with an ever-increasinr: clarity,
Tlie Approach
Since the actualities of life are to be faced and fronted
rather than avoided, in what manner is laan to make his approach?
How much mud and ndre, how many pools of unclean water, how
many slippery footsteps, and percliancc heavy tumbles, ndght be
avoided, if we co-old but tread six inches above the crust of this
worldl Physically, '.tc cannot do this; our bodies cannot j but it
soens to ne that cur hearts and minds -na: keep thenselves above
nioral nud-puddles and other disconifoi^ts of the soul's pathway. (1|2)
It is a necessity of nan's physical nature, the necessity of Adam's
flesh, that our bodies are besmeared with the world's ?mid. Hawthorne
advances the possibility, hcrwever, that the spirit may dwell above and
beyond this actuality. He advances this possibility with some siaall
optindsra; yet ho is e:ctrenely reluctant to state it as a fact of
experience. The inoral gloon so pronouncedly perceived by Hawthorne
ultimately overpowers all. This being the case, the greatest possible
21
folly in approachins life would be to counterfeit or in ax^ manner add
to the inevitable world sorrows.
There are so many unsubstaJitial sorrows which the necessity of
our Jiiortal state begets on idleness, that an observer, casting
aside scntin^ent, is sonietimes led to question whether there be esny
real woe, except absolute pJ-sysical sufferinj^ and the loss of
closest frieaids«(ii3)
"Is not the world sad enough, in cenuine earnest, ?/ithout making a
pastiine of mock-sorrows?" (ijii) Yet thore reinains a reasonable approach
to the oredc»ainantly soleran dance ^-hich all nortals perform,
"But there is a ¥dsdora that looks grave, and sneers at
merriment J and again a deeper wisdom, that stoops to be gay as often as
occasion serves, and oftenest avails itself of shallow and trifling
grounds of mirthj because, if we wait for I'mre substantial ones, v/e
seldom can be gay at all.'*(!iJ), Jfere is the approach vrloich Hawthorne
feels to be tho only sensible one. Here is a raaxint to jot dorni in the
coianonplace book, to frame on the wall, though it appears incongruous
anadst the practical a|*iorisms of Franklin and casts an occasional
shadow on the sunshin:;- certainty of an anersonian dictun. It
represents, nonetheless, the rla^Tthomian approach — one thorou|^ily
consistent -srith his lifolonc opinions.
I'he Compoxmd
Considered in its simplest form, life nay be reduced to a
formula or coTnpound, This choinical con]x;und is gray, a inixture of the
dark with the light, ?'toreover, it is decidedly a dark gray,
Tlio world is so sad and solcm, that thing j^ meant in jest are
liable, by an overpowering influence, to become dreadi'ul earnest, —
;|ayly dressed fantasies turninc to ghostly and black-clad imaces
22
of theraselves.(ij6)
The laovonent of physical life is persistently' Ttallcini^ into increasinc
darkness. Color, it nay be noted, plays an important metaphorical
role in Hairthomc's attempt to make vivid his con5x>und»
Life's nixed and interminfjled texture is nowhere raore clear I.7
pronounced than in this statement:
Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of
mankind, we shall find this same entanclcnK^nt of sonethins noan
and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is
laadc up of marble anJ imiJ. And, TriLthout all the deeper trust in
a comprehensive sj/rrpathy above us, wc rrl^ht honcc be led to
suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an iixiiticable frown,
on the irc« countenance of fate, v.hnt is called poetic insirht
is the rift of discerning, in this sphere of strancely ningled
elements, the beauty and the najestv which are coiiipellod to assume
a rarb so sordid. (Ii7)
The compound with wiiich nan is forced to contend places limitations
upon hin which arc in every way as exacting as those imposed by the
existence of sin. The good, the pure, the beautiful arc present, but
there is great difficulty in extracting them from the strangely
mingled ensemble.
It is difficult for iawthome to believe in man's ability to
dwell six inches above the earth's siirface. Some hasty and thoughtless
soul will iinfailingl.y splash the passer-by. Tnls contrast, or
interminglinc of tragedy with mirth, happens daily, hourly,
momently." (Ii8) "iiuman destinies look ominous without some perceptible
intermixtxire of the sable or t:io grco^."(li9) Constantly, the rdnd
returns to dwell, perJiaps reluctantly, on the actual compound.
"Troubles (as I rcyself liave experienced, and nany others before
me) are a sociable sisterhood; they love to come hand in tiand, or
23
scHnetimea, even, to coise side by side vrxth long looked-for and
hoped-for gocd fortune." (50) the balance is rareXy if ever on the
side of jollity, for all merges finally into the darkeniiig grayness.
"^'ilien we find ourselves fading into shadows and tinrealities, it seonis
hardly worth vihile to be sad, but rather to laugh as ga;-ly as we may,
and ask little reason ¥/herefore.''(5l) Since the transition may
neither be st^ed nor denied, it is well, once the compound is
accepted, to find whatever little pleasure is possible.
'iloorn, by its nature, spreads itself readily over the crust of
existence.
Unquestionably, a care-stricken mortal lias no business abroad,
v«-hen tlio rest of rnankind arc at high carnival; they imist either
pelt blm and absolutel^.^ rnart.'j'r liim with jests, and finally bury
him beneath the aggr. gate heap; or else the potenc.v of iiis darker
mood, because the tissue of huraan life takes a sad dj'-e more
readily than a gay one, vri.ll quell their holiday huaors, like the
aspect of a death's-head at a banquet. (52)
Life's laughter is but a hair's breadth fron its tears, and frequent
tears represent the more perman^it state.
For it is thus, tiiat with only an inconsiderable cliange, the
gladdest objects and existences beconie tlie saddest; hope fadiiig
into dlsappointiaent; joy darkening into ,<;:riQf, and festal splendor
into funereal d^askiness; and all evolving, as theii* moral, a grir.i
identity between gaj'^ things and sorrowful ones. Only give then a
little time, and tinTj turn out to be just alikel(53)
Life evolves to sadness.
Here, in his elaboration of the compound, iawthome has spoken
in terras of dark-light, airth-tragedy, gaiety-sadness, and nvarble-niud.
Both qualitativel;:y and quantitatively the balance tends tcrward
darkness. V/hile the transcendentalist saw the selfsaiTie world, his
balance la;^; vdth the li^ht and optimistic. Ilawtiiome's comix)und, one
2U
filtered throvj^^h sin, is certainly the vxtre pessird.stic of the two.
Yet, despite its awful solemnity, it is fundamentally based on
observation and experience.
The Ephemeral quality of Lifers Texture
Ha?rthome felt the pressures of life keenly; he felt also the
fleetinc quality of the moment, but he always insist cjc? that nan rwst
concentrate on the now rather than the yet to be.
In this world we are things of a 'rraiaent, and are laade to
pursue momentary things, with here and there a thought that
stretcher mistily towards eternity, end perhaps ma,-'' endure as
lone. All philosopriy that would abstract nankind fron the
present is no nore than words .(JjIj)
Thounh the rnarble is inextricably \inited with mud, still it is
inperative that man dwell on earth and speak onl," of what may be
actiially known rather than depart the earth in a iT^stical flight.
"And what arc the hau£htiest of us br^t the ephemeral
aristocrats of a suniior's day?" (55) Jian's vainglory is denounced by
Hawthorne in the manner of an eighteenth century graveyard poet, and
frequently with the same schoolraaster tone.
But, after all, the most fascinatin- eiiiplo,';^nent is sin^jly to
write your name in the sand. Draw the letters gigantic, so that
two stride? :ia.y barcl.Y measure them, and thiee for the lone
strokes i out deep that the record mar be permanent i Statesmen
and warriors and poets };ave repent their strength in no better
cause then tliis. It is acco T^lisheti? Return then in an hour or
two and seek for this nicht;- record cf a name. The sea will have
swept over it, oven as time rolls its effacing waves over thie
names of ?rtatecTnen and warriors and poets. Hark, tho surf travc
laughs at youi(56)
Occasionally, Hawthorne advances a private conrnentary on life.
These brief i-limpses allow the porsc»iality of the man to step into and
2S
blend itself vdth the more theoretical vrorld of ideas. "I, likesd.se,
ajn greedy of the stmnMaxJays for my own sake; the life of man does not
contain so marxv of them that even one csn be spared without regret." (57)
ObservaticKis on the Textiure
How that the approach to life, an airareness of its cold
ccrapound, and the eph^tjcral qualit;- of that compound, are tsken into
account, what naj/ be deduced from a detailed observation? First of
all, the texture does not permit the purely: accidental, the
raeaninglessj each incident of life is directly iswral. "Thoucht has
always its efficacy, and every striking incident its noral.^Ci^)
Although the vforld is of a solid nor&l substance in TRhtch all has
significance, it is, paradoxically enough, a shadow. •'TiT3e--'where laan
lives not—^hat is it but etenr3ity?"(59)
iliis preset life has hardly substance and tangibility enough
to be the inage of eternityj— the future too soon becomes the
prescsnt, -jTJiich, before we can grasp it, looks back iipon us as the
past; — it niust, I think, be only the iniaje of an ira.::s. Our next
• state of existence, rre laa^y hope, td.!! be nore real — ^that is to
say, it nay be only one remove froro a reality. Ikrt, as yet, we
dvrell in the sliadow cast by Tiiae, which is itself the shadow cast
by Stemity, (60)
The physical texture of life is but of the thiclmess of a spider's
web; from a spii^itual point of view it is flimsy indeed, iiather than
placing Hawthorne in the transcendental stream, these reflections on
shadows offer a decidedly moralistic observation on the ephemeral
nature of life's textiire,
Sian dances to an old jig and accorrplishen bvrt little.
Possibly sofiie cynic, at once r/iorry and bitter, )ias desired to
signify, in this pantordirdc scene, that we inortals, v^hatevar oiur
?6
business or aTusement,— however serious, however trifling, — all
dance to one identical tune, and, in spite of our ridiculous
activity bring nothing finally to pass. (61)
Hawthorne habitually regarded the inrnediate effectiveness of any one
action or any group of actions with lauch skepticisni. iftid is scarcely
so plastic as a reformer night tend to believe, Man must await God's
designs, for the texture of life is far too touch to be handled and
shaped by inere mortals. Tlie balance iias eternally resided vdth
sadness, and there is little indeed tliat nan can effect which ttLII
substantially alter the corpound.
"But real life never arranges itself exactly like a
romance." (62) "IVho can tell where happiness may comej or where,
thou^ an expected guest, it may never show its face?" (63) Ileal life
does not live happily ever after, for there is a something much
greater than roan in control. Tlit. dark hue oi life does not whit on at
man's call, hut rnerril;- continues in a stubborn and often inexplicable
manr.er.
In lieu of the fast fleeting and, fron man's point of view,
unmanageable direction of life, ilawthome marvels thai- tJie present
ehottld appear so fixed, "iaw wonderful that this our narrow foothold
of the Present should hold its avm so constantly, and, while every
moment ciianging, should still be like a rock betwixt the encountering
tides of the Past and the infinite To-come I "(61^)
The infinitely con^ilex nature of life is at the same tine an
amazingly simple one. It is preferable to drift with it, enjoy it
whenever possible, and nc(rd.se attempt to direct it. .'Ian is not the
27
jaaster of his fate; he is a being who must i-ecogniae his oim lintlts,
and who must recognize and accept at the same tiai© life's lindt—
marble and nmd. Hawthorne's analysis of life's texture was not, for
hini, moral speculation, so imoh as it was a reporting of esperienced
truths.
2
DEATH
Hanthorne views death primarily as the only certain release
from the life coiapoimd, and secondarily as a phase of the texture
itself. If it frere not for death, life would be iinbearable* "Cxarious
to iiaagine i»hat siurmtirings and discontent would be rasolted, if any of
the great so called calaisities of hussn beings were to be abolish^!,—
as, for instance, death." (65) Ikkoh of life is contim.tal3y in
EK)uming for dead hopes; if there w«re no release tfirou^ the
purifying aspects of death, life would soon b« ismeraed and ossified
in a world-^de mtd.
^le sometiaies congratulate ourselves at tJie laouisit of waking
from a troubled dreamj it may be so the aoiaeot after death." (66)
Life is a strife-torn excursion to Hawthorne, a briar patch of
countless thorns, wiiose only sure exit is death. "How invariably,
throughout all the forms of life, do we find these interndngled
msmorlals of deathl"(67) i3eath, as it presents itself in everyday
life, grays the corapound.
In the second sentence of The Scarlet Lett«r , in a spot
prominent enough to forewarn the reader of the novel of the unfolding
28
drama, and vfith a nariced degree of emphasis, the novelist records Vnatt
The founders of a new colonj'^, whatever Utopia of human virtue
and happinos;? they nlr-ht originalls' project, have invariably
recocnized it anonc their eai-liest practical necessities to allot
a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as
the site of a prison. (6(3)
Throughout his llfetiiae lUnrthome was something; of a haunter of
graveyards. He was dravm, perliaps, not so Tauch throw^ii nwrbidity as
by the eternal and basic recognition of death tugging at his intellect.
Death, rrwreover, is seen to contain the blessing of rest and
completion. It iias lost its sting, "The best of us beinc unfit to
die, what an inexpressible absurdity to put the worst to death," (69)
An individual is not sij^nificant in the Icxig look.
It may be remarked, however, that of all the events which
constitute a person's biography, there is scarcely one — none,
certainly, of aiiythins like a siirdlar ifn!X)rtance — to w^dch the
vmrld so easily reconciles itself as to his death. In most cases
and contingencies, the individual is present amonc us, mixed up
with tiie daily revolution of affairs, and affording a definite
point for observation. At iiis decease, there is on2y a vacancy,
and a nomentar:/" eddy,~very srall, as compared with the apparent
magnitude of the ingurcitated object,— and a bubble or two,
ascendinc out of the black depth and burstinc at the surface, (70)
{Jawthome's concern over death lias many facets. In a
philosophical or religious sense he sees spiritual release and
completion; accornpanyin^ the event he observes genuine grief and
sorrow J finally, subsequent to the event, he notes the psychological
impact of death on life.
It is vcrj^ singular, how the fact of a nan's death often seenis
to give people a truer idea of his ciiaracter, v;hr;ther for good or
evil, than they have ever possessed wJiile he was li'.-inr and acting
amonr then, Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes
falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a toiiclistone that
proves the gold, and dishonors the baser metal. Covd.d the
departed, whoever lie ciay be, return in a week after iiis decease.
29
he v/ould almost invariably find liimself at a liigher or lc»rer
point than he had formerly occupied, on the scale of public
appreciation. (71)
More in keeping with philosophical interests lies the recognition of
a i^ysteriouc purifyinc aspect, ""'hat a trustful guardian of secret
matters fire ist Mwi, should we do without Fire and Death?" (72)
In the final reclconing, death is viewed in a thoroughly
Christian raanner.
The dying melt into the great miltitude of the Departed as
quietly as a drop of water into the ocean, and, it rjaj"- be, are
conscious of no unfaniiliarity -with their new circui^istancos, but
iojriodiately becorae aware of an insufferable strangeness in the
world which they have quitted. Heath lias not taken them away,
but brought them home. (73)
;Iere is the sure and shining exit ftora the grayness of life.
Grief and Sorrow
HuB»roiis of ilaairthoi'ne's reflections on the effects of death,
that is, grief and sorrow, are quite obviously of the graveyard school
of thought.
But when we ridicule the triteness of raonxiiaental verses, we
forget tliat Sorrow reads far deeper in thorn than we can, and finds
a profound and individual pxurport in what seems so va^e and
inexpressive, unless interpreted by her. She makes the epitaph
anevf, though tiie self sanse words may have sei-ved for a thousand
graves. (7h)
It is an old theme of satire, the falsehood and vanity of
inonumental eulogies; but vAxen affection and sorroi-.' grave the letters
■Hith their o«n painful labor, then we tnay be sure tiiat they copy
fron the record on their hearts. (75)
Grief is such a leveller, vdth its own dignity and its own
humility, that the noble and the peasant, the beggar and the
monarch, will waive their laretcnsions to c>;t^cmal rank without
the officiousness of interference on our part. (76)
30
Illustrious unfortunates attract a ^Tider sympatic, not because
their griefs are nore intense, but because, being set on lofty
pedestals, they the better serve nankind as Instances and by -words
of calamity. (77)
There commonplace notations are of little intrinsic worth, yet they do
show to some defyee the sensitive, thorou,?:)i3y human, and at tirres
almost sentimental nature of the reflective liatirthome.
Finally, the detached observation of which llawthome is
extremely capable brings the matter into perspective.
Thus it is that the grief of the passing nwment trJces upon
itself an individuality, and a char cter of clirnax, which it is
destined to lose after a r/hile, and to fade into the dark gray
tissue corranon to the crave or zlan events of nany years aco. It
is but for a ■■^oTncnt, comparatively, that anj-lihinj looks strange
or startlinc, — a truth that has the bitter and tiic sweet in it, (78)
Tliere is no reason to suspect an iinhealthj'- delight in death on the
part of Hawthorne} there is every reason to suppose that he accepted
it, alons with sii, as one of the inevitables.
3
FORTUNE AND FATE
Hawthorne has been accused quite unfairly, by various
interpreters, of fatalism and c.micisTn. An;,' writer who employs the
terras "fortune," "chance," "necessity," "fate," and "providence" runs
the risk of being damned as a pagan worshiper of the "Goddess
Fortima." ".ith Ilawthome, however, the inatter is entirely a Christian
one. Never is he more orthodox than in his concept of the operation
of Providence, whichever of the synonyms for Providence Hawthorne
eniplo;^, it is always clear from the context of the statement that
the precepts of Galvinisn are not bcinr: violated.
31
The }Jat\iro of x ortrme
Fortune is present iii and concerned -with the affairs ol ii»n»
"Then mght I exoniplify how an influence beyond cnr control lays its
strong i^and on every deed we do, and weaves its consequences into an
iron tissue of necessity. "(79) Ha^horne, had he been a theologian
rather than a romancer, would fiave been careful to use the technical
terms Providence.
Blrst, thm let the readers know that what is called
providence describes God, not as idly beholding from heaven tiie
transactions ^Tiiich happen in the world, but as holding the helm
of the universe, and regulating all event s.^^
The idea of r^an as a bit actor in a cosmic drana Intrigues
Hawthorne, not so ouch that he is aiiazed that it is so, but that the
absolute truth oi the concept is brouf-ht home so forcibly in everyday
life.
Vie car! be but partially acquainted oven Tsrith the ev«aits -frhich
actually influence our course tiirough life, and our final destiny.
There are inni«:Brable other events — if such they may be called —
which come close uix>n us, yet pass awa^^ without actual results,
or even betraying their near approach, by the reflection of any
light or shadow across our sninds. Could vre know all tiie
vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would bo too full of hope and
fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of
true serenity. (80)
It is far better, Hawttiome believes, that mn should not be
acquainted with his destiny. "Life figures itself to juo as a festal
or funereal procession. All of us have our places, and are to inove
onward under the direction of the Chief iAarshal.«(3l) Festal and
funereal are but vivid synonyms of the light and the dark, the marble
19Calvin, Institutes, I, 222.
32
and the raud. M-ji is not a fl-ee agent but follows instead a
predetermined course. This predetermination tends to oake man feel
at home in his universe, assures him that the Chief liirshal is in
full control, and need nowise lead to fatalisni and a cloon^r
resignation.
Providence is an accomplished wrecker of man's iriperfect
plans and aspirations.
HovT often is the case that, when iii?)ossibilities have come to
pass and dreams have condensed their inisty substance into
tangible realities, we find ourselves caln, and even coldly
self-possessed, ainid circumstances which it would have been a
delirium of joy or agony to anticipate I I'ate delights to thwart
us thus. Passion vd.ll choose iiis own tine to rush upoii the
scene, and lln(;er3 slu^^igishly behind when an appropriate
adjustment of events would seem to sujomon his appearance. (82)
Destinal forces, it must be realized, are in congilete control. It is
a prime characteristic of fortune that she scowls T;hen -.ve need her
ssdle, and smiles when we least expect it. Happiness, like tiie other
niceties of life, is God-sent not man-nade.
ilappiness, in this world, if it comes at all, comes
incidentally. Jlalce it the object of pxo'suit, and it leads us a
wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object,
and very possibly we nay find tnat we have caught happiness
■without dreardng of such luck; but, likely enough, it is gone the
moment vtB say to ourselves— "Here it is I" — like the chest of gold
that treasure-seekers find. (83)
Hawthorne's remarks on the nature of foi'tune, taken
individually, appear to snack of defeatism.
Chance and claange love to deal vrith men's settled plans, not
with their idle vagaries. If v;e de?ire unexpected and
uniniaginable events, we should contrive an iron frajnework, such
as we fancy nay coE$)el the future to take one inevitable shape;
then cories in the unexpected, and sliattei's oxit design in
fragments. (81i)
33
It is wisdom not to te^pt the plan-wrecker, far mortals can never stay
the capricious t^sts of jrortun««
In spite of the se<^ing v/aywardtaess of fortune tile tenets of
Calvinism offer assurance to the doubter* "All futia-e things being
^^ertain tc us, we hold them in suspense, as though they might ha^^ai
one way or anotli.ix". lot tlxis reai&iaa a fixed j3:'inciple in our hearts,
tiaat there vvlll be no event -.diich God has not ordained* "^^ Uawthtane
is cognizant of tho fact that man fails to comprehend thia cdraciilous
element in life. "The aettial esqperience of even the laost ordinary
life is full of events tliat never explain tliCBiselves, either as
regards their origin or their tendency." (35'i An over-all vie?; is
above and beyond Ban's limited vision,
"IJo human effort, an a grand scale, has ever yet restated
according to the purpose of its projectors. The advantages are
always incidental. Plan's accidents are God's purposes* We ndes the
good we sought, and do tlie good we little cared for." (86) Here is a
basic Fkiwthome precept, esid admonition, ilan desires pure govertiaient,
reform, or my other good, yet he inevitably fails the quest. "A
dragon alWaj'-s vsraits on everything tliat is very good»»(87) An angel
also waits cm evil schemes. After a tirae the two balance each othar,
but this balonce is 1>eci?^ond the boundaries of the individual's view.
The Goveming Bower of Fortune
Fortune's govea-nsjent is a planned religious one in which chaos
2^Ibid., I, 230.
3a
receives no portion. This rigid concept Hawthorne eirfbraces
intuitively and inmediately— .^abraces it with the sanie lack of
astonishraeait r/ith which he accepts sin. The mind of iiawthome ia
conplex in that it is highly inquisitive, frequently skeptical of
gwierally accepted truths, nonnally enrpirical and ioaginative, and
nearly alvra^s acute to the point of profundity. Yet at the same tine
it is seldom swayed by cold logic, but believes instead Trith a
childlike unsh^eable faith.
"Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, while
viewless and unercpected events thrust themselves continually athwart
our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to
render foresight even partially available?" (88) Hawthorne is not a
thoroughgoing Puritan; he holds firirdy to certain beliefs which would
have made the Mathaars shudder. In his basic orientation to life,
hoTrever, in his forthright pronnilgation of the doctrines of sin and
Providence, ho is thoroughly traditional.
God the creator of all things, doth uphold, direct, dispose
and govern all creatures, acticms and things, from the greatest
even to the least, by his laost rdse and holy IVovidence, according
to his infallible foreknowledge, and the free imautable counsel of
his own will to the praise of the glory of his wisdom, power,
justice, goodness and mercy. 21
Omnipotent Providence has talcen on the additional duties of
assigning tasks and of establishing the basic balance of life.
But <;hen the ethereal portion of a man of genius is obscured,
the eartlily part assusies an influence the more uncontrollable,
because the character is now thrown off the balance to which
21Cotton iSather, ^iaaialia Christi Americana , II, l6l.
35
Providence had so nicely adjusted it, and w dch, in coarser
natures, is adjusted t^/ some other method. (89)
So long as we love life for itself, we seldom dread the losing
it. "hen vro desire life for the attainment of an object, vre
recocnize the frailty of its texture. But, side by side vdth this
sense of insecurity, tliere is a vital faith in our inviilnerability
to the shaft of death r/hile engaged in any task that seems
assigned hy I^ovidonce as the proper thing to do, and v/hich the
world would have cause to njoum for should we leave it
unaccotnplished. (90)
These staten^nts are but outspoken corollaries of a religious faith.
"Providence was the expression of ilis inner detea-cdnation, and
though the lesson of sorite 'divine providences* could be read with
ease, the teaching of others remained obscure."22 The voicings of
God's decrees, or providence, is a laatter of some concern. "It was,
indeed, a mjestic idea, that the destiny of nations should be
revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of heaven. A
scroll so wide ndcht not be deenied. too expansive for Providence to
>7rito a people's doom upon." (91) Perhaps liaarthome would like to be
able to clsnce at the heavens end read for himself the gigantic
assurances of a coinmunicative deity. Although >ie no longer believes
in superstitious omens, he is not as incredulous of the miraculous as
many of his conteraporaries.
Hawthorne has observed fortune's daily perfox^^ances in our
mundane spaiu He has, in fact, become the spokesman of its povTors
and its ways.
Destiny, it may be,— the most skilful of stacc-Tfianacers,~
seldoin chooses to arrange its scenes, and carrj- forward its drama.
22perry 'ailer. The nevi l'jif:land Mind (New York, 1939), p. 39.
36
without securing the presence of at least one calm obeetver. It
is ills office to give applause vfhen due, and sometiraes an
inevitable tear, to detect the final fitness of incident to
character, and distil in his lone-brooding thought tho whole
morality of the performance. (92)
Through the calm observations, and ca3jn reflections of destiny's
observer, rJathaniel Hawthorne, Aaerican literature was vastly
enriched.
The Presbyterian creed offers a fonaal statement of
Providfflice's adndniatration of the affairs of mankind.
God is Sovereign, He reigns Suprraae in fact as well as in
the right. The universe to him is not a surprise, a defeat, a
failure, but a development of has eternal purpose. That Durpoae
is Predestination, Tliat developjufflit is Providence, Tne one" is
the all-wise prodeter-mnod plan in the aind of Godj the other is
the all-powerful exocuUon of that plan in the administration of
the universe.*^ J
The final and ultiaately fair balance of ftrovidence is accepted by
Hawthorne on faith.
(Yet the vr&ys of Providence are utterly inscrutable,- and many
a murder has been done, and many an innocent virgin has lifted
her white arras, beseeching its aid in her extrendty, and all in
vain J so that, though Providence is infinitely' good and wise,—
and perhaps for that ver>' reason, — ^it may l>e half an eternity
before the great circle of its scheme slaall bring us the
super-abundant reconpense for all these sorrowsi(93)|
Calvinism, Puritanifisn, Presbyterianism have frequently been
misinterpreted and raisquotod on tlieir beliefs in Providence and
predestination; have been nri. sunder stood for the same reasons that
llai^home has been erroneously stanped a fatalist. A statement from
the Presbyterian creed may help to r^xtify this ndsapprehension.
The doctrine of our Standards is not that "whatever raist be.
23sraith, The Creed of Fresbyterians . p. 157.
37
mist be," bat that whatever God has decreed md purposed shall b«.
Tl» one expa^ession attributes the ccjurse of events to a blirKi
laochanical necessity, tlie other to the intelligent purpoae of a
personal God. Tlie me is fatalisa, the other Foreo3?dination,
Predestinatic«i, Providence. 2«
There is no attejsgpt to suggest that Hiorthome's wSjoA. kept a
literal allegiance to the tenets of Calvin* The doctrine of "electioi"
was repugnant to him, and "irresistible grace" scarc©3y warmed his
heart. Hssfthorae did obBerve oertain intangibles— sin and forttme— dn
the dtedly dance of life. These he saw, these he understood, ti»se Im
never ^ook off. The essential problem of Calvinisia, liaa aa a sinner,
and the majestic destinal torcB, Providence, jO^ principal roles in
Ha»th<aTie*s perscsial iMlosoiSiy.
H. W. Schneider states tlie trath of the Bii*t©p laost
effectively?
Heedless to s^, I^awthonie used the theological tearadnology
metaphorically. He did not need to believe in Puritanism, for
he understood it. He sass- the ecgjirical truth b^ind the
Calvinist symbols. He recovered nrhat Puritans professed but
seldota practiced— the spirit of piety, humility and tragedy in
the face of the inscrutable ways of Qod.25
Sin and the inscrutable ^iay« of fr©vid®ice provide ths imsical
accoiupaniiaent to which mm perfonas his stately waltz. Hassthorae's
final reckoning with these actualities constitutes the coiaplete story
of his j^steiaatized orientation to life. It is sufficient for the
raoiaent to insist that they are the obvious mental framework on which
all future specxilation raust be hung.
%bid. , p. 166.
2^Sctoeider, The Puritan I/And , p« 262.
38
k
mruBE
A fourth and final conpsnOTrb of the dance of life, nature,
Hawthorne conceived of as poetry, goddess, refuge, and symbol.
Essentially, She is viewed as a participatinc backdrop to life's
little dramas. Her role is only sllchtly subordinate to that of sin
and fortune. Althougli nature is much nore than a rjechcnical
externality or mere scenoiy to Mawthome, ho never saw in Her w5iat
Einerson and Thorcau were seeinc. -"^he never spoke aloud to hin. In
Haw^.home's fiction nature plays a very substantial, at ti:Tes a
dynamic and s:'Tnbolic, role. Nature is never inert natter alone, but
in the lone '^^^ She is, like her interpreter, more of a laoralist than
a riystic.
As God's r^oetry
"It is strange what humble offices may be perfomed in a
beautiful scene vd.thout destroying its poetr3'."(9h) "It is strange
what prosaic linos men t^irust in a-rdd tho poetr/ of nature. . . ."(95)
There is no indication of an artistic deafhess to the melodious
rhythms of nature. ?ten, in contrast, is viewed, more often than not,
as a black blenish to the beauty of tho natural scc«e. Had Hawthorne
continued to write poetry after his seventeenth year, 26 he would
scarcely have developed into a nature poet in the ordswortliian sense.
26na:i-/thome ' s early attempts at nature poetry show little
promise. For a reprint of the poems see: lizabeth L. Chandler,
editor, ''taTfthomc'r? oDectator," K'e'.; .•■ngland ^.r^arterly , IV (April 1931) »
263-330.
39
For Ilawthocrne ssw in nattire a jaoral fore© "which blends wit*, 8<«aetiaieo
echoes, and somctinses shapes the texture of life* Nature is but an
ingredient of a greater ccBi5>aund| her poetry is therein pBrovocative
but fiaardly rhapsodic.
As a Groddess
"The reason of the sinute superiority of Kature's ■spork over
nan 'a is, that the forser works from the innenaost g«apffl, iMle the
latter worka Toet^ supe2'ficially»''(96) Nature is wedded in a
iqjrsterioua laanner to fortunei sSibb is a Ooddeas moving fornsard firoa
spiritual origins in a predeteiiained manner. She is not to be
identified with Providence, for She is a more ijiB^aediate and -warEiep
administrator of the affairs of vmn.
It was the fatal flaw of haaaanity uhich Mature, in one shape
or another, stmpa ineffaceably on all her productions, either to
iiaply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfectiwi
nust be wrought t^ toil and pain. (97)
"Hattjre sometiines displays a little tendemaas for our vanity, but ia
never careful far our jadde. She is willing that we should look
foolish in the eyes of othersj but keeps our little nons^sicalities
from ourselves." (98) Nature my be seen, then, to have sOTjething of
the ^mrrath and perscmality of a Goddess. Man is hvA, a child to be
cuddled or scolded.
Behind this warmth, in sharp relief to the in^plied taid^ness,
lies the more deliberate wantonness of natinre.
Nothing conies aadss to Nature— all is fish that coiae to her
net. If there be a living form of p««fect beauty instinct TdLth
soul—wty, it is all very well, and suits Nature -tyell enough. But
she woxild just as lief liave that sasae beautiful, soul-i?_luniined
body, to inake worni's meat of, and to manure the earth ^vith.(99)
10
In thin instance. She in the fickle j^oddess, Fortuna, in all her pagan
trinnnings*
Korr ?!atnrc seems to love us! And how readil", nevertheless,
without a sich or a coraplaint, she converts us to a meaner
purpose, yf.-.exx her highest one — that of a conscious intellectual
life and sensibility — ^has been untimely balkedl(lOO)
f.?orc often than not, nature, charged with planting various
seeds in man, is seen as a second gardener to fortune, "How strange,
how strange it is, tliis deep, wild passion that nature lias ingjlanted
in us to be the death of our fellow-creatures, and which coexists at
the sane binie v/ith horror I "(101) Nature, though more LTTiediate than
forttme, is at tines id«aitified with her. .'3he is, in fact, in one of
her aspects, a personal rocecuter of the divine will. Hajrthorne does
not deify nature, nor does he pledge himself to her rysterious
messages, for he reads her as a noral rather than an eaotional divine
scroll.
■Mature as Refuge
TIawthome, nore tlian most raen, socnn to have felt the cross
and crude pressures encountered in earning a living. In his youth ho
had roTnped in the Ifelne v,x)ods vdth notorious happiness. In young
manhood he took long walks into nature and was fond of ice skating.
In his inaturlty and in his autunnal years iic continued the habit of
nature walks with close friends. He died while on an excursion with
Pierce, 'alph aldo Snierson had attended lasitJiome on rrore than one
walking tour; it vras poriiaps all they had in cor:mon, this love for
walking.
la
The sailor blotxl in Hawthorne was never happy far inland, for
he found in the coastal mlds and tlie ocean's roar an escape, a relief
fi'om civilized pressures. "Oh that Providence wotild build lac the
laerest little shanty, and nark no out a rood or trro of carden-^Tound,
near the sea-coast." (102) Halem and Liverpool were seaports, w!iereag
Concord vras too far inland for the descendant of Captain Natlianiel
llathome, "^Pold" Daniel Hathome, and other sea-going men.
Nature affords an uncorrupted retreat from "the perverted
ingenuity of the race." Especially in the auttmai is she apt to
coddle tliooe wio corae unto her.
If St' readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities,
houses, and wliatever laoral or n-aterial enoraatios in addition to
these tlie perverted ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it
be in the early autumn. Txien Nature will love hir, better than at
any other neason, arsd will taJcc him to her bosom with a jnore
jnotherly tenderness. (IO3)
It v/as to nature tJmt tfavrbhome vms wont to go vhen life's pressures
toxTnented.
iiut perhaps it is necessary for the health of the human mind
and heart that there should be a possibility of taldnc refuge in
what is wild, and uncontamnated by any c^llturej and so it has
been ordained tliat science shall never alter tho aspect of the
sky, whether stem, angry, or beneficent, nor of the awful sea,
either in cal'?. or tenpest, nor of these rude jiichlands.(lOlj)
Nature as Symbol
Finally there exists in the renewing aspect of nature a syirtool
of the purification-rebirth cycle of life. "»ill the world ever be so
decayed that spi-inc raay not renew its croenness? Can riaxi be so
dismally age-stricken that no faintest sunshine of nis youth may
revisit hirn once a year? It is impossible." (105) ii^ch spring
U2
blanks life out of death with an endless yet eternally beautiful
regularity.
B\' and large the syrabolis??; of natiire is unreadable to the
intellect, "''ihen God expressed himself in the landscape to rrtrmldJid,
He did not int«id that it should be translated into an:' tonj^e save
his own iuEnediate one, "(106) r'or beauty nay be felt in the heart
but never full" comprehended. >he ±r, the painting of an artistically
adept God, a hi.eror-lyph which man rna-^ neither uncover or crnilate Tdth
any degree of success.
Hawthorne's srmbolical nature is one of var^ring aspects. "One
touch of nature nakes not only the whole world, but all tine, akin." (107)
Nature is pigantic and beautiful, a nanifestation of God's plan, but,
above aDJ, a norp.l force in the life of oan. She is the catalyst for
the corapound of life, although she frequently enters that coiapound.
Life an an entit:;^, ai^art from the people Trho live it, has
starnped itself in bold relief on the rdnd of rteavthome. lAfe's
texbtire is one Tihich ms-r be felt between the fingers, stretched and
probed, yet it always reverts to the sane pattern. -Tawthome is not
repelled b-/ the harsliness of that pattern. Death, for exairplc, is
taken as an intej^ral aspect of life. It is overyvrtierc present as a
solemn rendnder of nortality, yet Tawthome viewrs it as a jreat
airakeninc— an awalcening far greater than the one associated with
Jonathan Edwards. Fate, Fortune, Chance, Destiny, 'Jecessity,
Rrovidenco and Nature are fused in ifsnrthome's observation into the
dyna.m.Cf yet unfathomable, directional forces hovering above life'r
k3
surfaces. They arc seen by the "calm observer'* as detached yet
meaningful hieroglyphs, if one can roac then, of God's divine plan.
Riritan exis-tcncc was a predeterminod one— one in "sf.iich nan
relinquished God's natters to Cod and v.'eat aestfully to fulilll his
o',^ obllsations. Few systrais ersipJiasizing the free will of nan have
evidenced a like vitality. The Puritan dance of life is essentially
tlie one vriaich fiawthome obcerved. It is scleinn, i-igid, and a bit
forbidding. At the saao time it is the dance ox assxarance in an
ordered universe. Though there aix fc;v r;trains of light and aiiy
imsic, neither is there the staccato of hesitation. It is the
Puritan's world j it is God's Tst^rldj it is Hav/thome's irorld. It is a
world tutored by norality. It moves to the pipings of sin, for flesh
is siniUl, but occasiona^JLy it looks npnard frosi the dark texture of
ji^jysical life to the brighter tc:rttire of a spiritual one.
CHAPTER in
ssKsiriviTi: Aim sclituds
If there is one personal and at the same time social problem
w^iich confounded Hawthorne tinio and again it is to be discovered in
that necessity which forces a sensitive person to find solace in an
insensitive world. The romantic, misleading account of Hairthome's
life between 1825 and 1837, one depict inr a sensitive and secluded
artist in a dismal chanjber, has been justifiably aacnded by more recent
bio-raphers.27 yet Hawthorne was basically both a sensitive and a
solitary soul. Had it not been for the pressures exerted by Sophia,
Nathaniel would have been eacerl;/ content to dwell a little apart
sociall:,'. i ollowin;; his riarria^e on Jiay 9, l8h2, and the subsequent
political appointuients which befell him, it became mandatoiy that the
reluctant author assume social burdens in an institutionalized society.
Once iie entered the outer world, especially during the Uverpool years,
he became more accustomed to the social role which all men must play to
some degree. The Hawthorne of 1805 shouldered v/ith some ease social
obligations wliich would have set the flawthome of 1835 all atrenfcle.
In one sense of the -mord, Hawthorne entered late into society,
although he liad never been so far out of it as oarly biographers rero
prone to believe; yet in a more abstract sense iie .ever entered at all.
'Robert Cantwell, liathaniel Hawthorne t T he i\nerican Years
(New York, IShQ), p. viii ffT —
hs
He tras essentially a fa^TcLl^y nan, a warm friend to not over a half
dozen people. "Hawthorne was never a very social person, in the sense
that he liked to have a lot of people arotind him. This was due, in all
probability, not only to the circiirnstances of his childhood, but to his
own nature as well.'"'
Prior to 13!}2 Hawthorne preferred ai individual forra of
seclusion, wiich becaiae after I81i2 a kind of domestic seclusion, from
social fanfare, 'ie, like Jonathan Svdft, enjoyed tlie individual but
not the i'roup. Yet in the midst of his personal stniccle vdth the
problem of society he was internally possessed of two basic ideas:
first, raan is essentially alone in the world in that he can never
break through the invisible barrier to his fellow raan| and, second,
the world will nqi_lfitL^ nan alone but eternally insists that he
participate in its affairs as a social being. Intirjately related vath
these beliefs are the i^robleras w dch thej,'- father: the solitary soul who
is doo}3ied to the cold outer fringe of society, and the sensitive soul
whose cross of living lies unbearably heavy upon iiim.
The Sensitive Soul
The notion of a soul too sensitive to endure the harsh
strictures of life is a central one to the Hawthorne philosophy. It
persists in the fiction, journals, and letters. If there are but two
types of man, the sensitive and the insensitive, the SoroBr is
invariably trampled upon by the latter. Life's burdens overwhelm the
2"L:anning ilawthome, "Hawthorne's iarly 'i;'ears," Lssex
Institute Historical Collections , IJOCIV (1933), 11.
U6
sensitive beingj the group becomes a vicious animal; he desires above
all things to be left alone, to vrlthdraw from the clamor of a busy and
unconcerned world* "liercy on us, T»hat a noisy world we quiet people
live in I" (108) Playfully but with a certain seriousness, the reader
is made aware of triat c^lf existing betweeai a quiet inner irorld and a
boisterous external one,
"Bufc tlier© are natures too indolent, or too sensitive, to
oidure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, tlie turmoil of laoral and
jdiysical elements, to wliich all the wayfarers of the world expose
themselves." (109) It is tragic that there are beings, often with
imaginative and fertile minds, who are constantly in^aaled upon the
indifferences and open hostility of the extenial world. Hawthorne was
enough of a sensitive soul in his ov.n right to feel the wounds keenly*
The readiest way out is to create an internal v/orld, a world, however,
which proves a dangerous substitute. "A dreamer mac/ dwell so long
among fantasies, that the things .vithout fiim will saean as unreal as
those vdthin."(llO)
Hawthorne's sensitivity was far removed from that of a
mildHtnannered Casper Iitllquetoast. He ai joyed good cigars, good
liqueurs, and good coirpaioy as much as any man, nor was he blind to the
charms of the fairer sex. At the same time he was quite hesitant aivout
liftrTidlng on people. "It is very painful to me to disturb and derange
anybocfy in the world. "(ill) /ilthough frequently imposed upon by
others,29 Hawthorne was instinctively retiring, and somewhat reluctant
29Throughout the notebooks there is singjle evidence that
hi
to ask a favor.
A sensitive person inajr vTithdraw fi^onj life as Riuch as possible,
he may play leech to a stronger personality, or he nay relinquish the
struggle auLtogether.
In iTioods of heavy despondency, one feels as if it would b©
delightful to sink domi in some quiet spot, and lie there forever,
lettinc the soil grtidually accumulate and forra a little hillock
over us, and the grass and perhaps flowers gather over it. At
such times, death is too much of eai evunt to be -ifished forj — vm
have not spirits to encount^:* itj but choose to pass out of
existence in tiriis slu^^iish wscy.CllS)
The easily v/ounded i>erson is hard pressed to find the •wheresurithal to
j'eslst the blunting effect of life.
There btb chaotic, blind, or djr^jnken nioaents, in the lives of
persons who lack real force of character, — moinents of test, in
isiiich courace would most iissert itse3.f,— but wiiei'e these
individuals, if left to themselves, stagger aimlessly along, or
follow inpliqitl^- i^hatever guidance rmy befall theni, even if it be
a child's. Mo matter how preposterous or insane, a purpose is a
God-send to thaTi. (113)
Vj'eak, shy, and sensitive creatures need to rely on the gu:ldance
of others, for once tliey have eiicoxintered tiie "tiud of life" they are
not again eager to step forward. Self-;Justifications with v^ich shyness
attempts to excuse itself are on shafc' grounds.
It is a ver:/ genuine ad-niration, that with iwiiich persons too
shy or too atvkwar'd to take a due part in the bustline world regard
the real actors in life's stirring scenes^ so genuine, in fact,
that the fonner are usu.alli;' fain to make it palatable to their
self-love, by assumng that these active and forcible; qualities are
incorapatible vri^tii others, which they choose to deem higher and more
important • ( III4 )
Hawthorne was frequently- imposed on. Begcars found him an easy mark;
his friends found hin rcadj' to lend money when he had any; several
Americans stranded in Sngland borrowed but never repaid return passage
money.
Frequently, and tliis was sonevi^iat the choice of Haarthome, the
sensitive individual contriver an j_nner world, to act as a buffer to
the out'.a:, Tr-iich in turn gradually fades from virion. "I need
MfOTotony, too, an eventless exterior life, before I can live in the
world within." (11^) This inner trcrld is felt to be of greater
significance than the artificial structxire of social life.
There is little reason to assurne that Hawthorne may be
lecitimatelj/^ characterized as a sensitive soul, h'is sensitivity
represents but a minor phase of his total personality, and, as is often
the case with artists, it tends to lack stability. Other corponcnts of
his intellectual and ernotional make-up are much irioro sharply defined,
IJeverthGless, the author's fictionallzation of a senaJtive soul
ndrrors ouc asp.'ct of his ininost self. Sensitivity, as Hawthorne
lived it and wrote it, appears as that reaction wrdch the idealistic
and introverted person feels when thrust into a materialistic and
extroverted world.
The Solitary Soul
It is part and parcel of an observer of life that he should be
cut off from the humanity subjected to iiis gaze.
The most dej^irable node of existence M^ht be that of a
spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering invisible round man and vronan,
witnessinc their deeds, searcl-iin,f: into their hearts, borrowinc
brif^htness fro-n their felicity and siiadc from their sorrow, and
retainin£^ no emotion peculiar to himself. (116)
The role which Hawthorne proposes, ti;at of a Paul Pry, provides the
detached observer with ample material for reflection and fiction, but
cl-iills him with a cold and claiaDV afternath. V/hile a role of this
U9
type enables an atithor to stii^ly himself with raw material for his
tsritings, it proinotes en rinfortunate breach between author and subject.
While solitude is to be feared and avoided as a ponaanent
condition of Hfe, while man's appetite for society is intuitive,
still there is an occasional longing for the refreshing calM which
8olittu3e affords » "What would a msxi do, if lie were coopelled to live
always in the sultry heat of society, and could never bathe himself
in solitude?" (117)
The ill effects of solitude overbalance its advantages, and
the isolated individiial, the laan cut off by the group or lofb behind
by it, is to be pitied asnong mortals. "Soe© old people have a dread
of solitude, and whaa better congsany laay not b© had, rejoice even to
hear the quiet breathing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet," (llQ)
Solitude is to be dreaded above all other waters in which a roan raacr
droim himself. Perspective gro«ra into a distorted ideal.
It is not good for man to cherish a solitary anfeition. lijiless
there be those around hijn by whose exaiiple he niay regulate himself,
his thoughts, desires, and hopes mil become extravagant, and be
the sei*lance, perhaps the reality of a madman. (119)
In a letter to Loi^fellow in 1837, Hawthorne referred to his
so-called solitary p«riod and stated the probloa of one laftio has cut
the warm ties of humanity and drifted into bleak isolati(»i.
You tell lae tliat you have laet T.Tith troubles and changes. I
know not wioat the;;- laay have beenj but I can assure you that trouble
is the next best thing to enjoyment, and that there is no fate in
the v/orld so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or its
sorrows ,30
30sainuel Longfellow, Life of Hairy Wadaworth Longfellow
(Boston, 1891), I, 26h,
50
There were no rp-eat sorrows plaguing: Haarthonie's twelve years of
literary apprenticeship, neither were there the pleastires of love and
success. Perhapo the novelist's roaantic self-estiinate is overly
dramatic. Assuredly, though, it has some basis in fact.
At the veiy aoment Ts*ien HaTTthome felt himself to be in
isolation he longed for the crowd. His acceptance of solitude both as
a p'ersonal problen and as a concern of mankind reco-.'nized that a
.eluctant fear of tlie crowd must eventually give way before the
greater evils of solitude. He was continually forced to battle a
nature which yearned for seclusion and the freedom to think and dream
and feel.^^
By tne time of his niarriage, Hawthome had come to look upon
the solitude of his early years as a loathso^ne disease. Henceforth he
conceives of the solitary way in the blackest of terns. "In a forest,
solitude would be life; in a city, it is death." (120)
Herein lies the strongest statement of aii ill-starred course:
"The r.-orst F^ossible fate would be to reraain behind, shivering in t.he
solitude of tlr^e, iriiile all the r;orld is on the move towards
eternity." (121) "To persons whose pursuits are insulated from the
co:!Bnon business of life — who are either in advance of mankind or
apart ticm it — ^there often comes a sensation of moral cold that makes
the spirit shiver as if it had reached the frozen solitudes around the
pole." (122) Physical separation does not enter into the Hawthorne
31lJathaniel Hawthorne, love Letters of liatlianiel Hawthorne ,
preface by Roswell Field (Chicago, 1907), I, 213.
^
concept; he spealrs rather of a corapletc mental and emotional alienation
i'roia one's fellov/ beings. The outcast desires notldng nore than a
retiirn to the hunaii fold. "?ersons v;ho have wandered, or been expelled,
out of the coiatnon track of things, even were it for a better system,
desire nothing so mch as to bo led back. They shiver in their
loneliness^ be it on a nountain-top or in a dungeon." (123)
Repeatedly, llasrthorae ref<^s to that drearj' refjLon of
isolation as beinc one of a pi^'-sical and nsntal coldness. .Society is
the heat; solitude the ice of life.
Generosity is a very fine thing, at a proper tir«e and rrithin
due limits. But it is an Insufferable bore to see one man
cngrossine eveiy thoiight of all the woaon, and leaving iiis friend
to shiver in outer seclusion, TO.thoxjt even the alternative of
solacing hinself vdtii -.-vhat the more fortunate individual has
rejected. (I2li)
Even when recording sentiTnents of tliis kind on the lighter side of the
ledcer, Hawthorne evinces an abounding ^yiapathy for those who are
by-passed by life.
Seclusion, the state of being utterly alone \¥ith one's sell,
rapidly grows insufferable.
A secluded irmx oi%en grasps at any opportunity of cosEaunicatinn
with his kind, ishen it in casiiall:/ offered to hln, and for the
nonce is suiprisinely fandliar, running out towards his
chancc-corapanion rdth the giish of a danncd-up torrent, suddenly*-
unlocked. (125)
Especiallj'- in the aorc eirtreme raoncnts of life does tlie insufficient
solitude of self seek out the comr.ion herd for solace.
,In circurastajices of profound feelinn and passion, there is
oft^ a sens© that too great a seclusion can not be endured; there
is an indefinite dread of bein,r qidte alone with the object of our
deepest interest. The species of solitude that a crowd harbors
52
within itseli' is felt to be preferable. In certain conditiono of
the heart, to the remoteness of a desert or the depths of an
untrodden v/ood. iiatred, love, or -«iiatcvor kind oi'too intense
emotion, or even indifference, where emotion has once been,
i^istixiCtivol^ seeks to interpose soiTie barrier between itself and
the correspondinc passion in another breast, (126)
Ilawthcme's chief concern is isith the individual who has been
shut off by manlcind, or with the one vrho, b:/ virtue of his own nature,
in the Taidst of companions is unable to brealc the barider betireai
personalities. Tne inan ymo is alone vrhen in a crowd, alone when with
friends or fa-aily, is the true solitary figure. Thorns v.olfe, some
sixty-five years after Hawthorne's death, began to write long and
earnest novels dealing in part with that invisible barrier separatine
man f3-on man. He too felt keenly tliat solitude, in its ^oro abstract
sense, is a permanmt state of mn. lIa:wthome, althou^i he recognizes
man as a social being, continues to believe that the cocoon of self
surrounding the individual, hov-'cver transparent it wx: api^ear, is
scarcely penetrable.
Sensitivity and solitude are phases of personality ratiier tlian
a priiTua element of life, ".lioreas sin and the dance of life are
empirical essences present prior to the enerconce of the individual,
the sensitive and solitaiy laan reflects one aspect of that omercence.
It is on the reluctantly einerging individual tiiat the prenatal
realities and institutional influences of life cut their deepest mark.
>e is the eternally exposed, nerve-filled figure wliich Hawthorne
pushes back and forth in his nind with curiosity and with sympathy.
Hawthorne is ful3y aware that all mtn are not as delicate]^
53
ccaistituted as the unfortunates wiiich he divisions. At the other end
of the scale there are crassly social, uneraotional beings Trtio are
repugnant to the artist, ifii-iile the great majtadty fall into a raiddle
range. Althouj^h -lawthome, in his crm life, tended to rrove torrard
a JHore balanced social state during his uddcile years, although he
looked back vdth special dread upon isolated eadstenee, he never lost
that natural sytripathy for the sensitive and solitary soul.
The struggle within an individual between his desire for
isolation and his desire for society affba forth a problem central to
liawthoniian philosopher. Solitary life, a contentment with one's owi
self, has about it a cold but wholesome quality i^ich is difficult to
sadntain in croup living. At the sair© tiKS, hcwever, society offers
a warmth and companionship v.Mch is essential to man's well-being.
The continual dileBsm of those individuals iiiKwe native ^ijpathies
would lead them along the qtdet and lonely pathway emphasizes the
struri;-:le. «hai eum-ging into the social order the individual
encounters njass imperfection} yet, emergence is mandatory. There can
l>e little doubt that Hassthome's preocoxxpation vrith tds prbblwn
reflects a struggle contained within his own personality. For
Hawthorne's part, the question was never completely resolved. The
conflict lessened, but it did not cease. For mankind, Hawthorne urges
a full participation in the social way. The iisperfect nature of
society malces mere association an imperfect solution, but the
gregarious appetite of man makes it the only possible one.
CJiAPTER IV
REALITY AIO RELIGION
At the heart of the Ilawthoi-nian world view are two intangible
interests wnlch are formed upon faith and which supcarsode in a caln
fashion other concepts developed fi-om observation and reflection.
These dual essences, "reality" and relicion, are frequently fused,
because Hawthorne's conception of actuality falls within a reli:dous
fraiae^mork. At other tirnes, the nature oi' the actual bcconxjs a imique
problen in H.iirthorne ' s conquest of ideas. For the nost j-art, however,
the comnentary on "reality" serves as prefatory material for a
systenatized analysis of >ds relicious thought.
1
REALITy
Although it may appear both personal and intuitive at first
glance, Ha»srthome's vision of "reality" is not essentially a mystical
one. Ultimately, it is highly inpersonal, completely natural, and
thoroushly unspectacular. T ds vision, dealt \dth on tvro planes,
concerns a single essence. The superficial voicini.;s of polite society
often counterfeit the liidden thoughts of the social i^articipants in
the sane nanner that the perception of sensor5' phenomena cloaks life's
spiritual values, l^n underlyinc "reality" may be detected on both
these levels, in tho first instance on a United or hujnar; plane and in
51i
55
the second <ms a lindtless or spiritual one.
Earthly things do not possess finality.
On being transported to strange scenes, fre feol as if a-11 vrore
unreal. This is but the p^^eption of the true unreality of
earthly t^iinfjs, made evident b;/- the want of congruity between
ourselves and them. (127)
An attempt to discover a true and direct knowledge of the naterial
world in T9!iich man lives lies beyond Hawthorne* s desire. Such a
knowledce, if ascertainable, would prove of little worth. '♦But then,
as I have said above, the grosser life is a dream, and the spiritual
Ufe a reality." (128)
Nothing in worldly life constit\rt;es "reality" in a greats
S(3Jse5 for a priiue ingredient of the life coiapound is that it shall
be ephei!»ral and siiado^.
Indeed, we are but shadows — we are not endowed with real life,
and all that seems Ksost real about us is but the thinnest
substance of a dream — ^till the heart is touched. Timt touch
creates us — then v/e becin to be — thereby we are beings of reality,
and inheritors of eternity. (12?)
Several seendngly Platonic reflections, reminiscent of KLato's cave
ayitibolian, when considered in conjunction ?d.th other facets of
Hawthorne's total conception, are seen in their true lig^ as moral
assertions of a spiritual truth rather than as elevated metaphysical
speculation for its own sake.
In truth, words fail when attesnptinc to define "reality," for
it is experienced through the feelings and not through the intellect.
"Viho has not been conscious of nysteries within his ndnd, mysteries of
truth and reality, which will not wear the chains of language?" (130)
»lhile a statement on the exact nature of actuality is never advanced,
56
it may be averred tlaat what tlie croat body of mankind clutches as
"reality" is but delusive externality, "i^ucan natixre craves a certain
raaterialisiii, and clings pertinaciously to v.-hat is tangible, as if that
were of more importance than the spirit accidaitally involved in it." (131)
Tliat uriiich is actual is also iioiiortal, tineless, indestructible.
Pure beauty, of the t;/pe which Shelly [X>eti2ed, possesses these
qualitien. "Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortality; no,
the beautiful should live forev r — and thence, perhaps, the sense of
iniproi»dety v.-lien we see it triumphed over by tine," (132) Earthly
beauty, though it be a deserving reflection of a perfect spiritual
beauty, is unfortunately bounded. Celestial beauty is unblemished
and infinite; the world's beauty is finite,
SojAiistication, hoT.'cver delicately it is contrived, often
brings its observer to cm avfareness of the obvious incongrnuty between
wiiat is said and wiiat is thought, rolite conversation perpetxially
bordei's on deceit. "Stramge spectacle in human life T.here it is the
instinctive effort of one and all to hide those gad realities, and
leave them undisturbed beneath a heap of superficial topics wiiich
consitirte the riaterials of intesrccurse between man aiici manl"(l33)
Social intercourse, as ilawthome observes it, partakes too often of
the purely artificial.
Two paths to "reality"— one inan-centercd, one God-c«itered—
seemed worthy of investigation by Harrthorne. The first and more
artistic raediura, one which man may attenpt, is triat of the iraagination.
"It is only through the r^cdiun of the imagination that we can lessen
57
those iron fetters, wiich we call truth and reality, and make
ourselves even partially sensible isfhat prisoners we are."(l3tt) A
heightened imagination, tlien, ma^ cut through the outer lagrers of life
and into "reality." laiaginaticai is a laan-centered, active jnedima
which pierces and reveals* Although riawthoitie frequently employed
tills method in hia fiction, he discussed it but little. Instead, he
allowed the work to be the final teetiiUDny of the efficacy of this
aj^roach.
The second mediua of perception is passive, intuitive, and
God-centered. "There is something truer and more real than tshat we
can see with the eyes and touch -sdth the finger." (135) God, in his
vdse Providence, occasionally permits the actual to break throu^ the
deceptive externality of life. This breakthrough raay occur in the
rugged beauties of nature or in the delicately contrived, iaEm*-aado
airts. 'ihen vieisring majestic and awesome beauty, a person t^y
instantly intuit, with no effort on lils orm part, tho existence of
those universal forces and truths to wMch he is normally blinded.
Thus it is tliat a sunset or a Baphael painting tends to reassure nan
of that full and final acquaintance with "reality" which awaits the
close of physical life.
"Realities keep to the rear, and put forward an advance-^ard
of show and humbug." (136) Repeatedly, the novelist refers to that
lesser plane of deception— one on which the unreal qualitj-- of the daily
events of life is too apparent, itoiy of the artificialities which
confront raan in society are intuitively fathoiaed by sensitive
observers. "But ^et, in some indescribable tray (as is the case with
all that has deluded us when once foiind out), the poor reality was
felt beneath the cunninc artifice." (137)
The manner in which idealism works is intimately related to
the quest for "reality." Since the "realities" of life are all
important, he who falls short of knowing than, he who never attains
his ideals, has still advanced further than the nan who aanages to
accumulate the merely znaterial goods of life.
Yet, after all, let us acknowledge it vileer, if not more
sagacious, to follow out one's day-dream to its final consummation,
although, if the vision iiave been worth the having, it is certain
never to be consunEnated otherwise than by a failrire. And Trhat of
that? Its airiest fragments, impalpable as they nay be, will
possess a value that lurks not in the niost ponderous realities of
any practicable scheji». Taey are not the rubbish of the mind.(l38)
ifeaningful success can be c^'^ined in striving for those indescribable
yet permanent truths jvist beyond man's innaediate reach. "I think I
fflight yield to hi^^er poetry of heavenlier wisdom than mortals in the
flesh have ever sunc or uttered." (139) Continually though, rnan is
called ajvay from his yearnings for truth and farced to dwell among a
humanity largely dedicated to surface values. A person inclined
toward artificiality presents an outer appear<.ace beneath which his
true being loses its original force. "It is the effect of anything
coinpletely and ccwisuniaately artificial, in human shape, that the
persOTi impresses tis as an unreality and as having hardly pith enough
to cast a shadow up<Mi tlie floor." (lIjO)
Man, in this life, is c\irtained off from eternal essences! yet
he retains inysterious inklings of prior happeiings. "scenes and events
59
tiiat had once stained theinselves, in deep colors, on the curtain that
Tirae hangs around us, to shut us in from eternitj^, cannot be quite
effaced by the succeeding phantasmagoria, and sossetijaes, by a
palimpsest, show more strongly than they.^dUl) For the rmst part,
nan is \xnable to coi^prehend the inmost nature of those forces "s^ich
are functioning aLl around him. Cinly on rare occasions does
provideitial li^ht break throuch roan's dark enclosure. It is even
mavo difficult for laortals to push aside momentarily that heavy
tapestiy. In truth, there is but one solution v^iich jnan rnay himself
effect.
Facts, as wo reall:>' find then, wliatever poetry they r-ay
invol\fe, are covered vrith a f.-tony excrescence of prose, resembling
the crust on a beautilMl sea-shell, arid th^/ never show their
laost delicate and divinest colors until we shall have ^dissolved
away their grosser actualities by steeping theia long in a
powerful EKjnstruum of thoxight.(li»2)
Hawthorne felt no need to question his faith in spiritual substances,
for though the nature of actuality is difficult to define its
presence is undeniable. It is blandly assumed and landly revealedj
for "reality" is a aiatter of feeling and faith, not one of intellect
and logic.
Through glimpses of an eternal essence present in the inrrwst
nature of this world, man may come to understand a true essence.
There is, then, a l^andaraental spirituality permeatinc all* It may be
seen, but i:nperfectly, as tliron-h a mist, for raan's nature is a
corrupted one. Our Y.-orld is "ut a sliadcw of a f^eater spirituality in
that its tangibles are ephemeral and do not constitute "reality."
Althou.-h this world eadsts as but a rat>ment in eternity, it is of
60
poriiaary importance in that it must consume man's total effort while he
dirells thereon*
Those visionaries who would neglect the duties of earthly life
in an effort to achieve total idealism are in for a rude awakening.
Hawthorne, thoroxighly cognizant of the necessity of earthly living,
has no leisure for raystical philosophies idiose aim is to elevate man
above this world. In truth, iiis entire philoaoplQr is a caveat on
detached and oblivious idealism. Although his perceptions are taken
hy hira as natural assurances of that ultirjate knowledge beginning with
death, although he emphasizes tliat "reality," or spiritual life, does
await man, he makes it quite clear that man's achievement of a
spiritual state belongs to another Torld, J&n's first duty is to the
mortal v.-orld.
One opportunity of viewing naked actualitv while still residing
in tliis world is to be found in those gliraraerings wiiich God allows to
filter throiigh life. Conversely, man may, throv^h ^ipirical stimuli
distilled by the imacination, break throuch to that selfsame inner
truth, "lieality"— that all-engulfing presence which surrounds, is
present v.lthin, and occasionally darts through the ex-temal crust of
life— may be arrived at in eitner fashion—through the strivings of man
or through the beneficences of God. Ilawthome's connents on "reality"
are wholly intuitive, but he assumes that mankind is potentially
capable of an identical intuition. "Reality" is an undeniable natural
phenomenon of which all men may partake as they are individually
capable. The novelist did not assume that he alone held a private
61
telephone line with divinity.
Hawthorne's underst ending of "reality" blends readily ^th his
acceptance of sin and ifllth the general tenor of his moral and religious
thought? for although he believes that an ideal world transcends the
phencanenal one, he insists that mn's life is a pilgrimage through the
material world and that jnan's chief concern rrast remain in that
iimnediate realm ^.Gve the will to roodness is feeble and the propensity
to evil stagf;r:erin2. At the same tiso, the novelist would offer a
severe warning to those individuals who would shirk the obligations of
ssortal life. Although Hawthorne's belief in the existence of an
underlying "reality" is firroly rooted, his comentary on the exact
nature of that "reality" is not explicit. Taken as a group, his
assertions of "reality" stand more as a preface to his ideas on
religion than as pure philosojriiical strictures,
2
HELIGK^
Religious faith is possible not because laan is good, an image
of the divine, but because God is pormrful and unduly benevolent, A
religious attitude may exist in spite of man's inherent evil and
weakness. Of all the thought areas with -which Hawthorne concerned
hiraseJ.f, that of reliE:^on is the most clearly and consistently defined.
Despite the lack of a specific name vd-th which to label Hawthorne's
religious concepts, the nature of Ms relicious thoucht is easily
understood,
"Hawthorne never made any mention of his or his sisters'
62
attending church v/nile they were children, and iiis days at iSomloin were
filled y.lth fines imposed for cutting prayers and Sunday chapel. "^2
like many another relicious naii he had no Sunday religion. L'ondnally a
Unitarian, ^redded to the daughter of a devout unitarian, '^iav^thorne
cared little or nothing for spocillc creeds. He was too keenly aware
of man as a sinner to accept in toto the optiMstic Unitarianism of his
generation. iVhen ilawthorne reflected on Josus, IJis goodness seened
less significant than the evil things wldch men had done to ftlin.33 An
hereditary and instinctive smaresness of evil prev^ted Hawthorne's
accepting an easy religion.
r;oui
Hawtliome's belief in that spiritual essence which Christianity
has designated man's soul was unsiialceable.
V/e do wrong to our departed friends, and clof; our ovm
heavenward aspirations, by connecting the idea of the crave \fith
that of death. Cur thouchts should follow the celestial soul, and
not the eartiily corpse. (11j3)
A first acquaintance with one's soul may cone through suffering*
Any sort of bodily and earthly torment may serve to make us
sensible that we riave a soul tiiat is not within the jurisdictiwi of
such sJiadowy demons, — ^it separates the immortal vriLthin us from the
mortal. (lU;)
Sufferings of the body are but haircloths which quicken the
soul's stirrinfs.
32jjanning iiawthome, "Parental and Family Influences on
Hawthorne," bissex Institute -iistorical uollections . LX"XV1 (19I4O), 6,
33c;antwell, The American Years , p. 90,
63
Yet vroTds are not -Ithout thoir use, evcai for purposes of
explanation, — but merely for explaining outward acts, and all sorts
of ortomal tilings, leaving the soul»s life and action to eaqplain
itself in its ovm way»(lli5)
Man's soul is not Ms property, but functions as a thing apart with
directions all its cmn. Hrequeaitly, souls are squeezed, perliaps by sin,
until their flutterings become enfeebled. "For there are states of our
spiritual systein vfl\en the throb of the soul's life is too faint and
weak to render us capable of religious aspiration," (lii6) Although a
soul raay fall becalned in individual instances, it still retains full
potentiality for goodness.
All souls belong to God,
It takes davm the solitary pride of laan, beyond most other
things, to find the itipracticability of flinging aside affections
that have grorm irksome. 'Hhe bands that were silken once are apt
to becoi.Tc iron fetters when Tre desire to shalce them off. Our souls,
after all, are not our cffin* -Ve convey a property in then to those
with ?;hon we associate; but to vrfiat extent can never be known,
until we feel the tug, tiie agony, of our abortive effort to resume
an exclusive sway over ourselves. (lit?)
"It is because the spirit is inestiirsable that the lifeless body is so
little valued." (li|8) I^wthome's conception of laan's soizl, v/hile
conventionally Christian, is also conventionally vague. There is no
attempt to ferret out the secrets of a soul beyond the fact that there
is a something which resides isitnin the body during life and leaves it
upon death for higher regions. It is viewed as a bit of divine
property terrtporarily housed by a beneficent Creator in physical bein.'rs.
Inwortality
Actions in this life serve as a springboard for iiaaortality.
"The sovil shall survive its frail eartltily tenement; and if vfe have
61*
conducted ourselves Justly here, there idll be a reward for us in
another, and a better world." (ll{9) "And whatever may be the duration
of this earthly existence, lot it ever be in our rainds, tliat another
comes hastening on--w?iich is eternal, "(l^O) This basic notion of
eternal life does not deviate appreciably from the standard body of
Christian teachings.
Heaven is a joyou? place only a breath away; yet hunan nature
strives too frequently for less substantial rewards, "A man will
underfTO great toil and hardship for esnds that must be many years
distantj—as wealth or faiae,— -but none for an end that nay be close at
hand,— as the joys of }ieaven,«(l51) Man should fasten his gase upon
firmly rooted etemality, rather than a fluctuating warldly life.
Has it talked for so many aees and meant nothin^j all the Tjhile?
Noj for those aces find utterance in the sea's unchancinc voice,
and warn the listener to withdrarr liis interest fi-on moral
vicissitudes, and let the infinite idea of eternity pervade his
soul, (152)
Good deeds and faith thrust aside the curtain between the
raoinentary and the etemal. "And thus we, ni^ht ^Tanderers throu-h a
stormy and dismal vrorld, if we bear tlie lamp of Faitli, enkindled at a
celestial fire, it will surely lead us hoiae to that heaven whence its
radiance was borrowed. "(153) There is little to be perceived in
Hawthorne's nresantation of iranortality w ich would not be acceptable
to the jTiajority of Christian believers. Ills declaration of faith in an
afterlife, though it is mde with certainty, nowise balances the darker
aspects of his life philosophy.
Somehow, the novelist had picked up the idea that mental labor
65
will find its coiapletion in tho next life. "It seera a ^preater pity
that an accotiiplished worker vrith the hmid should perish prematurely,
than a person of creat intellects because intellectual arts may be
cultivated in the next world, but not p5^sical on©s»«(l5U) This sort
of conjecture on the exact nature of a soul, or on the lieaven in which
it dweHs, points out once sore that Harbhorne's religion did not
always evolve from that rationalism so intimately linked with
Qhitarianism«
In one way, an anthroponsorphic one, the necessity for
iimaorta-lity is af iUrjaed. "Thus ever does the gross fatality of earth
exult in its invariable triuafsh over the iniaortal essence which, in
this dim sAere of half developasnt, deiaands the completeness of a
higher state." (1^5) Heaven affords Utopian fulfillment for earth's
projects. Iforeover, it appeoxs as a oecca for total p€jrsona31ties —
loved ones are united, poets round off their poems, a3.1 is brought to
completion.
The existence of a higher life is thus proclained: first, God
is benevolent; second, there is sense and order to man's existence;
third, the natiiro of ii\ysical life is incotipletej fourth, since this
life is incomplete and since God is just and good, there 'oust be a
heaven.
TJiis so frequent abortion of Tnan's deai^st projects inust be
taken as a proof that the deeds of earth, hmever etherealized by
piety or genius, ai-e vfitSiout value, except as exercises and
raanifestations of the si)j-rit. In heaven, all ordinary thought is
higher and Tijore laelodious than i/dlton's song. Then, vrould he add
another verse to any strain that he iiad left unfinished here? (156)
Itorbhome begins empirically vdth a hard world-centered texture and
66
ascends intiiltively to celestial heights.
But God vrould not hax'e made the close so dork and wretched, if
tnere were iiotriinc beyond; for then it ^voiild have been a fiend that
created us, and neasured out our existence, and not God* It would
be sooetiiing beryond Trrong — it would be insult — to be thrust out of
life into annihilation in t>ls miserable T?ar. ^o, out of the very
bitterness of death, I gatiier the s^veet assurance of a better state
of bcin£^.(l57)
In one instance, Hawthorne questions hds own naivete' in
assiwdng the existence of heaven with such rrlshful lo^ic.
If we consider the lives of the lower aninials, we shall see in
then a close parallelism to tiiose of aorbalaj — toil, strug-le,
danger, privation, mingled mth cli "Pses of peace and easej enmity,
affection, a continual hope of bettering tneiaselves, althouf-h tneir
objects lie at less distance before them than our own do. Thus, no
ar^unent from the imperfect character of cur existence, and its
delusor;r pronises, and its injustice, can be drawi in reference to
our iiaraortality, vf".tiiout, in a defyee, being applicable to our
bnite brethren. (155)
It is Jiiglilj? probable that inraortality has becorae so fixed a concept
that it, like sin, may occasionally be treated rrith levity. On the
other hand, this one statement may reflect an earnest doubt, one soon
merged in a sea of certainty.
Mortal life's crim limitations forewarn eventual perfection.
God hiiRself cannot conpensate to us for beinn bom, in any
period short of eternity. All the :.-i.sery Tv-e ca^dure here
constitutes a claira for another lifej — and, still more, all the
nappiness, because all true happiness involves so:net inj;; nore than
the earth owns, and something more than a mortal capacity for the
enjoyment of it.(13'9)
And it is the promise of a blessed eternity; for our creator
would nevei- have made such lovely dayB and have niven us the deep
hearts to enjoy them, above and bc5''ond all thought, unless vre were
meant to be iranortrl. This sunshine is a golden pledge thereof.
It beams tlu-oui^h the gates of paradise anc shows us glimpses far
inward, (160)
Beauty, "reality," immortality, though they are kindred terms to
Iia»thome, are not identical in connotation. Beauty, as a state of
67
taste^ nay be thought of as relative and «Bnoral. Yet beatity, as man
knows it, is but the symbol of a penaanent essence. Since genuine
beauty descends from another world, it tends to be confused as a symbol
with the condition t^ich it symbolizes. The conceptions of "reality"
aiKl inraortality are closely allied in that imnwxtality is merely the
retiim of the soul to a state of permanent "reality" — a "reality" -SThich
can be only imperfectly kno^m in physical life, but v/liich inimortality
perpetuates.
In the nddst of more objective voicings there rings always a
pexrsonal note. "Yet I am not loath to 30 avrayj ingsatient rather; for,
taking no root, I soon -sreary of any soil in which I may be temporarily
deposited. The sauK iinpatience I sometij^'S feel or conceive of as
regards this earthly life. . . ."(I6l) Hav/thome dreaded that he
might die without leaving anple provision for his wife and cMldren,
but there is no evidence in his writings of a personal fear of death.
Immortality is accepted as a natural lega<^. At fifty-five, ilawthome
was old and tired| Una's severe illness in Italy had especially
depleted 'lis strength, iihen he returned to America in i860, the fire
and zest of ten years previous had thoroughly chilled. Death wore a
kindly face.
"Now, the very knowledge of God sufficiaitly proves tlie
immortality of the soul, which rises above tlie world, since an
evanescent breath or inspiration could not arrive at the fountain of
life."^*^ The Calvinistic concept of the after life is proved by the
3liCalvin, Institutes . I, 20li.
68
very fact that God exists. For Hawthorne, heaven is intuitive. ""He
have strongly within us the sense of an undying principle, and we
transfer tliat true sense to triis life and to the body, instead of
interpreting it Justly as the promise of spiritual Immortality." (162)
It is the incurable disease of a corrupted humanity that it perverts
and ndschannels its longinc for LTmortality.
If nan performs good deeds and keeps faith he will be awarded
a niche in heaven. Fleaven, wiicre human aspirations are culminated on
a divine level, is thought of as a more perfect world. Here man is
compensated for the mud of his earthl- life. The existence of a
spiritual life is known through an undeniable intuition. Taken as a
group, these {lawthomian reflections on iianortality are iDore notable
for their number than for their variety.
God
God is presented in surprisingly warm terms, ilawthome speaks
of a personal deity, a loving caretaker, whose chief attribxite is
goodness. It is true that an equally strong conception of fortune
enip*iasizes the complete and awesome sovereignty of God.
Calvin had stressed tiie ruling powers of the Creator.
Therefore, since God claims a power unknown to us of governing
the world, let fais be to us the law of sobriety and modesty, to
acquiesce to his supreme dominion, to account his -^11 the onlv
rale of righteousness, and most righteous cause of all thlngsT'^
Puritan divines had likewise singled out the sovereignty of God as the
one attribute TThich could be rendered most vivid to human
^ ^Ibid.> I, 235.
69
intelligence,^^ ?Mle Jfawthome is a thorou^going Puritan in his
clea3>-cut recognition of the goveminc pcmesr of Cod, or Providence, he
leans toward an abstract optiraism v/hen he reflects on the natiare of God.
Sindlarly, Calvinisra, w»iile it raroaches the attribute of sovereignty
for the a»st part, mokes it plain enougii in its dogma that throupih }iis
baieflcence God is a •R'arm and munificent father to each and all»
To HatHthome, Ood is inmeasurably good.
"Kius it appears that all the external beauty of the universe is
a free gift from God over and above Tihat is necessary to o\ir
coiafort. Mow grateful, then, should we be to tliat divine Benevolence,
TThich showers even superfluous bounties upon us i (163)
VMle God's goodness is bountiful in an absolute or final sense,
iramediate actions ranain inscrutable. "God has injparted to the hmaan
soul a aarvelous strength In guarding its secrets, and he keeps at
least the deepest and iKJst inward record for his awn perusal." (I61i)
He reads souls as readily as man reads a newspaper, and He gives each
a just and thorough reading*
Thei^G is no mention, when dealing with that infinite
disembodied primal spirit, of anger or harshness. Providence is
necessarily severe in that it mingles vdth a corrupted world, and is
viewed as it -Brorks upon that world; but God, although he institutes
Providence, is not besmeared Ti?ith earth's nire.
A paternal God actively loves and cares for all mankind.
It is a comfortable thought, that the smallest and most turbid
mud— puddle can contain itr; own pictiu*e of Heaven. T^t us remember
this, when we feel inclined to deny all spiritual life to sonie
3^./illiam V.'arren Sweet, lleligion in Colonial Ainerica (New York,
1951), p. 98.
70
Manifestations of that lovinc care are felt in mortal life. "God does
not let us live anywtiere or anyhow on earth, vdthout placing something
of iaaven close at hand, by rightly using and considerine which, the
earthly darl-mes.g or trouble will vanish, and all be Heaven." (166)
Trinitarians stress the qualities of goodness and mercy trtien speaking
of Ciirist. The Puritans had thought in terms of "irresistible .-race."
Jiawthome, since he intellectually rejects the divinity of Jesus, nay
well liave shifted back to God those attributes rhich Trinitarians find
personified in Christ. Tnat is not to say that Trinitarians do not
attribute supreme coodness and riercy to God, for they do; yet they
frequently treat God as a rather distant supreme Deity and view Christ
as an immediate and warn .'^:avior. ^,7hile Providence is seen as a
conparatively cold force by Hawthorne, God, by contrast, takes on a
warmth not typical of the Puritan's God,
Calvinism assures man of the active directive energies of God.
For he is accounted omnipotent, not because he is able to act,
yet sits down in idleness, or continues by a general instinct the
order of nature orir-Lnally appointed b- him; but because he rovems
heaven and earth br/ his providence, and regulates all thin-s'in
such a manner that nothing ha--ons but according to his comsel.37
Hawthorne, in like vein, writes of a supreme caretaker. "But God, who
made us, knows, and will not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful
march, either to wander in infinite uncertainty, or perish by the
wayl"(l67) Once again there is a recognition of a warm dordnion. As
the recipient of paternal care, man owes prayer for what is so
3'' Calvin, Institutes . I, 220,
71
gratuitously given, "The air, -Tdth God's sweetest arid tendarest
sunshine in it, was rreant for mankind to breathe into their hearts,
and send forth again as the utterance of prayer. "(168)
ftrayer is one expression of man's dutiful allegiance to Godj
htaallity is another. "Tlais is the true way to doj a mn ought not to
be too proud to let his eyes be moistened in the presence of God and of
a friend." (169) "God knows bestj but I wish He had so ordered it that
our Jiortal bodies, wiaen we have done wit^ them, might vanish out of
sight and sense, like bubbles." (170) whether in jest or in earnest,
Hawthorne does not question divine intellicencoj he remains humble
before it. Feeling and faith provide sxifficient grounds for belief,
"But he never discuss^ jr^ligion in set terras either in Ms writings
or in his talk. He 'believed' in God but never sought to define hiffl."38
In contrast to the dark afflriaation of Providence, HaOTthome's
warm asserticai of God coE»g as a pleasant surprise. The dojainemt
isgiression of God, if God may be separated from his own providential
nature, is more Unitarian than Puritan. While Hawthorne had almost
nothing to say on the subject of Hjercy itself, he does pay full homage
to God's goodness*
38julian Hawthorne, The liemoirs of Julian Hawthorne , ed. iiiith
G. }Iawthome (New York, 1938), p. 16, It is interesting to speculate
on the nature of the God in which Havrthome believed. It woidd seem
from the coranentary on man's soul and on imiTOrtality that the God he
envisioned did not differ greatly from the Christian God as presented
in the Scriptures. iiojYcver, since Mawthome does differ from the
majority of Christians in tliat he rejects the Trinity and in that he
seems to have had little belief in the devil or in hell, it may well
be tliat his conception of God is not nearly so conventional as it
ndght at first appear.
72
Aspects of Relifdon
Religion is an unlettered institution in that it requires
sinrplicity and hundlity of its subjects rather t!ian erudition. In the
most trivial workincs of life, reli-ion reaches out to nan. "^Jo
fountain is so small but that Heaven may be imaged in its bosom. "(171)
Ho creature is left dr^/ \yy the outflowinc relicious tide.
"Purity and sinplicity hold converse at ever moment 7,ith their
Creator." (172) It is a consistent belief of Hawthorne's that
simplicity and purity are intiiaately connected with divinity. Just as
there is an undeniable chain of evil running throughout life, even so
is there a corresponding chain of goodness.
In every good action there is divine quality, vrfiich does not
end with the conpletion of that ^ articular deed, but goes on to
bring forth good works in an infinite series. It is seldom
possible, indeed, for humn eyes to trace out the chain o^ blessed
consequences, that extends from a man's simple and conscientious
act, lierc on earth, and connects it nith tJi.se labors of love
which the angels make it their joy to perform, in heaven above. (173)
Assertions of goodness appear as a minority report however, r.-hen placed
beside the vivid and immense body of recognized evil. Although
goodness Isolds equal qualitative strength with evil, the fonaer is
overwhelioed by tlie quantity of the latter, llairthome's conmentaiy on
the various aspects of religion, in its repeated emphasis of goodness,
tends to neglect for the moment the sterner phase of religion— God's
indefeasible sovereignty.
Unless the believer have an unquestioning faith, religion
provides a free play for his imagination, iiarrthorne is nambered a->»ng
these who have faith; yet he inserts a rather darinn thounht of what
conceivably might be.
73
Perhaps there are idgher intelligences that look upon all the
manifestations of the hioman mind — metaphysics, ethics, histories,
politics, poems, stories etc etc— with the same interest as we do
on flowers, or any other liirable production of naturej finding a
beauty and fitness even in the poorest of them vnaich vie cannot see
in the best. (171))
It is a fanciful idea, not a serious one,
"Generally, I suspect, -.-men jjeoj-jle throw off the faith th^
were bom in, the best soil of their hearts is apt to clinf; to its
roots." (175) In England, in lioiae, however far from the land of his
ajicestors Ilavrthome journeyed, he never relinquished his birthright.
The roots vrere in roiritanisa and they ^"ore infinitely deep.
Calvin was certain that the day of judgment would see numerous
souls fallen into Mell. "For those whom the Lord does not favour v?ith
the governiaent of his Spiilt, he abandons. In righteous judgeiaent, to
the influence of Satan, "-^^ >»Mle there are abiondant coinments by
Hawthorne affirming Ms mental and einotional acceptance of God and
Heaven, t'aere is little or no evidence, outside of fictional
i^presentations, that the novelist countenanced a literal belief in
Satan and Hell, At times, he seeias to take ?irhat is tantaiiount to the
existentialist view that nian is lids own hell. "At the last day—I
presuiae, that is, in all future days, when we see oui>selves as we are-
man's only inexorable jud^-e Td.ll bo liinjself, and the punishment of his
sins will be the perception of them." (176) Satan and Hell find little
roon in iiawthome's world of ideas, yet it is true that he utilized
ti:ien as dramatic features of his tales, it is conceivable that tiatan
^ '^Calvin, Institutes , i, 335 •
7h
and I'ell, in their traditional onplpyacnt as fictional entities, are
knovm to the Hawthorne intellect as convenient raetaphora for evil; even
though they are not wholly discarded fron an emotional standpoint,
A blacksmith my perform his tasks in a religious nanner,
Calvin and the Puritan fathers had preached the doctrine th^t work is
worship. (^7e do ourselves VTonc, and too neanly estinate the Holiness
above us, \iiien we deen that any act or enjoyaent, cood in itself, is
not rood to do religiously," (177))
Ilawthome chose to consaent on the brij^ter aspects of religion
rather tiian the darker ones. Helicion is seen as more than a way of
lifej it becones life itself. Purity, goodness, hurdlity are comraended
as earthly manifestations of divinity.
Formal Religion
Hawthorne's irreligion consisted in his not attending church:
as a ciiild, ho was rarely present at .'unday services; dur-ing his
courtship, Sophia could not prevail upon him to hear visiting
minis-ters; in liiglond, he sent the children to church and felt inuch
better tliereby, but did not go himself. Tiiere was no one sect with
sufficient ans»Ters for :iawbhorne's questioning nind. He had cast off
sonie vital 'uritan beliefs as untenable, but ho failed to find confort
in the rationalistic prograra of New England Unitarianism. The eternal
\7rangling over ninute doctrinal points, which formal religions
iVequentl^' engage in, was especially repugnant, ilawthome dwelt in a
subjective religious world ^vhich felt no need for the objective act of
church going.
75
"0, but the chfurch is the syndbol of religion. May its site,
which vfas consecrated on the day vrtien the first tree was felled, be
kept holy forever, a spot of solitude and peace, audd the trouble and
vanity of our week-day worldl"(l78) I'mile the church Imd slight
appeal to Hawthorne the Indixddual, he heartily reccanraeads it for the
rest of mankind. The Church, however, may be found in the Individual
heart vdth more ceii>ainty than in the visible church building*
Clerical people, with their dxist-destined volumes, failed to
make a favorable iinpression. "I find that my respect for cleidcal
people as such, and v^ faith in the utility of the:lr office, decreases
daily. V,e certainly do need a new revelation — a new system— for there
seems to be no life in the old one." (179) There is snore than one
appeal by HaiMthorne for a nevr apostle to rescue Protestantism from
stagnant waters.
One of the most disconcertins aspects of formal religion is
that it rapidly grows intolerant. This scriisraatic tendency of
Protestantism is as old as tiinc. Sects tend to pull apart rather than
draw together in a rriutual effoart for a coriimon cause.
iilach sect surrounds its orai ri^'hteousness vritti a heoEo of
thorns. It is difficult for the good Cliristian to aclmowledge tiie
good Paean J alnost impossible for the z^od C^rtiiodox to p^asp the
hand of the good l^itarian, lo<ivinc to their Creator to settle the
natters -m dispute, and civing their rmttial efforts strongly ajid
trustingly to whatever right thing is too evident to be
mistaken. (180)
Simplicity is the keynote of rolicion. Books of relifaon, many
of vrhich /lawthorne had thumbed, seemed to hiia to miss the heart of the
matter.
Books of religion, however, cannot be considered a fair test
76
of the enduring and vivacious properties of human thought, because
such books so seldom really touch upon their ostensible subject,
and have, tlierefore, so little business to be written at all. So
lone as an unlettered soul can attain to saving-; -race, there would
seen to be no deadly error in holdin- theolo.-p.cal libraries to be
accuEiulations of, for the most part, stupendous impertinence. (131)
notwithstanding an evident disdain of theolosical tomes, there
is ever:,' indication that Ilavrbhome held the liible to be the inspired
word of God. In a letter to his publisher, Janes T. I'lelds, in i860,
there is a tribute to the saving powers of the Scriptures:
u.,-,'^*? -^ "°* surgest to you, last summer, the mbUcation of the
.Able m ten or tTrelvc 12 rx. voluaies? I think "it would have creat
success, and, at least (but. as a publisher, I suppose tJiis is the
very smallest of ;-o'ar cares), it would result in the salvation of
a creat many souls, w:>o would never find their way to heaven, if
left to learn it from the inconvenient editions of the Scriptures
now in use.*^'-'
By 1358, Hawthorne had increasincly come to feel that
Protestantism needed rejuvenation. "Protestantism needs a new apostle
to convert it into soraethinc positive. . . ,»il82) In the same year
he made his first real acquaintance with Catholicism, i«l and r/as both
attracted and repelled by what he found. 'n^Tiat better use could be
made of life, after middle-age, when the accumulated sins are many and
the remaining temptations few, than to spend it all in kissing the
black cross of the Coliseuml"(l83) V^Tiile Catholicism, especially the
Homan Popes, evoked rather harsh criticism and satirical thrusts from
iiawthome, he discovered that certain practices of the Catholic faith,
notably the confessional, deeply appealed to him.
^° James T. fields. Yesterday vdLth Authors (Boston, 1900), p. 95,
Hawthorne's youngest daughter. Rose, became a Catholic convert
some years after her father's death.
77
The Catholic Chiirch is praiseworthy in that it keeps religion
present to the daily life of man.
V.liatever raay be the iniquities of tlie papal system, it was a
vd.se and lovely sentiment that set up the frequent shrine and cross
along the roadside. IJo wayfarer, bent on whatever worldly errand,
can fail to be recdnded at every mile or t-.'fo, that tJils is not the
business ^^Mch most concerns iiin. The pleasure-seeker is silently
adironished tc look heavenward for a joy infinitely nreater than he
now possesses. The wretch in testptation beholds the cross, and is
warned that, if he yield, the Sit^viour's aeon;/ for his sake will
have been ^idured in vain.(l3it)
Catholicism continually rerninds her followers of life's deeper
laeanings. Ilawthome is more than superficially attracted by
Catholicisa, but it is extremely doubtful that he woidd have ever
becoine a ccsivert. His energy for any sort of outer participation in
religion was quite feeble.
Since the universe in wliich he found himself was predominantly
inoral, Hasrthome felt nan's chief business and urgent problem to be a
sufficient laorality.^^ Calvinism had provided an intellectual
backer ound steeped in sriorality.
Calvinism in fact is not essentially a systemtic body of
doctrine. Its essence is revealed in that wrdch Calvin consistently
strove to effect and actually succeeded in effecting; In no snail
degree— the moralisation of all life by religion.^
Hawthorne's religion is not formlly Celviiiistic in that it is
not Trinitarian, and in that it finds no faith in "election" and
"irresistible nrace." Literal Satans, literal iiells, and the angry
God of early New Jhgland are not taken seriously, liawthome did
^2vemon L. Parrington, f/ain Currents in /bierican Thought (New
York, 1927), II, hh2.
^A. latchell iiunter. The Teachinrr of Calvin (London, 1950),
p. 298,
78
believe in the soul, in iriPiortaUty, in a God with the attributes
which Christian theoloey reiterates, and in t}ie savinc power of the
Holy V.rit. Goodness in this life is to oe rewarded by heaven; man's
sins are to be punished, possibly through a persistently conscious
dwelling vdth those veiy sins. Heaven is to compensate laan for an
iiTQXJrfect earthly life.
"Hawthorne's religious faith was of an almost cliildlike
simplicity, thougii it was as dccplj-- rooted as :-iis life itself,"^
Relicion is net tliat urge which brines nan to church on vSunday, but it
is that, instead, wliich gives meaning and color to all life's actions.
Inklings of doubt, if they occurred, were quickly lost in the certainty
of a naive but ad^rdrable faith. Sophia's unstinting belief in God oust
have given added inpetus to that intuitive faith which her husband
possessed. "He deeply accepted his ;vife's rejoicing faith, and
perceived the limitations of reason. "^^
God in !;is pure form, considered apart from ii«ovidence, is far
more of the paternal being and less of the almighty spirit than -right
be suspected. The further Siawthome nove : into abstraction and away
from the dance of life, the ore optimstic he became. Thus Providence,
as the chief protagonist of the texture of life, is seen in rigid gray
lines. The rrorkings of ft-ovidence are visible to the Hawthorne eye;
hence they are instinctively intollectualized with immediate pessindsm,
altliough the long look at Providence, unobtainable in this sphere, is
'^Julian Hawthorne, "ilawthorne's rMlosophy," The Genturv
l^anazine. XXXII (f^ay, 1886 J, 91. ^^
'-'Julian ilarrthorne, Llemoirs. p. 16.
79
an optimistic one. To God, on the other hand, felt tixrou^^ the
unlettered heart, is ascribed viaxm and personal, ali-Tost sunshiny
attributes.
Jesus affords a special interpretative problem. He enters
Hawthorne's writings only in brief and scattered passages. Noyfhere is
the iiavvthome intellect seriously concentrated on the question of his
divinity, i{owever, in a letter to Sophia, written the 2lith of uecember
1J39» the i7ould-be husband in alluding to the fact that the Gustos
House employees nsust -jrork on Christmas day, makes warrd mention of Jesus.
"The holiest of holydays — ^the day that brought ransom to all other
sinners — leaves us in slaveiy still. "^^ Although he had discarded a
belief in the divinity of Jesus, possibly Hawthorne had not completely
shaken it from ids raind.
iieli£;ion is traditionally one of the most significant
institutions confronting man in society. All life is a religious
reflection, for religion as an institution casts its sxiadow over the
iThole scope of human activity. It is not suggested that liaTrtihome was
pious, notably devout, or in any yray a proselytizer of the good lifej
but rat er that he saw the ephemeral procession of life as a somber
one, and that le recognized religious faith as the one necessary
accompaniment to mortal man's procession.
^ ^Love letters , I, 113,
CHAPTER V
SOCIEPy
Social and civic institutions, Hawrthome scans v.lth a practical
but slightly jaundiced eye. Society in its greater sense, and
political society more specifically, are to be interpreted as earthly
actualities, conceived and perpetuated by man out of his need for
cooperation and for his own convenience. In contrast to the
imponderable presence of a relirious force which dwells both above man
and within his individual heart, and which renders every action both
moral and meanincful, society eiMrges as a gross superficiality. This
is not to imply that institutionalizcsd social forces are not central
to earthly life— for they are indeed a priiae concern— but rather that
they are not spiritual in essence.
Religion, while it is simultaneously the most immediate and the
most ultimate of actualities, and while it enters somehow into all
actions, allows man free rein to work out his social living in his own
limited and blundering wa.y. Somehow, man, with all his spiritual
shortsightedness, caught up in marble and mud— man who goes wrong more
often than right— somehow, he constructs upon the social appetite a
formalized mode of life T*ich recrulates his earthly intercourse and
uhich he recognizes as society. The social way is the natural way— in
so far as the urge to group is as dominant as the urge to mate — ^yet,
v/hen seen in its refined form, institutionalized and standardized
80
81
society may be viewed as a racniment to nan's tendency to err.
In close con^nction v.lth the social piocess, tradition looms
ondnous* Jn effect, it is tradition v/ixich nourishes and liands forward
the laore fornalized and the incre habitual aspects of the co-anunal way.
J.san, v.tierever he nd-ght seek release, continually sturablcs beneath the
heavy vreight of tradition. At ti;cs, tradition appears to the
Hawthorne aind as an insidlouc pi'essure, distinct from yet intimately
linked to social lixi-nr:. Less frequently it ±c seen as a v.'orth?.-hile
agent of conservatism.
Tradition
The Hawthoniian analysis of tradition is oversrhelraingly
consistent to the point of monotony. The principal concern is for the
decay, the sterility, the offet^iess accoiBoanying tradition. Life
requires periodical renewing, for "Hunan nature vd.ll not ilourish, any
more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too lone a
series of rrenerations, in the same worn-out soil." (185) ^iven though
tradition propagates and increases the oppressive weight on k^i's
shoulder, its conseirvative influence is a utilitarian one. "This long
connection of a family -vrith one spot, as its place of birth and burial,
creates a kindred between the human being and the locality, quite
independent of any charn in the scenery or moral circunstances that
surround him. It is not love, but instinct," (l86) An appetite for
the land, of the kind expressed in Tennyson's "Northern Fanner Old
Style," presents the nobler countenance of tradition. Unfortunately,
as is the case with many a pure desire, evil adheres to its practical
82
evolution.
Undoubtedly, the five generations of Puritan ancestors which
had precedc-d Nathaniel Hawthorne, as well as the spirit of Salem
itself, were in his blood. He could not rid ioimself of this profound
influence.^7 it is tiiis sort cf tradition—the double-barreled
intGrna.1 pressure of heredity and environnjent-wivich confounds
Hawthorne. I'o escape from tradition is to escape fron one's pl^sical
self.
"The evil of those departed years would naturally have sprung
up aeain, in such rank weeds (symbolic of the transirdtted vices of
society) as are always prone to root themselves about human dwellings.'
(1^7) There is a heavy insistence that decay and vice invariably
follow the passace of time and that a dwelling enriched by age evinces
the mouldy face of evil. Tradition transrdts that evil.
!ence, too, ^nicht be drawn a wi^hty lesson from the little
regarded trutn, that the act of the passinc ceneration is the rera
whicii ;.iay and must produce good or evil fruit in a far-distant '
tiraej that, toceti.er ^vith the seed of the inerely temporary crop.
Which mortals terra expediency, they inevitably so-.r the acorns of a
nwre^endunnf; growth, wliich may darkly overshadow their tx)sterity.
Good, which r.ay theoretically be transmitted, tends to melt before the
Clare of its darkened antithesis.
Vice is robust and free roaiainc, not caged and sickly, it is an
untamed entity swept forward by tradition.
Not to be deficient in this particular, the author has
provided himself rrlth a moral,— the truth, namely that the
wrong-doing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and,
''^Vanning Jiawthorne, -Hawthorne's Early Years," Kssex Institute
iistorical Collections . IJCXIV, 21
divesting itself of every teajjcerary advantage, bec<aaes a pure aiMl
uncontrollable nischief j and he would fael it a singular
gratificati<yi if this rtxiiance raight effectuaUiy asivince aankind— •
or, indeed, any one jaan— of tli© fol3^ of ttnnbling doBn an
avalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on tlie heads of an
tmfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush theatu, until the
accuiaulated niass shall be scattered akaroad in its ca>lginal
atone, (189)
I^h generation, if it is to breathe a pare air and labor with any
degree of fVeedoin, nust scmKhos' find relea^ from the ever-increasing
pressures of its past, from the petnt of p«re theoaiy, 4a tl» porely
abstract rcala, liaBthome is seoi as a iiTOuld««be reforjaesp of society,
as a reada* of Rousseau* He is seoi as one -erho Irishes n«n fi'eed frora
the ^:cu?milated artifice of civillssatiai* Actually, liowever,
Ha^vthome's practical recognition of the incorrigible yet necessary
nature of laan's piiysical sojourn belies the ideal*
''Tradition,— w!il^ sorae^iiKSs brings dc^m ta^cth that history
has let slip, but is oftencr the «ild l»^le of the tixae, such as ^ras
formsrly spoken at the fireside and new ccs^eals in tlie newspapers,—
traditicai is respcswible for aD. conta'ary aveOT3ents»"(l90) Traditicm,
in wloatever manner it is perpetuated, speaks with an absolute voice*
Yet, meee age fails to impress Hanthome* He is interested in values
rather tlian the purely antique* "An old thing is no better than a neir
thing, unless it fbaj a syitiJx>l of soraethlng, or have aorae value in
itself. » (191)
Coraplete detacnnient tram the past is ingxsssible* Individuals
and nations may change tlieir ndnds, but they cannot change their
histcwy* Apparent change and newness is someliow cocmected with past
eveits. Man continues to build cnto the naterial and mental structures
8U
of past ages, and in so doing -rags behind him, like the chancered
nautilus, an outgrorm past.
The fact is, the world ir accunulatinc too many materials for
knowledge. We do not recognize for rubbish rrtiat is really rubbish:
and under tv,is head rai;.:ht oe reckoned al-^st ever.-thin- one sees in
the i^ritish hiuseum; and as each generation leaves its fragments and
potsherds behind it. such will finally be the der^perate conclusion
of the learned. (192)
I'he present is burthened too niuch T.lth the past. V/e have not
tine, m our earthly exif3tencG, to appreciate r^^at is warn rdth
life, and inmediately around usj yet we heap up all these old
shells, out of ^7 iich huTTian life has Ion:: emeraed, car5tinr theni off
ioreyer. I do not see how future aces are to stagger onward under
all thas dead wei-ht, v.dth the additions that ttLII be continually
made to it, (193)
If only man were allowed to start afi-esh, though Hawthorne sees no
effective means of castinc" aside outraoded paraphernalia, then and only
then would the transmitted sears of society heal in the new enthusiasm
of fresh conquest. It is a young idea, a liberal idea, but scarceily a
well-rounded one. hen fiawthome cries out that dead weight makes
progress difficult, that society should amputate its Tdthered limbs,
he begins and ends vrLth the sane lament, but failn to provide the
necessary smrgical implements.
"But raethinks it must be weary, weary, Treaxr/, tliis rusty
unchangeable village-life, where men grow up, grow old, and die, in
their fathers' dwellings, and are buried in their grand sires 'very
graves, the old skulls, and cross-bones being throvm out to make room
for them, and shovelled in on the tops of their coffins."(19Jb) The
spectacle of a traditional life led in an unthinking manner is a
depressing one, for it is felt that the person observed never comes
alj.ve. liawthome ad-nits his ornn need for a physical rut, for a calm
05
external routine, to free hie mind for action, iho observed failure
of a mind lost in traditioiial v.-ays to ones flex its nusclcc is '-tOst
deplorabloj mental fixedness: is to be avoided at. all costs.
Jian's onljr release froia tradition co'ies through fire and death.
These two purifying agents are applied by iiawthome to both the
individual and the group problen. ' "/dl towis should be aads oftpablo of
purification by fire, or of decay, vdtioin each iaalf-century. Gthervd.se,
they become the hereditary haunts of vernin and noisomeness, besides
standing apart from the possibility of such inprovQmcaits as are
constantly introduced into the rest of man's contrivances and
accoia3iodations."(l?5/; -tt is crimnal to foisrt the present onto iznbom
generations—to pass on old hemes, old ways, and old evils. Ideally,
rnan should be allowed a new cycle each fifty years.
Late in hir; life, in lo62, the graying novelist appears to
contradict nis earlier conclusions. Such reversals of position are
exceedingly rare, for Hawthorne normally probes and elaborates liis
ideas in an amazingly consistent manner. It is not iiis w>nt to .junip
from a considered opinion to its very opposite. Frequently, the
Hawrthomian paradox is nonexistent when the surface contradiction is
evaluated in terms of the over-all thought pattern. In other
instances, the intellectual phase of the vn:*iter'n personality gives
£TO\md to teinporary einotional outbursts or even to petty grievances.
Then, too, Hawthorne is knavm to have occasionally spoken Tdth tongue
in cheek.
The sentiment expressed but two years prior to the novelist's
86
death is readily seen as a niore conservative and perhaps a more
reasoned approach to the problem*
It msi'- seem to be pajrLnc dear for -what mony will reckon but a
worthless weed} but the more historical associations we can link
with our localities, the richer vtxH be the daily life tliat feeds
upon the past, and the more valuable the things that have been
lone ortablished: so that our childjen will be less prodical than
their fathers in sacrificing good institutions to passionate
impulses and inpracticable theories. (196)
The bulk of Hairthome's criticisra of tradition decries the L'mense
burden of a perpetuated evil. It fails to recognize tiiat "good" may be
transmitted to any TrortlTrahlle degree^ it fails to jive full recognition
to tradition as a stabilizing elenent in society, finally, when the
author comes to speak of "good institutions," it is wL«i the voice of
an old man— one made more malleable and more conservative by a long and
sharp engagemnt irith life. Tlie more balanced view, arrived at late 3n
life, scarcely represents the dondnant liawthome notion,
Nathaniel HaTtthome was bom into a town overladen with old
houses, old oust odd, old legends, and old evils. He inherited the rich
and shadowy past of the Hawthorne family. Cn his maternal side, the
Mannings -vvero equally tradition-conscious. Mary ifenning, the youth's
aunt, had steeped him in Hew Ehgland lore. Then, too, from infancy he
was rade aware that certain acconplishinents ware expected of a
Hawthorne. He rebelled against those expectations in taking up the
pen. Perhaps the constant nagging of ,-randnother I&nning and the
Manning uncles had wich to do with that rebellion. In any event,
Harfthome never quite cane to a balanced understanding of tradition.
liis rebellicai, lor all its vinegar and ia^dshness, is not an entirely
87
illogicjal one \7heii viewed in the light of the youth's upbringing.
One too keenly attxined to the world's evil could not help
feeling that any carry-over frcai the pasrt is essentially an evil one.
Tradition gives rise to social as viell as personal problems.
Intellectually and emotionally Hawthorne is repeatedly called on to
face tradition. He recognized it for what it appeared to him,
scrutinized it in the dark light of lifes's prenatal influences, but
never quite knew what to make of it.
Society at .Large
"?ian is naturally a sociable being; not formed for himself
alone, but destined to bear a part in the great schetae of nature. All
his pleasures are heightened, and all his griefs are lessened, by
participation. It is only in Society that the full energy of the mind
is aroused, and all its powers drawn forth," (197) At age 'sixteen,
some years before the artistic Hawthorne was to hesitate sensitively
on the brink of society, the adolesceait Hawthorne offers a lucid
statement of social necessity. Together with a recognition of that
necessity, the youth xonhesitatingly affirms the nature of the social
problem and the inevitable choice of answers which an individiml must
make. "Perhaps life may pass more tranquilly, estranged from the
pursuits and the vexations of the multitude, but all the hurrj' and
whirl of passion is preferable to the cold calmness of indifference."
(198) After endless encounters with the crass actuallt: of social
existence, after numerous cides of pain, Hawthorne is led, throu[:h
living and through observin-: the life pattern of others, to accept in
his later years the prophetic statement of his adolescent self.
Though the appetite for society is genuine enough, the edifices
erected on that urge are ahallow and vain, "Alas that the vanity of
dress should extend even to the gravei"(l99) t/ith all deferaice to
the Qiglish poets of the eighteenth century, Iiasrt;home takes up the
theme of nan's vainglory, './Tien the visible worlcLngs of society are
seen apart from the shining theory which mandates then, they wear
conspicuously the staop of man's iniperfectibility.
"Andd the seeming confusion of our nysterious world,
individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one
another and to a whole, tliat, by stepping aside for a mcsnent, a roan
exposes himself to the fearful risk of losing his place forever. "(200)
Society mechanically thrusts itself forward on an unaharted track.
Once the individual withdraws from its intricate train of movement he
never regains his former seat. Those wlio remain "shivering behind" can
but marvel at the unfeeling conrplexity of that in which they wice
participated. Hawthorne unquestionably believes, at tliis stage in his
development, that a functional society, moulded by man of artificial
ingredients, lacks spiritual substance. Society is binding on man in
that acqxiiescence to it is necessary for a balanced participation in
this life, yet it is factitious in that it is bom of man's shoirb and
shallow view.
By the slieer force of its routine, the social way provides a
needed fortress for the individual. Yet at the same tine it is so
superficially fashioned, so lacking in spiritual fiber, that it can
scarcely' withstand a sharp interruption of its order.
89
A revolution, or anything that interrupts social order, may
afford opportunities for the individual display of eminent virtues?
but its effects are pernicious to general norality. ?/iost people
are so constituted that they can be virtuous only in a certain
routine, and an irregular course of public affairs deirioralizes
them. (201)
Society does render surface satisfaction in providing a necessary-
stabilization, for "It is one great advantage of a gregarious niode of
life that each person rectifies his mind by other ralnds, and squares
his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in
eccentricity," (202) It is through social interplay that balance and
perspective are attained and that an adjustaent to group living is
secured.
Social life's entire structure, however ordered on its crust,
stands out to the Hawthornian eye as little more t.ian an ingenuous
personification of man's depravity. "Vie rfno are born into the world's
artificial systens can never adequately know how little in our present
state and circumstances is natural, and how siuch is raerely the
interpolation of the perverted Hdnd and heart of Eian."(203) Jxaian
Hawthorne, althoiigh normally blind to the inner workings of his father's
mind, was astute enou;j;h to recognize that "Another of iIan»thome's
strongest f>erceptions vras of the artificiality of our present
civilization and of the superfluities and absurdities to which custom
iias insensibly blinded us."^ As a novelist, ilawthome was uniquely
qualified to write on the necessary adjustment of the individual to
society; for having remained on the outer rim of social activity for
^S Julian Hawthorne, "ilawthome' s l=iiilosophy," Centxay , XXXII, 90,
90
twelve years, he saw the problem of participation with an excessively
sharp focxis*
"The advance of man from a savage and animal state may be as
well measured by his mode and morality of dining, as hy any other
circumstance." (20li) Society's plane is a cultivated and refined one.
Tne exact state of a civilisation nay be observed in its outer manners,
for society at large is so constituted that its degree of perfectibility
may be taken on a surface reading. Havrthome is not certain, when he
carefully considors the possibilities of man in society, tliat tliore liaa
been any internal advancement beyond the prinitive state.
It is the ir^personal and essentially heartless quality of the
social order that liawthome most abhors.
In this republican country, araid the fluctuating waves of our
social life, somebody is always at the drofming-point. Tiro tragedy
is enacted with as continual a repetition as that of a popular
drama on a holiday} and nevertheless, is felt as deeply, perhaps,
as when an hereditary noble sinks below liis order, 'bre deeply;
since, v/ith us, rank is the grossor substance of wealth and a
splendid establishnKnt, and lias no spiritual existence after the
death of these, but dies hopelessly along with them. (205)
The American social tendency toward an aristocracy of wealth is
lamented as the peculiar shortcoming of a people keyed to materialistic
values.
Although Hawthorne censures what seems to him an artificial
mode of social conduct, he hastens to accept as valid the appetite upon
which that rnode has arisen. He speaks of a great chain of belonging.
^^kind's gregarious inclinations lead iaira to look askance on those who
attenipt to stand apart. "iJut tho syn^iathy or magnetism among human
beings is more subtile and universal than we thinkj it exists, indeed.
91
different classes of organized life, and vibrates from one to
another. "(206) If hxiroanity woiad but allow its brotherhood to assert
itself in a natiural way, then all things would be possible. f.fut there
is a still more powerful force in man yet to be reckoned ?dbh — one
■wliich never changes, one which makes impossible a genuine social union.
Noble theories fall short of their narlc when actuated by a selfish and
evil hujuanity. Nonetheless, in spite of the corxnipt practice tlirough
which it becones manifest, the gregarious inclination exists in a pure
form.
This then is the nature of that institution govemins man's
conduct, that it beats down upon hini, -.vearies hi:n, jret demands his
participation. Man imist assume his function in a society propagated
by tradition and crounded in superficiality, lie saist remain a lielpless
witness to the v/orld's vanity "For, has not the world corae to an
awfully sophisticated pass, v;hen, after a certain de^^ee of acquaintance
'.Tith it, we cannot even put ourselves to death 5ji ^ole-hearted
simplicity?" (207) I'axi must come to realize that society has
progressed away fron native joy and simplicity and into a realm of
unwholesome artifice.
(Mot that the modes and seeming possibilities of human enjoyment
aie rarer in our refined and softened era,-- -on the contrary, they
never before v/cre nearly so as-undant, — but that mankind are getting
so far beyond the childhood of their race that they scorn to be
hapny any longer. A simple and joyous character can find no place
for itself amon^ the sage and sombre figures that would put his
unsophisticated cheerfulness to shame. Tlie entire system of man's
affairs, as at present established, is built up purposely to
exclude the cai-eless and happy soul. The very children would
upbrai.d the wretched individual w!io should endeavor to take life
and the world as— A'/hat we rdi;ht nn'urall;/ suppose them meant for—
a place and opportunity for enjoyment. (208) }
92
iluraanity is seldm very clever at aatisfying the possibilities
of its finite range. "I somertimes appr^end that our institxxtions raay
perish before we shall have discovered the nost precious of the
possibilities Tshich they involve, "(209) Still, Mn niust yrork
diligently tc perfect this world} he must reinforce, T>rtienever and
however possible, the necessarj' stable structure of society.
In timen of revolution and public casturbance all absurdities
are laore unrestrained; the measure of calm sense, the habits, the
orderly decency, are partially- lost, i-iore people becone insane, I
should suppose; offences against public morality, female license,
arc norc numerous j suicides, murderc, all unrjovernable outbreaks of
men's thoughts, embod^'-inr; themselves in wild acts, take place more
frequently'-, and vrith less horror to the lookeis-on.(210)
Social organization, that regulatory force -which gives comfort to the
individual, in spite of its ui-jnaturalncss, is i'ar preferable to chaos —
to the wildnesn of a primitive state, or to the icinesE of a solitar:.'-
one. It is not that priirdtive nan is raorclly inferior to his
cultivated brother, but that he is not as well oriented to the outer
"procession of life."
Finally, Hawthorne speaks vrith a modern voice in recognizinn
that environment helps determine the finished social product. "Space,
a free atmosphere, and cleanliness have a vast deal to do with the
possibilities of human virtue." (211) lUin cannot be held totally
responsible for a free shaping- of his own life, for tradition and
environment linit human pot rntiali tics. Heredity alone does not
sufficiently account for the development of the individual. A muddy
environment rarefy produces white marble figxirines.
Hawthorne is interested in the r)hcnoraenon of society as the
superficial actuality of a binding human propensity; he is interested
n
in the congilexity of the 3jidividual as he relates to that propensity
and to that actualityj he is interested in the natxire of tlK? social ws^
itself. Above all, he is endianted by that ^^.ch lies beneath and
regulates the achieveraents of any sociaO. organization. However
oblicators'- the existence of a man-^aade social order, however necessary
that the individual participate therein, the systenj itself is viewed
vdth a Icousseauistic disdain. It is at this point that the kinship
Td.th toe French philosopher ^ds, howeverj for Ha^rtliome perceived htaaan
nature to be everywhere alike at all times. It is unfortunate but true
that the noble savage, if loft to himself, would evolve in due time a
new society equal to the one now functioiing Tttii its characteristic
short-sightedness.
Political Society
Although he was intiioately linked with politics the last
twenty-five years of his life, Hawthorne reacts in a decided3y negative,
aljnost vitriolic nanner, to political society. "It is only fair to say,
however, that his political activity was motivated by financial
necessity."^ Had HaB»thorne achieved the early recognition laerited by
his short stories, and had writing been sufficiently lucrative for a
fainily man, he would probably liave hecitated before accepting a
political appointment. lie was forced in earning a livelihood to enter
the unlovely, materialistic realm of practical jwlitics. "I do detest
all offices — all, at least, tliat are held on a political tenure. And
^Randall Stewart, "nawthome and Politics » Unpublished Letters
to V/illiam B. Pike,« New 5n{^land Quarterly , V (April IS'32), 239.
9U
I want nothing to do irith politiciana— th^ are not nenj they cease to
be men, in beccmLnc politicians." (212)
Hawthorne took little pride in his political duties. "How
unlike, nlasl the hang-dog look of a republican official, who, as the
servant of the people, feols liiinself less than the least, and below the
lowest, of his masters. "(213)
An effect— TTliich I believe to be observable, nore or less, in
every individual who has occupied the position—is, that, while he
leans on the mi'jhty arm of the F:epublic, b±s o'cm proper stren£:th
departs from him. He loses, in an extent proporticmed to the
wea'^ess or force of his orir^iiial nature, the capal>ility of
self-support. If he possess an unusual share of native energy, or
the enervating znagic of place do not operate too lone upon hiin, his
forfeited powers may be redeemable. (2lii)
In contrast to ..hig policy, Hawthorne, as a denwcrat of his times,
advocates the Jefferscmian ideal of the least possible government. Both
aa a derxicrat and as a provincial New Eiiclander, he preferred local and
state sovereignty to a centraliaaticm of national powers.
Political salaries are seen to be sorriewhat tainted and fully
capable of stifling initiative.
ijhcle Sam's gold — meaning no disrespect to the worthy old
gentleman — has, in this respect, a quality of enciiantment like that
of the Devil's wages. .:'hoev€r touches it should look well to
himself, or he may find the bargaiii to go hard against him,
involving, if not his soul, yet many of its better attributes; its
st^irdy force, its courage and constancy, its truth and self-reliance,
and all that gives the entphasis to 7Tian3;7 character. (215)
While the theor^r of democracy is the best one under r-iilch a people may
govern themselves, democracy in prnctice abounds r.lt)i smoke-filled
rooms. "The popidar voice, at the nex-t cubomatorial election, though
loud as thunder, will be really but an echo of yrhat these gentlemen
shall spealc, under their breath, at your friend's festive board." (216)
9$
Jonatii?_n Chilley was the I'irct friend to push Hawthorne into
tlie political arena. After Franklin lUerce's election as "resident in
1052, the- political future of the novelist was assured* iUthough
Ilavrbhorne served competently as a consul at Liverpool, he realised that
the Aiaerican political cocioty v/ac not especially wise in selecting its
representatives •
An appointnent of tsiiatevcr grade, in the diplooatic or consular
service of America, is too often what the English call a "job"}
tliat is to sa^', it ic inac'.e on private and x>ersonal [irou-nds, without
a parariount eye to the public good or the gcntleraan ' s especial
fitness for the position. (217)
The patronage system, as it had blossomed after the Jackson
adndJiistration, considered inerit only accidentally. Hawthorne, in Ida
doivnright honesty, laaiented the sad state of affairs vAich bequeathed
l\ln the choice political plua of the Liverpool consu-lship.
Society surrounds irjan at every turxi as an external home in
which all rtsast accustora thsanselves to a like degree, .'.hile it is
preferable to no home, the solitary way, it is scarcely a warm
residence. Ilawthome continually pushes aside tiie outer coverinc and
looks beneath at those hvasmi limitations v.l^ich pennit only a factitloiis
social structure. Yet, as an expedient of dail;/ life, society is to be
reckoned vritli above all othei' instltutims. Tlie individual rwst inask
his face, inarch vdth the rest of mankind, adjust to nan's waj-s, and
conforn to man's dictates, Hot to do this is death.
CliAPPER VI
WOliBI
In tlie variety of her total role as idol, wife, homenaker, and
nother, ■woman stands out as an institutional force in the Jlawthornian
world of ideas. She is significantly f-onctional on both a j^ynical and
a spiritual level rather than merely ornamental. There can be no doubt
that Hawthorne idealized wcraan — that he iield her to be Infinitely more
ethereal than her male counterpart — yet interestingly enou::h the
seemin^ily sur-erficial structure of this ideal concept is rich in
philosopdiical overtones.
.''Secluded domDsticity, wiiose very core is Tromanhood, provides
sian with a most gracious coirpensation for the crass necessity of social
participation. The domestic institution affords a partial release, the
most universally accesrible one, from an essentially sonber compound.
Althoufjh an old-fashioned approach to the gentle but co-nplicated sex
lay well appear Victorian, unrealistic, or just plain naive — oi^i it is
admttedl:/ all of these — it furnishes at the sa-ne time, through its
fixing of woman's place in the over-all scheme of being, a wholesome
array of ideas. The Hawthomian conception of womanhood,^ however
much it ird-ght disconcert the iiodem woman, has its roots in an
^''I'or the best discussion of the tj-pes of womanhood vrtiich
Har/thome portrays in hi? fiction see Ilandall Stewart's introduction to
his edition of The American IJotebooks , pp. Iv-lxi.
96
97
inacinative morality rather than in prejudice. It is not out of hatred
that the visible function of woman is to be limited, but out of respect.
In truth, when looking beneath the surface, one sees the greater
function of iTomanhood operating in an almost boundless sphere.
There is a teirgstation to dismiss numerous iiatrbhorne statements
revealing a distaste for certain types of fendninity — old women, fat
women, ugly women, and, above all, "public" -vTOincn — as a natter of
personal taste. A far iTiser view would consider his ill-natured
reroaiics as tj'-cical responses bom of a reverence for vdiat was felt to
be the true function of woTnanhood. iVhen a Hawthomian precept is
violated, the novelist is not long silent.
The Function of ,<'oH^n
^/hile there is comparatively little inquiry into vfoman's
biological, raental, and eraotional make-up, t rere is an intense interest
in the over-all i^mction of the sex. "f.oraan's intellect should never
give the tone to that of raanj and even her morality is not e:<:actl5'- the
material for masculine virtue." (218) The dividing line bctv^een male
and female natiire is a hard and fast one. 7/oman approaches that which
is etherealj man, if left to himself, that which is bestial. It is
because woman is so dissimilar to )nan, not because she resembles liim,
that the two in union handsomely complement each other. orian's tasks
are not man's tasks; her ways are not his wa,ysj her functions are not
his functions. The male treads clumsily in mud, is forced into social,
econonical, and political thorouf;hfares} the female, a domestic
creature, is co-^^paratively sheltered from the harsh actualities of a
masculine Trorld.
Hawthorne proposes a distinction betvreen the wa^/s of the head
and the ways of the heart. In every eventuality he side? vdth the
heart. The apsertion that "it is only when the heart is touched that
we become beincs of reality" was not a reluctant one, for it betokens
an intuitive and emotional acceptance of life rat-ier than a merely
rational one. In accord r/ith this taowled.ce, v/oman, as a creature of
the hearL, is seen to be superior to raan, a creature of the head.
"Blessed be woman for her faculty of adrdration, and especially for her
tendency to admire v/ith her heart, when rran, at most, crants merely a
cold approval with his mind I "(219) i^'oman, by virtue of her proximity
to the pri^nal source of all life, apr.roaches spirituality in her
earthly form. Mind alone ±r, but coldness and error5 neai't alone
furnishes truth and warmth. The two may unite, balance, and nourish
one another in a proper wedding of the sexes.
In his love affair v.lth Sophia, who appears to Flawthorne as a
personification of all that is best in Tromanhood, he persistently
idealizes the function of liis betrothed. She is to serve both as a
sanctified filter for the coarser attributes of man and as a visible
symbol of the imz^iortal state.
IIo one, whom . ou would deem v/orthy of your friendship, could
enjoy so larce a share of it as I do, without fcolinn the
influence of your character tiu'oughout iiis own — purifying his aims
and desires, enablinn hin to realize that t!\is is a truer v/orld
than the feverish one around us,^and teachin:- hin hov: to gain daily
entrance into that better world. ^^
^ ^Lovc Letters , I, 5.
99
"The angel and apostle of the coiainc revelation nwst be a vroman
indeed, but lofty, pure, and beautifxa} and v/ise, Tnoreover, not through
dusJ<y grief, but the ethereal niediuni of jofjrj and showinc bow sacred love
should rnake us happy, by the truest tert of a life successful to such
an endj"(220) For the first time, a notion of the spiritual quality
of beauty intrudes itself. Ilai^'thome unfailingly links, or perchance
confuses, beauty Tri.th virtue, vhile he is extremely fond of a
beautiful and pure woinan, for he sees in her that wiiich is of the
essence of angels, he cares little enough for an ugly woman no natter
how virtuous siie might be.
Woman, a protected creature, is to rely on her mate for the
provision of physical necessities. Siie is not to bescoroe nore mannish
by intruding herself into ordained inale functions, but is to ply the
needle in domestic contentiaent • "It vias the art — ^"bhen, as now, almost
the only one vdthin a woman's grasp— of needlework." (221) As a woman
moves away from her asr'ifjied realm, she becomes correspondingly less
feminine, and infinitely less attractive to Hav-rthorne. "-oinen derive
a pleasure, incoraprehonsible to the ether sex, fron the deLicate toil
of the needle." (2?2) Needlevrark is a wo^nan's sphere; it provides her
with sufficient artistic outlet. It is inconceivable that a woman
could desire or need anj'thing more— that she could be anything less
than delighted vdth her home^aa'dLnj^ chores.
In addition to her native talent for sewing, vroirjan is endov^ed
with the ability to raise and care for flowers. "This affection and
syirpathy for flov;ers is alnrost exclusively a v/oman's trait, ^fen, if
100
•ndowBd with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to despise it,
in their contact Tdth coarser things than flowers. "(223) V/onan is
thus tightly United in her sphere of mortal activity—not from a
selfish desire to protect the nels prerogative by stifling woman's
outlets, but in a valiant effort to prohibit her contact with the crass,
grey, worldly procession. Tlirough protection and non-participation a
wonian continues to function in a pare and siriple realm. i«an, forced
out of the home and into a full participation with all that is isnoble,
invariably crows callous by contrast. Yet it is only fitting that man
should shoulder lils social obligations while strivinc at the same tim
to shield Ms wife.
Needlework, -rrith its faintly artistic coloring, is
enthusiastically pointed out as a safe and proper ahannel for foininine
talent.
There is somethin': extrenely pleasant, and even touching,-
least, of veiy sweet, soft, and winning effect, — ^in this peculiarity
of needlework, distinguisliin.^ Tfonon from nen. Cur ovm sex is
incapable of any such byplay aside from the main business of life;
but women— be they of what earthly rank they nay, however gifted
with intellect or genius, or endcwed with avrful beauty— have always
some little bandi\TOrk read:/- to fill the tiny gap of every vacant
moment. (22li)
This tender plying of the needle unites woman with the more gentle
interests of life, and thereby allows expressicn of her Inmost nature.
The woraanliood of Hawthorne's day desired, or appeared to desire, little
more freedom than Hawthorne vrould allovf her. America, then, was
substantially more of a patriarcl^/ than at present. Although the
ungentle voice of tlie "feminist" movement was beginning to make itself
heard, traditional sentiment remained closer to the Ilarthome view.
101
Woman's place is perennially at Jiojiie. In return for that
sweet completeness which she provides, wonan is man's responsibility.
If she woTild but T?holeheartedly trust herself to laasculine
protectiveness, then inip;ht her natui'e reach its fullest potential.
In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the apprehensiveness of
women is quite iT:*atuitous • i-^-en as matters novf stand, they are
really safer in perilous situations and Gmergencies than men; and
niight be still laore so, if they "rusted themselves more confidingly
to the chivalry of manhood, (225)'
While the feminine function is in some ways a lindted one —
especially in that needlework and flowers are considered sufficient
outlets for artistic energies—still, in its primary duty as a
complement to masculine nature, woman's role in the total drama looms
equally as vital as man's. Vioman, since she is predorrdnatingly heart
and hence more spiritual, shines forth as a purifyinc agent for all
that is corrupt. By virtue of her traditionally sheltered way, woman
retains more or less intact that which is childlike and divine.
Young iVomen
Throughout the great ranj^e of womanliood— from nuns to
novelists — Hawthorne's special favorite was a beautiful young woman.
Not a young woman alone, not a younj^ and virtuous woman, but a
"beautiful" yff g^_^^9'^^t" came to represent the zenith of perfection in
this life.
Beauty always captivated him. V'shere there was beauty he
fancied other good gifts must naturally be in possession, jluring
his childhood homeliness was always repulsive to him. vhen a
little boy he is remembered to nave said to a woman ho v/ished to
be kind to him, "Take iier awayl She is ugl^y and fat, and has a
loud voice. "52
102
From childhood to death, Ilairthome harbored an alinost abnormal
detestation for that v.'hich was ui;ly,^3
"i'ut slight the cfianse, street maida, to make angels of
yourselvesl"(226) Beauty is Tvithout caste, far it may flourish in a
chaniber naid as well as a princess. V:-herever it cliances to appear,
the Havrthorne eye hastens to take note cf it. "There is I:iarday
another sicht in the vrorld so pretty as that of a company of young
girls, aliaost women groim, at play, and so giving themselves up to
their airy impulse tiiat their tiptoes barely touch the ground." (22?)
Beautiful maidens are other eaithlly; they frolic lightly on tiie earth'*
surface in conmamoration of a purer and higlier beauty. Hawthorne is
correctly thou^^ht of as a moral man; :, et if he were forced to choose
between a chaste ugliness and a slightly tainted beauty, there is
little doubt of his choice.
In ga;y relief to male insensitivoness, woman thrives as a wild
but delicate flower. The nature of young wonanhiood is a simple and
free onej it is close to tlie heavens.
Girls are incoE5)arably wilder and nore effervescent than boys,
more untamable, and regardless of rtile and limit, vdth ar
ever-sliifting variety, broalcing continually- into new raodec of fUn,
yet -Hith a harmonious propriety tlirough all. Their steps, their
voices, ap:->ear free as the v.ind, but keep consonance with a strain
of music inaudible to us. Young men and boys, on the other hand.
^^iields, icsterday dth Authors, p, 6?.
53Malcolm Cowley in his introduction to The Portable IlavTthome .
(New York, 19l|8), p. 9 ff., advances the notion that IIar/thorne»s life"
pattern su/jgests the Narcissus con^jlex. /athougli there appears to be
some truth in the idea, tae extent to waich the I.'arcissus legend helps
to explain Ilarrbhome is questionable.
103
play, according to recognized law, old, traditionary games,
permitting no caprioles of fancy, but vdth scope enough for the
outbreak of savage instincts, for, vounc or old, in play or in
earnest, man is prone to be a brute, (2?8)
Hawthorne does not cherish the feminine sex in its totality.
Numerous of his comments are highly critical. These derogatory
criticisms of womanhood may bo explainable in terms of artistic taste,
or sometimes as mere squeamishness. This much is certain: liaT/thome
elevates and idealizes the function of woman; he evidences an especial
fondness for beautiful young vromenj and, in the best American manner,
he places motherhood on the loftiest of pedestals.
iiiother
The ijistincts of brotnerhood and motherhood are among the
nobler claims of humanity. If v/oman is to be associated with the
"heart," then mother is pvxe heart. "Fsut you must know a mother
listens with her heart much more than with her ears; and thus she is
often delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other people
can hear nothing of the kind." (229) A mother is even closer to
heaven than a beautiful young girl — she is, in fact, a visible
embodiment of the motherly instinct in nature and of the caretaker
instinct in God himself. "The Creator, apparently, has set a little
of his own infinite v.lsdom and love (wiiich are one) in a mother's
heart, so that no child, in the common course of things, should grow
up without some heavenly instruction. (230)
Eliaabeth LJanning Hawthorne, Nathaniel's mother, has been
dramatically presaited in biographical studies as a queer recluse.
lOi;
The notion is a misguided one.
A mother wno never shovfcd herself, wiio never ate -.rLth her young
children, woiad assuredly niake enougli of an inprescion by her
strange behavior so that her children or relatives would' mention it.
iJut they do not.^«
In trutli, young Hawthorne cherished a very warm affection for his
mother. He had written in 1321 to urge her not to move back to Salera.
If you remain where you are, think how delightful the time will
pass with all yovr children around you, shut out from the world and
nothin,^ to disturb us. It xvill be a second garden of Eden.-^
If a beautiful young woraan may be considered as representative
of an artistically perceived universe, then mother -lay be properly
thourht of as the epitome of womanhood in a morally perceived one. The
relationship wnich existed between Nathaniel and his mother was much
more normal than the early raythmaking biographers had supposed. It is
quite certain that Hawthorne was fond of .is own mother and that he was
extroiiely loyal to motherhood as an ideal state.
Old .'^omen
There is little i^.araony between iavrthorne's affection for young
women and his disdain for old ones. In contrast to the glowing praise
heaped on beauty, and to the sanctification bcstovred on motherhood, old
women are caustically dealt with. Certain old women were particularly
repulsive.
feme old ;.eople, especially vromen, so age-^Yorn and woeful are
^^Uajrrinc Hawthorne, "Parental and I'amily Influences on
Hawthorne," Essex Institute .listorical Collections . IJCXVI, h*
^^I.ianning liawthorne, "Nathaniel Hawthorne Prepares for College,"
Mew Iceland -Quarterly , XI (March 1938), 87,
105
they, aeern never to have been young £ind gay. It is easier to
conceive that siich gloofl^' phantorsis ytere sent into the world as
witliered and decrepit as vie behold them now, with syinpathies
only for pain and s^ief , to ?/atch at death-beds and weep at
fttnerals.(23l)
Hasrthorae's squeamsiuiess over that Tsiiich is old, fat, or ugly is an
unwholesome one. It should be remsHberod, ho?«2ver, that yoiaig
Nathaniel was raised by women vmtil his college days, and that his
associations with the liannings were not always pleasant ones. He
frequently lamented this unpleasantness in letters to his mother.
I am extremely honesick. Aunt Mary is continually scolding at
jne. Qrandmaam hardly ever speaks a pleasant word to me. If I ever
atteisipt to speak in ray defense, they cry out against wff in5)udence.^°
Old v/omen are inordinately stupid. In liis fictional
presentation of aged fenaales, the novelist evidences little sympathy
for their foibles.^' Since old women are no longer capable of their
ordained function — that of giving con^leteness to inan — ^th^ pervert it
by turning out pastries as a bribe to win undescr'ved affection from
youth. "Old iTOmen never knov/ hov/ to show their kindness in any other
vfay than by giving a man doughnttts and .junipkin pies, and such infernal
trash." (232) It 7!!^ well be that fiawthorne's recollection of
grandmother Manning teiapered his conception of all aged wcmen.
Several possible explanations nay be suggested for liavftfiome's
love of beauty and for his tvristed hatred of that which is xmbeautiful.
I'lrst, to an artistic Hawthorne, beauty may have appeared as a I'orm of
-^°!ianning Havrthome, "Nathaiiiel Hawthorne Prepares for Gollege,"
New iihnland .juarterly , XI, 69*
57Ha»rthorne delights in poking fun at lass Hepzibah J^cheon of
The House of Seven Gables.
106
earthly perfection, and all ivhich did not rneasure up to its standard
of the perfect was artistically repulsive. Second, a Hawthorne sprung
fi-om the Jinnninr environnent was worked upon from infancy by forces
which might prejudice him against certain types of v/ooen. Third, in a
sensual Hawthorne — and there are hints that the nian was more warm-blooded
than the novelist — the reprersions occasioned by a thcrough
moralization of life nay have found their release in a lust after beauty.
Fourth, the vrorship of beauty my be attributed to fastidiousness or to
an emotional aberration. Finally, and more in keeping with a
philosoTM.cal Havrbhome, all deviations from a code of idealized
vromanhood— ugliness, plunptiess, age— are seen as corruptions which
nerit abuse.
Public v.orocn
Although Hawthorne's manifest hatred of the unbeautiful is
undoubtedly a little strange, the vigor with w!iich he attacked public
women is much more understandable, lie feared that the entrance of
women into public life mi^ht well destroy woman by riaking her too much
like man.
Put thejTc are portentous indications, changes gradually taking
place in the habits and feelinns of ths gentle sex, which seem to
threaten our posterity with many of those public women, whereof
one was a burden too grievous for our fathers. ( 233 )>S
The antagonist toward public women, although it may scorn to spring from
petty jealousy or Urom an egotistical resentment of any encroachment on
-'^The woman referred to as a "burden too grievous" was i\nne
Hutchinson.
107
the male prerogatives, is, idealistically spoakin-, TIawthorne'a way of
defending yihat he considered to be the prijnal function of wcwnanhood.
He is attempt inc to protect his dreaa fro:n would-be refor;;jers and from
time itself.
iVoman's sex is a secret and holy one.
Fame does not increase the peculiar respect tiiich mn pay to
female excellence, and there is a delicacy (even in rude bosoitjs,
where few v.ould tldnk tc find it) t at perceives, or fancies, a
sort of iE^jropriety in the display- of -Ionian's natal rand to Wie
gaze of tiiG uorld, Tdth i-ndications by wh.ich its inmost secrets
may be searched out.(23U)
It is bad enough for a man to wite of his inner longings, to spread
his soul on foolscap, but when a m>mn coeks naked to print she
prostitubea all that is divine in ha?. That deepest Kystery, wocaan's
sex, Hairbhome never fathoiaedj he preferred to cloak those secrets and
to declare them sacred rather than uncover toeia. Vihei woiaan clwse to
unravel herself before his rery eyes, Hasrthome iiras appalled,
"Th^, the verj'^ nature of the opposite sex, or its long
hereditary habit, which ims become like nature, is to be essentially
modified, before \r<Msn can be allowed to assume what seoras a fair and
suitable position." (235) ^Voiaan is so physically and spirit-'ally
constituted that she aaist modifj' her total being before attenptinr to
chanse—even one degree— the traditional balance between herself and
man. Although Hawthorne recognizes the need of a gradual inqprovement
in the social position of women, he stands firraly declared against
those feminists -Bho would attespt iintnediate, forceful aeosures.
';ihBt aimised and puzzled ne was the fact, tliat wonien, however
intellectually superior, so seldom disquiet theraselves about the
rif^ts and wrongs of their sex, unless their owi individual
103
affecticms clianco to lie in idleness, or to be ill at ease. They
are not natural reformers, but become such by the pressure of
exceptional misfortune. (236)
A woman liappily -narried, a nwther, a v/oinan fulfilling her natural
function, is not concerned ydth breakinc out of her designated sphere
of action, but is Instead thoroughly contented. It is only when wonan
is frustrated in the pursuit of her birthright, when she is either
unfit for or neglected by the natrinonial state, that she sticks her
nosG where it docs not belong.
Although any trpc of public woraan is capable of raising
Hawthorne's ire, Trom«i who attempt to write provoke the ,';3'eateat
contempt. "What a strange propensity it is in these scribbling women
to niake a show of their hearts, as well as their heads, upon your
counter, for anybody to pry into that chooses I "(237) The novelist had
difficulty in accustoming himself oo the idea that v/omon could write.
vSince women are to be thoujfht of as delicate, protected creatures,
indelicate feminine overtiires are unduly shocking. To congjete with
women in print is especially distasteful. In a letter to his friend
and publisher, Vdlliam Ticknor, the novelist speaks his mind.
Besides, America is now vrtiolly given over to a d d mob of
scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the
public taste is occupied with their trash — and should be ashamed of
myself if I did cucccod.^^
V/riting is a brutal job, trfdch women, since they are to be protected
from life's roughness, in no way qualify for. Let women stick to their
-'^Caroline Ticknor, :-'a\vthoi-ne and is l^iblisher (New York, 1913),
p. liil.
109
knitting «ad leave the indelicate process of ccaigjosition to the male.
By 185$, Hawthorne was -willing to admit that some few women
were capable of the laanly art of writJJig. He "wamly espoused the
cause of Delia Bacon, and financed, -with considerable personal loss,
the publicaticMi of her controversial book on the origin of Shakespeare's
plays* For the laost part, however, he continued to diide fesiale
authors.
Generally -wanen write like emasculated raon, and are only to be
distinguished from aale authors by greater feeblKiess and folly;
but TThen thej' throv.* off the restraints of decency, and come befoire
the public stark naked, as it were— then their books are sure to
possess character and value. (23O)
There are, then, a £&st vicoro\is women who sre disposed by their very
natures to function boldly as mm* This does not rmsn to suggest that
the average woman steuld try her hand at writing. '*^¥otaen are too f;ood
for authorship, and that is the reason it spoils tiiera so." (239) Since
she is recocniaed to be intrinsically better than man, and since her
functional realm lies above and apart from the hard one of authorship,
wanan corrupts and is hiopself corrupted when 1^© eri^oneously atteiapts
to become an author*
./omen must be freed from the cuittoersoiae reflations in^josed
upcffi them by society before they are admitted to wider spheres of
endeavor. With age and witii experience, HswthoTOe grew more tolerant
of women urtio defied his special standards. Perhaps he had become more
practical and less idealistic about wcnianhood in general. Tlie awakaiing
of a "new" womanhood, although it 5.s still regarded as something of a
nightmare. Is no longer attacked.
110
^e custon^ of arti-tic Life besto-.f suc'i liberty uoon the sex,
which is elsevfhere restricted "VTithin so rauch narrower iirltsj and
it i^ 'pevharis an indication tliat, -^rlienever we adtiit women to a
wider scope of pursuits and professions, ve must also remove the
shackles of our present conventional rules, vrhich yrovld become an
insufferable restraint on either maid or wife.(2iiO)'
The character of transcejidental reform was illustrated by its
fervent agitation for the enfranchisement of women, and for the
enlarcoment of their sphere of duty >-md privilece.^O Li conjunction
with the arrival of the "public" woman onto the .\jiierican scene, it is
not unlikely that Havrthorne canie to find her syrnboli zed— found the
embodinent of all that was rwst unpalatable to hi:n— in llargaret
P\iller. The uneentleiuanly slandering of Stiss Fuller's c laracter,
while it is not easiiy e>xused, may be partially understood in tiiat
LJarcaret -rost have appeared to Uawthorne as the most flagrant violator
or hi.a ideal womanhood. She was not especially noted for physical
beauty^ she wrote, she edited, she preached "feminisTii"; s'ae was
garrulous. Tne presence of evon one of these attributes woiild
scarcely ingratiate her vath Hawthorne. Packaged together they proved
far too much, tiargaret's virtue, inteUirence, and literary
accomplishTnents fade from view when placed beside numerous other
bumptious qualities which must have made her extremely obnoxious to one
with :ia%Tthome's ideals. May.thorne, as a defender of the faith, was
loath to give way before tiose forces which Margaret personified-
forces irtiich were hacking away at the very basis of womanhood in an
effort to improve the finished product.
Cctavius Brooks i-'rothingham. Tran scende ntalism in New ^nrland
(New York, 1336), p. 17^;, """" ^
Ill
V/omffli in General
ilawthome v/as fond of reniarking on the status of present day
woman, fond of reinarK'lng on feminine psychology — however little he may
have understood it— and fond of reflecting on the nature of women in
general. These miscellaneous observations, while they are seldom
profotaid, shed sorao additional li^-ht on Hawthorne's inquiiy into
woraanhood. Occasionally, in an effort to be amusin;; rather than
serious, Harrthorae tries his liand at phrase-baking •
In her youth, a woman goas to the glass to see how pretty she
isj in her a.r:G, she consults it, to assure herself that she is not
so hideous as she niight be. She gets into a pcssion -vath it, but
dies before she can make up her mind to break it.(2lil)
There is no aversion on Hawthorne's part to commenting rather firankly,
rather personally, on femnine apparel. "A white stockinc is infinitely
more effective than a black one." (2^2)
iJew Rngland vromen of Hawthorae ' s time were felt to be measurably
weaker than their i'uritah prototypes.
Morally, as well as siaterially, there was a coarser fiber in
those wives and maidens of old i^n^lish birtli and brcedinf;;, than in
their fair descendants, separated from them by a series of six or
seven generations j for, throughout that chain of ancestry, every
successive mother iias transrdtted to her child a faintei* bloom, a
more delicate and briefer beaut;-, and a slighter pliysicaj. frarae, if
not a cliaracter of less force and solidJ.ty, than her ov/n.(2li3)
Although tile present day woman is fairer to the eye, she has weakened
in her moral function as mother and homeinaker — lias beccxne feeble in that
wi-i3.ch is most vital to womanhood. Sharp iXinctional lines which
formerly distinguished the sexes are rapidly vanishing. "V/e seldom
meet with women nowadays, and in this country, \7ho impress us as being
Tiromen at all, — their sex fades away, and goes for nothing, in ordinary
112
intercourse ."( 2Ui )
Certain coirmonplace psychological phenomena of the fendnine
world are recorded from time to time.
A brilliant v/onan is often an object of the devoted admiration-
it ird^^t almost be termed worship, or idolatry — of sonc younc £irl>
who perliaps beholds tlie cynosure only at an awful distance, and has
as little hope of personal intercourse as of climbing amonc the
stars of lieaven. i.e racn are too gross to coinprehend it. Tven a
woman, of mature age, despises or laughs at such a passion. (2li5)
In one instance, liawthorne takes up the challenge of woman's limited
opportunity for self-expression.
It is nonsense, and a miserable wrong, — the result, like so
many others, of ntasculine egotism, — that the success or failure of
woman's existence should be made to depend -.vholly on the affections,
and on one species of affection, wiile man has such a imaltitude of
other chances, that this seems but an incident. P'or its ov.n sake,
if it vdll do no more, the world should throw open all its avenues
to the passport of a v.oman's bleeding heart. (2146)
If her existence is so intimately linked with affairs of the heart,
then a failure in those affairs — spinsterhood or widowiiood—forfeits a
woman's birthright—her total excuse for being. Tnere is evidence that
there were fe;v respectable career women in the first iialf of the
nineteenth century.
Once a woman goes ever so slightly wrong in the matter of
sexual morality, she has crossed the line for all eternity.
A woman's chastity consists, like an onion, of a series of
coats. You may strip off the outer ones without doing much
mischief , pei-haps none at all; but you keep taking; off one after
another, in expectation of cominc to the inner nucleus, including
the whole value of tlie matt-.r. It proves, however, tliat t]iere is
no such nucleus, an i that chastity is diffused tlxrou-h the whole
series of coats, is lessened with the removal of each, and vanishes
with the final one, which you supposed would introduce you to the
hidden pearl. (2I47)
113
A woman must be either purest •vrhlte or deepest scarlet, for there are
no iTj^brid hues, r^uinp matrons receive a final harsh upbraiding.
I wonder wtiether a middle-aged husband ought to be considered
as legally married to all the accretions that have overgrovm the
slendemess of his bride, since he led her to the altar, and which
make her so much more than he ever bargained forl(2!i8)
Hawthorne's understanding of wojnen was far from a con^lete one.
Although he understood well enoucl^ what he admired and iiirliat he hated in
the sex, Tsroinanliood'c true nature provec5 elusive. He was never quite
able to break through, in the manner of a Flaubert, into the internal
mainspring of femininity. Perhaps the actual was hidden ty the
formdable structure of his ideal.
?v^-riage and the Home
The force of the domestic institution parallels in inany ways
that of religion and society. Yet significant as marriage may be, it
is frequently a ready source for proverbial humor. "A man and his wife
should never both be angry at once."(2i!9) '^x>re often, though,
iiatrthorne is in dead eai*nest vriien he stops to reflect on the domestic
state.
But, blessed be God, whether our habitation be a cave, a hut,
a lodge of skins, or a laarble palace, the name of home has a
hallowing influence wMch renders it the only spot on earth Trtiere
true comfort may be found. (250)
Home, and all that the word suggests — woman, marriage, children, the
fireside— stands as a v/arra refuge, a partial exit, fro;", the discomfltux^
of grosser actualities. Home has something of that same purifying
quality found in a beautiful woman. It comforts man — ^raan stained
through liis necessary outer contacts — with its wholesome warmth. In
lUx
truth, hone is nan's second womb, lieaven lois third. As an intermediate
realm betx/ecai heaven and earth, hoac provides the best refuge accessible
to man*
ilarriafje, for which the hone exists, is a rairaculour! entity in
that its very presence glosses over an infinitude of imperfections.
A kind Providence Jias so skilfully adapted sex to sex and the
nass of individxials to each other, that, with certain obvious
exceptions, any male and female may be moderately happy in the
married state. The true rule is to ascertaiJi tliat the match is
fundamentally a good one, and then to take it for granted that all
minor objections, should there be such, vdll vanish, if you let
than alone. Only put yourself beyond hazard as to real basis of
matrimonial bliss, and it is sc£ircely tc be imagined r/hat miracles,
in the vay of recognizing sinaller incongruities, connubial love
^vill effect. (251)
}.anor adjustments automatically effect themselves. It is not so much
that one man is made for one v.-onan but that the sexes are destined to
form one unit. Hie domestic state, then, is the only fitting one if
the two sexer are to function properly.
"It appears to ne that matrimonial deaths affect men more t'.ian
women." (252) llere, riaBrthome elects to coiment on the inner or
spiritual strength of woman which enables her to cany on under stress.
In his own marriage witli Sophia, the devoted husband had come to know
such bliss that even a temporary absence fron his spouse was felt to be
unl-jearable. •^■-hat is the use of going to bed at all, in soUtude7"(253)
ViMle flawthome repeatedly idealizes marriage, his total conception is
not v/ithout its phj'slcal origins. In a letter to his friend Bridge, a
leap into matriiaonj' is heartily urged. "If you want a new feeling in
this weary life, get married. It renews the Tsorld from the surface to
the centre. "^1
115
In 3ater years, when .Sophia yr&s designated »Uorma!» rather than
"DovG," it is possible that the husband, no longer a young lover, liad
groTO a little ^ary of inarital perfectibility. "It is good to see hoi^
every body, up to tliis old age of the wrld, talcea an interest in
weddings, and seems to have a faith that now, at last, a couple have
con» together to make each other happy." (25h) There is no evidence of
Harthome's becoming cynical about mairiage. He continued to his death
to recosniae Kiarriage as the richest of huraan experiences.
Intellectually, he conceived of it as a Joyous release, one open to all
laiKi, from an overnhelming soloirinity.
lagh above the muddy necessity of social intercourse, marriage
erects her marble cathedral, "ach marriage is a worlcinc expression of
that brotherhood of the heart which should ideally exist aiaong all
mankind, v.-ere it not for the unfortunate failings of human nature. In
the niidst of confusion, taarriage stands as the physical and spiritual
earthly l-ulfillmont of that which is best in humanity.
Children
Havrthome wag inordinately fond of children. He played games
vdth his own brood; when they were absent, he wote long cluldish
letters concerning tlieir doll's health; in short, he attenipted to spoil
them ;7henever and hovrever possible, ^though Hartliorne understood the
nature of children -/rell enouch to rrrite stories for them, ^2 ^^ comonts
(Now York''™ T'tiV ■ ""'""^ ^recollections of Nathaniel Ma^hom.
62
Havrfchome's tlu:-ee books of children's stories, which vrore
116
on children, though they someti:.es strike a deep p^cholorical note,
are rather cormonplace ones.
If there is one idea to be found, it is that children are
closer to heaven than adults~not that they are nore recently bom. but
that their pure and Joyous nature is closer to the divine one. C^ous
force, centered on adult beings make the desirable retention of that
nature irjposaible.
.vhfin our infancy is alnost forgotten, and our boyhood lon„
departed, though it seems but as yesterday,. ie^liJe ^^tle"^
^^J'"?H''^?.^f' """ ^^ ^°"^^* Whether to call ourselves Coun.
a^ nore, then it is good to steal avray from the society of Sed
Td^LtlTsr '-'''''' ^^> ^"^ ^^-"^ - ^-- - t,. ^th'"^'^'
The tree state of childhood reflects that which is basic and uncorrupted
m hunan nature. Yet it nmst nK..e unceasingly forraixi into adult life,
there to disappear. Children, together with beautiful young ^^omen, and
n^others, form an earthly trinity to which a Unitarian IIa«thorne my give
alleciance. In this one way, then, the exploration of children's nature
fits into the over-all development of Hawthorne's thought.
"The younc havo less charity for aced follies than the old for
those of youth.«(256) Youth and a^e are frequently placed in
paycholoEical contrast. „hereas age may allow for tho vagaries of
youth,, youth, havinr yot to live in the formidable adult world, is
seldom capable of projecting itself beyond its scope. Havinr: once
passed thro,;gh the middle years, man in his autunnal time returns to a
framed on classical myths — A ..onder Book for Girls and Bovs Tsn'ri^nr^
117
state soraevrJiat siadlar to that of his youth,
2xtei-nally, the Jollity of aged men has rmich in cOitKon with the
mirth of children; the intellect, any more than a deep sense of
humor, hue little to do vrLth the matterj it is, with both, a ';leani
that plays upon the surface, and iir^jarts a sunny and cheerj' aspect
alike to the green briinch, and gray, moulderinr; trunk. In one case,
hovrever, it is real sunshinej in the other, it raore resembles the
phosphorescent glow of decayins wood. (2^7)
Since children are essentially unf/orldly, since they are a part
of the ilawthomian trinity, tlieir psychological make-up is one -which
allOifs for extremely sensitive j>erceprbion— for direct knowledge through
an intuition of the heart. "Children liave always a syinpat}^ in th.^
agitations of those ccnnected v.ith thenj alwaj'^s, especially, a sense of
any trouble or irjpending revolution, of ivtmtever kind, in domestic
circurnstances."(258) "CMldren possess an unestiinated sensibinty to
vriiatever is deep or high, in ima.'rination or feeling, so long as it is
sijfnple, likewise. It is onlj^ the artificial and the corplex that
bewilder thera.''(259) The child is man in a natural state, a state
capable of intuiting tuose subtiles which lie beneath the surface.
"Children are even more apt, if possible, than grovm people, to catch
the contagion of a panic terror." (260)
The father of tliree spent endless hours reading to his cliildren.
"J-«ut children have no rnercy nor consideration for anybody's vreariness;
and if you had but a single breath loft, they x-rould ask you to spend it
in telling them a story." (261) For Hawthorne, children exist in a
state which it vrould be preferable for them to retain; thay d\Trell in
what should rightfully bo rian's natural state. Yet the child is an
uninitiate. That unavoidable initiation which lies ahead vdll almost
no
invariably' acparate hij, fron ethereal ties. Thus the introdiiction of
a cliild into adulthood echoes the necessary 'lovcment of a sensitive
soul into society* Both entrances are equally painful.
Love
The love of one individual for another actuates on a lower
plane the divLne love of God for n«n. Jx?ve is that ernotional actuality
upon Which marriage and the hc-ne are based. It civcs meaning to the
life of a woman. It is, in fact, the nost elevated positive force at
work in man's universe. In an:,- of its fonns-in brotherhood or
betrothal~it chides rian to the sumnit of earthly achievement. It
brines to nan a ner insight in accordance xvitli iThich he r^iay better
orient himself to life.
Tliouch nan's propensity for sin is an abidinc one, love, even
in its niortal form, is capable of effectively battling nan's grosser
tendencies. Love is not selfisWy wcrsliiped by Hawthorne for its arm
sako, but is thourM of, instead, in t.rms of the functional good Trtiich
it richt inspire. If love should, in sone distant day, reach the
ascendancy in nian's nature, then wuld life's conpound vrfiiten, then
Y.'ould the clarin,: discrepancy bctirccn nan's heavcnlj' and Ms earthly
estate apr-ear less insurmountable,
"Ch, how stubbomOy docs love,— or even that cunninG semblance
of love which flourishes in t!ic imcination, but strikes no depth of
root into the heart,— how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the
Roncnt coTnes ^-lien it is doomed to vanish into thin nistl"(262) l'?,e
sheer unspeakable power of love, when given free reicn, is anxious to
US
cosaSat evil's itialigniait forces^ Love'a magic chain is a fimctioral tsiei
"love, -wheth-er neerly bom, or aroused fl*<y» a death-like sluniber, nmgrt
alwajTS create a staishlnsj filline the heart so full of railffiuje,that it
cwOTflcwa upcaa the (mtuaKi world* » (263) Itoder the spell of love, the
BBid i^iout man> tlKJugh still presmt, is no longeac so darkly oce-u Sroh
flickrarii^ stini0.us of love's glow renmrn life fras the inside o«t«
Love is wiioUy fro® the heart, fully as rnilettored as religion}
and th'js tl^ waniinss "Lot roon treinble to win the hand of woiaan, xaileai
tii€^ win alaig with it tlie utiaost paaadon of hrar h©arti"(261i) ^^^Thereas
lofv© originates in tlie animal hoiart of inan, t«}^ seean in its laoare
spiidtual fona it provides for the JntgraJngltng «f souls* It is this
deeper aspect vrhich IfeRithcame stresses in his ixissicm for So|±da»
kcid thus it vd.ll go onj tintil we shall be divetsted of these
earthly forrs, -sshich are at once our aeditGn of cxpressi<xij and tJie
irnpediEKsnts to full connunion* Then rm sliall aelt into f one]
another, and all be expressed, caice wsA coRtinxally, witliout a
■word-^Tithoirb an effort •^3
Sine© the spiritiiality of love is a rtiatter of the soal rather toan the
physical heart, Ben's body is ag^tin viewed as a stv^bling l^ock to
finality. Although eartMy love radiates a bliss wiich glosses over
all, the greater lairacle of spiidtiial love penetrates to the liawthccpnian
reality.
In iihat is i)er}iaps his laost opbiraistic statenent on liunan
natxare, liawthome soens to feel that love is more native to man than
hate. This need not iaiply that good is ixjre native than evil*
It is to the credit of huaan nature, that, except ishere its
6 3Lgye Letters . IT, 7U.
220
haJS um' id ^'^* ^oplBy, it loves more readily than it
m.lfr.J^t\^ ^ ^f^^ ^'^ ^^^^ process, vdll oven be
n^iSSSion ^t' ""^^'' ""r '^^^^^ "^ ^^'^^ ^ * continually
new irritation of tae oricmal feeling or hostility. (26b')
In a standard psycholoeical proposal the two enotiona are seen to be of
one essence.
V, 4. ^\ is a curioua subject of obsei-vatlon and inquiry, whether
hatred and love be not the sane thine at botton.^SS S itf
S^ I^^^l'iS^'^'' r^^'"' ^ "^^ ^^Srec of intiinacy aS
?^o?hTj^^* . ''^*''' °"^ individual dependent for the
food of his aifcctxons a:id spiritual life upon anotner: each
forlo^l^^HT''?"?*" '°""^' °^ ''^ "° less'^.io^a^c'h^tS,
mio^nM ?f °1^*^ 7 ''''^ ^vithdra^al of his subject. *
^lnf^^,T^^ considered, therefor, the t^o passions seen
essentially tne sane, except that one happens trbe seen in a
celestial ra.iiance, and the oth.^r in a du£;T and lurid tlS. (266)
There is an incessant insistence on the strength of love., and on the
power for ^ood latent in tliat strencth.
The one weakness of lovo is that it is a passion, and that as
a passion it depends on a finite object; tlms Triiile it flames for the
aooent it is quickly extinguished V time. True lovo reaches a more
fixed state, but true love lies in God's domain, an infinite one.
Ij^g^ennanent, thou^^h frequently celestial, eruptions of love are allotted
to man's donanion, a depraved and finite one. Since the disease of the
life compound is a latent one, however much whiteness love nanages to
ndx therein, still, Ufe is expected to lapse into its original
gra^ess.
Both love and hatred have unfathomable depths. Each instance
of a deeper love stcnds forth as the first cf its kind to its
participators, and precltidcs penetration by other mortals. "One feels
the fact, in an instant, trhcn he h^s intruded on those who love or
121
tiioce xiho h&te, at sc^e aciae oi' their passion tiiat puts tnem into a
spjiero oi tiielr owi, v/her-e no utner £3pirit can pretend to stand on
equal orovLnd v.ith thorn. "(26?)
vrnile God's love is permanent, and v/hile nian vfixen ho
participates in spiritual love grasps soiJietliing of that same finality,
men's love is nomially lindted in that it CL^nters on a physical object.
It is, then, a passion at its roots. Although man may move from this
earthly passion to a iTJore divine one, still he is liniited by the oririn
of hifi desire.
.an's love, as in tho aiarital state, has no claim to pernsanence,
but must instead coiitinuallj"- renew itself* "Caresses, expressions of
one sort or anotlxer, are necessary to the life of the affections, as
leaves are to the life of a tree. If they are wliolly restrained, love
will die at the roots." (268) Hawthorne, in his warm concern with the
successful pei'petuation of narital love, reco{!:niaes unstintingly that
the original force of nan's love is not a self -continuing one, that it
is by nature transitorj^ "Caresses are the foliaco of affection j the
plant dies at the root unless it has them." (269)
In spite of the acknowledged limitations of earthly love,
Havrthome wholeheartedly affirms the indestructible character of its
spiritual counterpart; and in so affirninn recor^iizes that the actuality
of love necessitates— in a brif^hter namier than tlie imperfect quality of
!!ian's earthly state— the irraiortality cf jnan's soul. Thus the presence
of love in life becomes an a-miranoe of God. In trutli, any and all of
ilawthome's oft pondered opinions lead to this assiirance. love pit>vea
122
its inssortality by sheer force.
Each Warner and quicker tlirob of the heart >rears away so nruch
of life. The passions, the affections, are a ;Tine not to be
indulged in. Love, above all, bein- in its osrence an iiniaortal
thmc, cannot be lonr contained in an earthly body, but would
wear it out with its own secret jxwer, softly invigorating as it
seRnjs.^270j
In general, liawthorne begins v.lth what he sees before hiia of
man and his antics, with the actual ingredients of life, and with the
institutional forces playing upon man and those ingredients. V/hen he
idealises, as in fiis conception of womanhood, he is seeing what, in the
light of the greater vrhole, actually should be. In the disparity
between what should be and ^hat is, various JIawthorne problems arise—
the problem of the sensitive soul, tue artificial social structure, the
public woman. These are problems rising out of a condition, and thus
they are of concern to Hawthorne. These problems are seen and lamented}
but the conditions from ^vhich they arise—sin, the life compound,
fortune—are taken as actualities dertined to remain unchanged by man's
rather petty atterapts at self-reforn. It is aim s through the heart
and soul, and thus through love, that life's prenatal con it ions arc to
be most effectively coinbated—not that the conditions themselves will
be substantially altered, but that man my rise somewhat above those
conditions by directing his energies to divine channels.
CliAPTffi VII
ART AND THE ARTIST
An artist ascends above the earth's surface on the wings of his
art; there he dwells in the land of the beautiful. Art is more than
the clianneled outpouring of energies, more than a designed effeeb. Art,
to KawthoiTie, is that vital outlet through which man my escape surface
substances by lifting hiraaelf into a realm of created beauty. The
artist, then, ciiscovers the beautiful, and creates — in one of the art
forms—a representation of that discovery. Tliis tendency to idealize
does not lead Hawthorne to recard the ai-t realm as one apart from or
superior to ordinary life. On the contrary, art is a practical concern
both in its period of creation and in its final fonn. The medium is a
conscious one in which the artist picks up the raw rriatter of tliis
world, fires and shapes it with iiis iraaeination, and returns it to
earth for man's pleasure and edification.
An acute characterization of the sundry types of art, and of
the mediums, methods, and ideals of art, states a definite set of
Ilavrthomian standards. Yet the commentary on art, while it tends to
be complete within itself, is actxially but one more phase of the
novelist's total orientation to life. A Icnovfledce of Hawthorne as
artist, coupled with a Jcnowlcdf^e of those ideals which lie set for
himself and for the entire art brotherhood, thouf^h essential in every
wa;^^ to an understandinc of ffawthome, should not be allowed to
123
12h
represent the complete man. However much Hawthorne emphasizes art,
however much potential he allows it, still it imist be remembered that
he stresses sin, fortune, and society with equal vigor, ifawthome was
not an "art for art's sake" addict. In truth, art, when kept in its
proper perspective, my well be thouf^ht of, together Tn.th women, as a
second "good" institution, as a second partial escape fro^a v;hat
remains — ^iiowever it may be turned about— a gray compound.
Architecture
Hawthorne did not confine his critique of art to the only
phase which he himself practiced— fiction. se felt himself a member of
a community in art, for which the standard mediums— arc lilt ecture,
sculpture, poetry, prose, and painting— were but forms and not the
thinr: itsolf . Lfusic alone failed to interest him. He had no ear for
it,' he never troubled to reflect upon it. .\rt is of one essence no
matter vrhat visible form it takes. The artist, in the plj/ing of his
genius, is one of a brotherhood at v;ork upon the same spiritual
substance. Thus it is that Hawthorne assumed a perfect freedom in
commenting on art fields where his teclmical knowledge was undeniably
limitedj and thus it is that he came to see art as a whole, and each of
its parts and problems as a division of that creator being.
The commentary on architecture centers upon a cong>arison of the
relative merits of the classical and the Gothic styles. I-or iiawthorne
the romancer, for one who saw life through a glass darkly, classicism
suffers in the con^Mrison.
I always see a great beauty and lightsomKiess in those classic
125
and Grecian edifices, though they seen cold and intellectual, awi
not to have their mortar moistened vdth human life-blood, nor to
have the igystery of htaaan life in them, as Gothic structiores do. (271)
The Gothic, in its irregular, W8t&ci.aas, and suggestive presence, has
about it tiie spirit of hwaanity— for life does not flovsr in neat and
readily discernible lines. Classical architecture with its regular
features and siaoothly shaven face is necessarily vien«d as a iisanneqaiQ*
"There is son^thing, I do not know ^rhat, but it is in the
r^icai of the heart, rather than in the intellect, that Italian
arcMtecture, of ishatever age or style, never seerts to reach." (272)
Hasrthome brings his heart and head syjnbolisia into the realm of art.
Classicism is of the irtellect^ thus coldj^ atat^ely, and artificial.
The Gothic, ecaid.ng tr<m the heart of laan^ is genuine sxiA vibraa*.
Gothic architectux^ with its irregular disproportioned minutiae offwcs
a hat rack for man's feelings, ishile the classical is so snsoothly
constructed that there is little opportunity to fasten oneself to it.
"Classical architectxire is nothing but an outline, and affords no
little points, no interstices «toere huaan feelings may cling and
overgrov/ it like ivy, "(273) s^en working up cei'tain classical tales
for childr«i's stories, Hawthorne wrote Jlelda of his intontion to
superirapose the Gotliic element.
Unless I greatly nistake, these old fictions ?dll work up
admirably for the purposej and I sliall ain at substituting a tone
in sonc degree Gothic or romantic, or any such tone as may best
please ncrself , instead of the classic coldness, i^ch is as
repellent as the touch of marble. 6U
^Fields, Yesterday with Authors, p. 59.
126
The old principle of variety vdthin uniformity is fundamental
to the nature of the Gothic. Gothic structures call to mind the
inscrutable order of life, or the apparent machinations of fortune
vdthin the greater framework of providential guidance. There is
empathy on i^awtliorae's part for an art which is truly life-Uke, but
apathy for those styles vrhich would refine away life's basic roiighness.
In his finest stateir^nt of ■Gothic suprenjacj^, the author grows rhapsodic
over vrhat he felt to be Gotliicism's overpowering richness.
A Gothic cathedral is sure];,- the -jost wonderful work which
mortal man has yet achieved, so vast, so intricate, and so
S^nnn"^ '' ""^"^^^'^t^^ ^^^^ strange, delightful recesses in its
grand fi,^e, so difficult to comprehend within one idea, and yet
all so consonant that it ultimately draws the beholder a.nd his
universe into its harinony. It is the only thinf^ in the world" that
is vast enough and rich enough. (27i4) ^ .. e worxa tnat
There is jnuch to be learned from HatTthome's appraisal of the
Gothic. Although he continues to employ the Gotiiic-classical
distUiction in the several fields of art, his Judgment is sui'ficiently
established in his pronouncements en architecture. In siding with the
Gothic, the romaaicer pledges allegiance to those elements which are
grandiose, ^^sterious, and suggestive in life. Me reacts against taat
which is superficially ordered by man's intellect. Me reacts, too,
against what he feels to be the coldness and sterility of the classical
form. Ro elects the iinagination over the reason, intuition over
intellective kno^rledge. In accepting the Gothic standards, l^awthorne
makes the inevitable choice to which .us philosophy of life predestines
him. for one who wrote, and in a sense thought and lived, in a
preternatural realm, no other choice v/as possible.
127
3cxilptTa*e
ilrctdtectiirc, sculpture, and painting fell under the cidtical
eye of iawthor-ne during x,he last ben years of his life. Having airived
late, and having perfeci-ed certain theories of art in his fiction, the
observations vrhich the novelist offers are of one starap, and nowise
constitute a learned criticism of the subject at iiand. iiow and again
they evidence, as litight v/ell be expected, unfeigned Puritan prejudices.
All of these criticisms are sicnificant, however, in that they help
clarify Hawthorne's v.rarraij' held art theory,
"l doubt whether sculptors do not err, in point of taste, try
making all their statues models of physical perfection, instead of
expressing by them the individual cliaracter and iiabits of the r!raru"(275)
Here, wnen dealing with a nev/ species of art, tiie t^.-pical distinction
between the Gothic and the classical is extended. Blemished
individuality, sinf^arity and uniqueness, are cherished above
uniformity and perfection, Tj^Dical, too, is the gentle irony with
which Hawthorne defends his prejudices.
It seems to me time to leave off sculpturing men and women
nakedj they mean nothing, and mi(>ht as vfell be one nane as another,
and belong to the same category as the ideal portraits in Books of
oeauty, or in the aandows of print-shops. The art does not
naturally belong to this agej and the exercise of it, I think, had
better be confined to the laanufacturo of marble fireplaces. (276)
In one Instance, ilawthorne is led to heap praise on ancient
sculpture. "In short, I do really believe that there v/as an excellence
in ancient sculpture, and that it has yet a potency to educate and
refine the minds of those vfho look at it, even so carelessly and
casually as I do." (277) J-'he immense dream of perfectibility impressed
123
in each piece of ancient sculpture is not without its sicnificance.
Yet as a matter of conmon <?ecency, the sculpturing of nude figures is
inexcusable in modem tines.
I do not altogether see the ncces'sltj of ever scnlpturinf-
another nakedness. Man is no longer a naked animal; his clothes
are as natural to hln as iiis sldn, and sculptora have no more rirht
to undress hin than to flay him. (278)
It is difficult to separate a person's ideas concerning art from his
emotional response to art objects, for the tvro elenents are
inextricably fused in nonprofessiona.1 art criticisn,
?iarble's atresorie coldness, if it fails to strike the proper
chord, leaves the spectator wholly uninoved.
It is also strange that, unless ^y^.en one feels the ideal charm
of a statue, it becomes one cf the .lost tedious and irksonc thin-s
in tne world, rdther it rnust be a celestial thinn- or an old lump
o^ stone, dusty emd time-soiled, and tilling out your patience v-dth
eternally looking Just the same. (279)
"It seems to me, however, that old sculpt-uro affects the spirits even
more dolefull;/ than old painting; it strikes colder to the heart, and
lies heavier upon it, being marble, than if it Trero nierely canvas." (280)
The sheer physical weight of the sculptor's raw material often lends
itself to a heavy and uninspiring flatness In the finished art piece.
Since the durability of marble allows for a kind of permanence
all its own, the sculptor r-ho vfould meddle vdth it has a sacred charge
of finding and representing beauty and truth, fince the relative
position of the sculptor as an artir^t is an elevated one, his spiritual
duties are clearly defined.
,A sculptor, indeed, to meet the demands v/hich our tireconceptions
make upon him, should be even more indispensably a poet than those
wJio deal in measured verse and rhyme. Kis material, or instrument.
129
nMch serves hin in the stead of shifting and transitoiy lan^uagOj
is a pure, wliite, undecaying substance* It insures immcarbality to
whatever is -wrought in it, and therefore ranke:; it r. rclir;:iou3
oblication to comndt no idea to its raighty suardianship, save such
as may repay the siarble for itr? faj.thful care, its 7 ncoi-ruptlble
fidelity, by wanning it with an ethereal life. ( 281 ),
Finally, Hawthorne cones to reroai'k, and not vdthout some
Justification, that the road to farae for the sculptor, or oven the road
to survival, is a hotly contested one. "Ihile the notion of a penniless
poet is traditional enough, the vision of a starving sculptor laboidng
tlu'oughont a cold and thankless life is equally rornantic.
Thus, success in art is apt to beconie partly an affair of
intriguej and it is alinoat inevitable that even a gifted artist
should look askance at his gifted brother's fasie, and bo chary of
the good '.Tord that tais-j-it help hir.i to sell still another statue or
picture. You scldorti hear a painter heap rcnerous praise on
ani'thinc in his special lino of art; a sculptor never has a
favorable eye for any marble but his ovm.(282) '
It is not so KBich out of Jealousy, but because of the limited worldly
success open to the entire brotherhood, that the sculptor necessarily
becomes vain about his ovm work. I.'hs niore liirdted the market, the less
the trader is apt to love his brother competitor.
Although sculptural tasks are difficult, and though popular
success is extremely rare, Fiawthome docs not place the deserving
sculptor on a pedestal equal to that of the painter and -po&tt In spite
of the fact that pcylptors frequently succeed in caarvin^ ideals into
their rnarble, the novelist does not look on the sculpturesque v.-ith a
vrar'T! eye. The :;reat sliortcoainc of sculpture is that it fails too
often to capture the v^hole of life— that it contents itself rrlth an
ideal but often njeaningless fonn.
130
Painting
If Hawthorne -was olten Jaded by the ai-t Galleries of Italy, it
was not due to any lack of teciinical raerit in the displayed paintinca,
but to the poverty of his technical knovrledro. Yet, though irawthome
admtfcedli^ had little cultivated taste for paintinc, his criticism is
far frorc an unpc-rceiAive one. Jfe najiages to go beliind the picture
itself and quer^- the true nature of the mcdiun.
The obser\'aticns en painting tend to be repetitious, but the
very presence of tliat repetition advances in irrevocable terns
liasrtihorne's conviction that painting has limitless art potential,* that
tlie spectator's reaction to painting is a relative one; tiiat pictorial
genius is quite rare; and that paintings should be studied individually
rather than in niass. From tlio point of vie?/ of an interested onlooker,
the heaping together of paintings is an insufferable aifront to human
intelli^-^ence.
-hat an absurdity it would seem, to pretend to read two or
tluree hundred poems, of all Ocgrees betv.'cen on emc and a ballad,
in an hour or twol And a picture is a poem, onl^- requiring the
creater study to be felt end conprchended, because the spectator
must necessarily do much for himself towards that end. (233)
Since each worthwhile picture necessitates a long and deliberate
perusal, art galleries are viewed as blatant raonstrosities.
There should never be more tJian one picture in a room, nor
more than one lacture to be studi^.d in a daj'j -alleries of pictures
are surely the greatest absujr'dities that ever were contrivedt there
being no excuse for then, except t'lat it i.^ the only way in which
pictures can be made generally available and accessible". (28Jb)
"".ith the most lifelike reproduction, there is no illusion. I
think if a semi -obscurity were t.arown over the picture, after finishing
231
it to tills nicety, it might brinii it nearer to Uature." (2C5)
Hawthorne insists, and lie pz^actices the precept in ^lis ovm xiction,
tiiat a veil is necessary to give i.ian the feel ol the suggestive and
Ei&^sterious quality of life, ajid that a fliere photographing of tlie
plienoiaenal in no way suffices. Since the true nature of life is opaque,
except in rare raoineiits of contact vilth "reality," tliat aiii vfhich would
allot an;^' de.'ree of finality to the merely- visual deludes itself. A
picture should embody soriething "raoro i-eal than man can see rdth the
eye aiid tcucii Td.th tlie finger"; it siiould never content itself vdth a
repi'oduction of the apparent.
One proverbial dicturi no variously piu'ased and so often
repeated that it ^rows Y/earieonie wai-ns that talent is not genius.
"flctorial talent seenis to be abundant enough, up to a certain point j
pictorial genius, I shoulu judge, is araong the rexest of gilts." (286)
'i'alent for painting, like the oil which is employed, is but an
ingredient of the finished product, .vhile talent is undeniably
necessary, it is genius r/Jiich instills a spiritual life into art
creations.
I am of the opinion that good pictures are quite as larc as
good ix>ctsj and I do not see vAr/ v/e should pique oui-sclves on
admiring any but the very best. One in a thousand, perhaps, ou^t
to live in the applause of liien frow £;encratiwp to :>ineaation, till
its colors fade or blacken out of sight, and its canvas rots avay;
the lest should bo put in j^,aiTets, or p£ilnted over by nov^er
artists, just as tolerable jjoets are shelved v;hen their little day
is over.(2r;7)
Hawthorne's bewailing: of the lack of genius among the painting
brotherhood is but a paiticularisation of a laj^^er idea. 'le felt, and
often gives e:<pression to this feeling, that the nunibei- of true
Geniuses tiarou^hout ucrld iiistory night v.-ell be counted on onc'c
fincera axul toes. Mediocrity and ncrc talent arc abundant cnou^'h, but
that \'±tal perceptive sparl: wldch r,»ves toward inraortallty is a rarity,
"It doprcsscs the spirits to go f^om picture to picture,
leaving c portian of your vital syrj^athy at cverj- one, so that you come,
with a kind of half-torpid desperation, to the end." (238) r>ach great
picture pulls iiiternally on its observer. Tiic nature of paintinc is
seen to be a powerful one; its effect is not unlike the cathai'sis so
well defined by Aristotle. On occasion, liawtiiorne was tenjpted to rank
paintinc as first among the arts. "It is my present opinion t^iat the
pictoral art is capable of something more like .-aacic, more wonderful
and inscrutable in its snethods tiian poetrj-, or any other mode of
dcvelopinh" the beautiful," (239) }.iore frequentl;!^, he hands the laurel
to the poet.
It is this that all the ai-ts have in com ion j it is the striving
toward the beautiful wiiich tics the bond of brotherhood. It should be
rencmbered tliat Hantiiome's conception of "beauty" elevates it above
mere surface prcttiness—that beauty in this world is but a iiarbinser
of a "reality" or spirituality which is yet to cone. A statue, a poem,
or a paintinc ^«^ch does not ncvc toward the beautiful has no worth,
and were better left undone.
An observer needs to be alone with an art object in order to
communicate Tdth it on its own terms. "It is a terrible business,
this looking at pictures, whether good or bad, in tlie presence of the
artists w;io paint the.-n; it is as c^^eat a bore as to hear a poet read
133
his ovm verses," (290) It may be reraembered, too, thnt lla^vfchorae does
not attribute intrinsic raerit to the antique, T&da generation lias its
ov/n life to lead — ^its own problems and aspirations to express, forms
which spoke forcibly to past ages rnay well have lost their ability to
stir the present.
In painting, as in lit erat lire, I suspect there is sometiiing in
the productions of the day that takes the fancy i-nore than the works
of any past age, -—not greater merit, nor nearly so great, but
better siiited to this very present tlJTie. . • .(291)
"But as regards the interpretation of this, or of any other
profound picture, there are likely to be as Eiany interpretations as
there are spectators. "(292) Hawthorne sets forth relativistic tenets
in his criticisms on the several arts. Spectator opinion is held to
be relative in regard to each art object. A work of art cannot demand
one standard opinion from its audience. Yet to say that Hasrthome was
a relativist in the Anatole France sense of the word would be to leap
to unwarranted conclusions. It is difficiilt to see hovr one who
believed in a "reality" wliich was the san® for all memkind could
countenance relativism. It may be that Hawthorne was too aware of his
imtutored critical sense. If he did not see in a great painting or a
famous piece of sculpture what others had seen, what was accepted as
being there, relativistic coirroents might provide an easy outlet for the
feeling of uncertainty fostered 1^/ that lack of teclmical knowledge.
It is more probable tiiat art is seen to bo relative only in that it is
profoundly rich. Thus a magnificent piece of art work, by virtue of
the depth which makes its greatness, may evoke a multitude of
individual responses.
131*
Cnce raore the raonotonous proclamation of the scarcity of true
ganius is presented.
One picture in ten thousand, perhaps, ought to live in the
applause of mankind, from generation to gwieration, until the
colors fade and blacken out of sight, or the canvas rot entirely
away* For the rest, let them be piled in garrets, ;}ust as the
tolerable poets are shelved, whtai their little day is over. Is a
painter more sacred than a poet? (293) /
Aa a final statement on painting, the novelist advances a theory not
unlike one later held by Croce. It is scarcely a new idea even in
i860, but Hawthorne gives it a remarkably fresli phraseology.
, A picture, however adntirable the painter's art, and wonderful
his power, requires of tlie spectator a surrKider of hiinself , in due
proportion with the ndracle which has been wrou£;ht. Let the
canvas glow as it may, you must look rdth tiie eye of faith, or its
highest excellence escapes you. There is always tlie necessity of
helping; out the painter's art with your own resources of sensibility
and imagination. Ijot tliat these qualities shall really add anything
to Trtiat the master has ef fectedj but they must be put so entirely
imder his control, and work along vath him to such an extent, that,
in a different mood, when you are cold and critical, instead of
sympathetic, you will be apt to fancy that the loftier merits of
the picture were of your own dreaminc, not of liis creating. (291;}
The audience, then, must fully unloose its sympathy and its imaginatiwi
if it is to derive full benefit from an art work. In each instance of
observation, the artist's experience is hannoniously re-careated in the
capable observer. It is at this moment that the pictux^ lives.
There is little evidence to indicate that Hawthorne ever
developed a learned critical sense. -le continued in his aim way,
likinc that which appealed to him personally, and paying scant regard
to the critical opinions of other men or of time itself. In whatever
manner Hawthorne's art criticisms fail, they succeed in their very
honesty. There was no felcned apj^oval of that which failed to stir
135
him individually, oven tiiough he realized toat a laclc of approval lairJht
vrell be interpreted as a lack of taste. i.Thile the coPKjentary on art
plays but one tune, and it a rather siToplo one, it plays with the
utrrffist sincerity.
Poetry
Among the creators of the artistic, it is the poet who is most
keenly in tune Trith a universal beauty. Re, above all the rest of
mankind, is capable of perceiving beauty and of givinc form to his
perception. It is lie vriio delves beneath life's marble and mud to
arrive at a stable and spiritual substance. Biose men who are limited
by their natures froa seeing beyond the apparent, in no ??ay negate the
validity of the poet's vision.
Some, indeed, there vj-ere, wiio thought to shoiT the soundness of
their judginent by affirmins that all the beauty and dignity of the
natural vrarld existed only in the poet's fancy. Let such men
speak for themselver, r/ho undoubtedly appear to loave been spawned
forth by nature \Tith a contemptuous bitterness | c^he having
plastered them up of her refuse stuff, after all the svdno v/erc
made, /^s respects all things else, the poet's ideal v^-as the truest
truth. (295)
In life's liierarchy, the poet is placed by Hairthorne only a
little bclo-57 the angels.
Vihy are poets so apt to choose their nates, not for any
similarity of poetic endoviTient, but for ciualities v;4iich iriight make
the happiness of the rudest liandicraftsnan as well as that of the
ideal craftsraan of the spirit? recause, probably, at his highest
elevation, the poet needs no human intercoursej but he finds it
dreary to descend, and be a stranger. (296)
In liis function as a seer, a revealer of internal truths, a prophet,
the poet is above contact with mere mortals. His heights are celestial
ones, the task which he assumes the most noble open to mankind. Yet
136
each man in to some desree a poet; especiariy is this true of the
imaginative but uninitiated youth.
hpphS;^^^' ^T*^ ^'"^^ °- ^^""^ ^ y°^2 nan may, indeed, be rather
bashful aoout saovrlnc his poetry and his prose but for all thaf
hi. It'the ti^t'^o ^f'f^ '^' ''r '^' P-<^-t-ns woSJ p^c^
mm at the tiptop of literature, if once they could be known.(297)
Great art cannot spring— ar^ more than true virtue— froT a cloistered
state. It groTfs instead out of a mature acceptance of life-not from
an acceptance ^ich stops with passiveness, but out of one >.hich pushes
to the limits of hunan potential the search for those hidden beauties
T^hich lie just beneath man's fingertips and just beyond iiis vision.
"Our pale, thin, Yankee aspect is the fitter garniture for
poets."(298) Hawthorne gives credence to the romantic notion of a
starry^yed poetic priesthood. Fat and robust people I^ve no claim to
poesy. The novelist has a genuine reverence for his romantically
imagined, uniquely appearing poet. Poetry should take up the whole of
a man's being. It is inconceivable that suave, sophisticated people
could To-ite decent verse as a hobby. Poetiy is .more than mere craft,
more than the mechanical action of stringing words togetherj it is a
spiritually- consecrated way of life with a sanctified odor all its own.
"A poet has a fragrance about him, such as no other human being is
gifted ^vithal; it is indestructible, and clings for evermore to
everything he has touched." (2?9)
A truly accomplished poet reaches a form of immortality to
which lesser artists may aspire, through the veiy ,:randeur of his work.
mnrH-fir^^!.! ^''?^ f"" "^'''^ °"^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ SUTViVCS for his fellOW-
ch^fihi "r^ ^T^^ ^^ ^" ^^^ dust,-and he not ghostly, but
cherishing many hearts with his own warmth in the chillest
137
atmosphere of Life. ..hat other fame is v/orth aspir-inc for? Cr,
let me speak it raore boldly, what other long-endurinr, fame can
exist? (300)
Although liaTrthorne makes fev,' extravagant claims for the dabblor in
prose, for the coraposcr of ficticais, he gives effusive praise to the
melodious beauty of great poetic niastcrpieces. He holds the poet's
ideal to be loftier tlian all others '•
"It is far easier to I<now and honor a poet when Ms fame I'las
taken shape in the spotlessness of marble than when the actual man
comes staggering before you, besmeared v/ith the sordid ftains of iiis
daily life. "(301) When the poet is seen in tlda life—wiiere he is
necessarily caught up in t}ie tarnished actualities of the physical—
liis divinity is seldora apparent. Yet his eventual inraortality, whether
or not the earthly observer sttiy recognize it, is assia:ed. "It would be
a poor coinpliaient to a dead poet to fancy riin leaning,; out of the sky
and snuff inn up the impure breath of earthly praise." (302) It is
indeed a form of insult to bestow a perverted worldly praise on the
poet, for Iiis nature is essentially a divine one.
Hawthorne apparently supports all that the most optimistic
theorizers on the function of the poet have had to say. Taken as a
whole, his running coT.iifientary on the poetic art leaves much to be
desireci. Me is too caught in the romantic I'^'th of a poetic divinity,
to speak vdthcut prejudice of the art. His Idealizations are so
extravagant tliat they tend to slip into sentimentality. Perhaps the
fact that he himself could not vrrite verse caused the novelist to pass
the laurel to the poet.
133
Yet there is a healthy di-scrLidnatory pav/er at woi-k in
'lawthorne's critical pronouncements. If he never failed to praise
great poetry, he never forgot to ridicule the mediocre verse of ids
day. V.hile his taste in poetiy aeeias to have been a reasonably soimd
one, liis excesGive idealization of the poetic art defies logical
explanation. Let it suffice to say that Havrthome, for his oim part,
found more beauty in poetry than in any other of the art forms.
Plctlon
In a consideration of fiction as an art, forsa, the new fa.Td.liar
critical pattern is a^ain present. Ilarthorne speaks of proper subjects,
nethods, and ains, but lias little to say in a truly critical sense.
Indeed, the novelist never clainied critical abiUty for himself, and
he rarely coinnented in liis letters and Journals on the nierit of
literary productions ai^ising during his Ufetiiae. .^If he was deeply
aioved by a '.7ork— as in his reading of Lfobjjj^ick— he might choose to
congratulate its author, -iovfthome was not hoirevor, as vrere ?oe and
Margaret Puller, a litorar;/ critic in the formal sanse of the word.
Fiction—the one art at which lie was truly accomplished— failed
to stir a critical spirit in Ilawthorne. It was one of his precepts
that each nian is his own best critic, and if he, ilawthorne, failed to
appreciate a work he frequently chose to rer/iain silent. Althou^-h
fiction had cone to be respected in England by 1800, it was first put
on its feet in toerlca by Iri-ing, Cooper, and, njore especially, by
•iawthorne hinself . Ilction, by conparison ^d.th other art forms, v/as
still in a state of infancj'j it was not to be accepted on the same
139
level vdth poeti-^r.
Yet the problems snd the chitieo of the novelist ore essentially
those of the poet. "Poor authori Han will ho despise vfhat he can
crasp, for the sake of the dira glory that eludes himi"(303) The
TJTiter eternally sacrifices hiiaself to his ainj strives to capture that
wliich stays always one nonent ahead of him. "Vilaen vre see how little we
can express, it is a wonder that any man ever takes up a p<ai a second
tine."(30ij) Although strangers in their laediuras, all artists are
brothers in their purpose and in their probleias. They are equally
humbled by the fact that what t?iey feel j.s so mucli more than what they
can express.
"Bees are sometiuies droKned in the honey which they collect-
so sojue 'rvriters lost in their collected leaminc." (30^) In picld.nc up
the "bee" syiibol made familiar by Swift's The Battle of the Books ,
lia«rthomo places hitaself with those who spin from an inner fiber.
Since his genius was an original one, he rnust have looked ^th disfavor
on those ririters who scKJther the fire of their own mind by becoming
parasites to other inen's learning. If a vTiter vrill but develop Ms
oTOi ideas to the best of his capabilities, then nay he jud^e his own
work froc the subjective certainty of an organic insight rather than
from externally applied criteria, "Manuscript is as delusive as
noonshinc. Print is like cosranon daylieht, and enables an author to
comprehend Mmself as no dictum of another man ever T?jill."(306) Each
vrritor, if he be keen enouch to turn out worthtriiile manuscript, is
fu].ly qualified to evaluate his 0T.-n ^7ork.
UO
Hawthorne never t.tto g nis serious pieces rath ceneral
popularity as a coal, /in author must wite ior those who will
understand hira, not for the great multitude. All else is but liack work,
"The truth seems to be, however, tnat, when he cus.s ids leaves forth
upon the wind, the author addresses, not tiie many who v;lll fling aside
his volume, or never take it up, but the fev; ;ti,o vdll understand him,
better than most of his schoolmates or lifematos,"(307)
A pretexnatural realm just be.ond the phenomenal oiie is suited
to romance writini^,
Moonliciit, in a famliar room, falling so v/hite u en the
carpet, and saovriiiri all its liguros so distinc-l-,— r.iaking every
object so minutely visible, yet so unlike a mominc or noontide
vxsxbilaty,— is a medium the most suitable for a i-oiaanco-va-itov to
get acquainted rdth liis elusive guests. (308)
This is not to say that the romantic realm is b any token of the
inanination an unreal one, for it is here that trutn o;)erates in a
select and condensed medium. ;i, re, objects and facts cue not allowed
to get in the way of "reality." uero, one :^iay give artistically
satisfyinc form to vdaat is knovji or suspectod about life.
I'rutli, once discovered and er.i^ecsod, remains absolute and
fixed. "A 1-iich truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and sldlfully v/roucht
out, brichtening at every stop, and crov.Tiing tlie final development of
a -vork of fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer,
and seldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first." (30?)
Once a truth is arrived at there is no need for additional elaboration—
the tin:th about sin, for inctanco, ranains unchanged from ilrst to last;
but the aims of art-beauty and "reality "-lead the mind ever onward.
Ihl
Since truths rer?p±n eternally the sane, a viroroug and ima;':;inative
ironth my prophet icaU;:.'- voice the loiowledce wliLch are cones to taow
more fuller,
Tn yo-!jt.hj inen are apt to vrrite more winclv thnn thop-r reclly
'-enow or feel; and the rejaaindcr of life may bo not idly spent in
realizln,^ and con-/incinc thcnselven of the wisdon v/hich they
uttered long a-to, Tne truth that was only in the fancy then laay
have since become a substance in the ro.nd and heart, (310)
Romance was of special concern. ("Romance and poetrj--. Ivy,
lichens, and wall-flowers, need ruin to make them grow," (311)) The
past, with its accorpanyins decay, is necessary- to cast a spell over
the materials of life. A ron^nce should not be set in a present tims
azaid new and unte-^ted surroundings. It is necessary for the novelist
to move into the past in order to cain that detachraont which nives
perspecti^'c. Although IlaTiTthorne offers little foiTial criticism of
fiction as an art form, he is not silent concerning his personal
relationship with it,
Hawthorne and FUction
Even though the novelist left no full record of his literary
aims and methods, he frequently broke through his native reticence in
letters to intimate friends. Cn other occasions, he sjo'inkled the
prefaces to his books with bits of critical opinion. In his preface
*o The house of the Seven Gables , for oxanple, the novelist states his
conception of romance writing, i-ecause Hav-iihorne had labored so lone
and bitterly for success in writinc, his sometimes sensitive reaction
to outside criticism was partially Justified, "If I doubt the sincerity
and correctness of any of my critics, it shall be of those yfho censure
Ili2
me." (312) He continued to feel throughout his lifetime that an artist
was his own most competent critic.
In his own novels and tales, he was sorely pressed by the
difficulty of maintaining a balance bet>Te«i the realm of everyday life
and that more concentrated and shadovrjr realm in which he had chosen to
work, .hen that balance fails, as it sometimes does, the story suffers
immeasurably,
absurdxty from begxnnmc to end; but the fact is, in v/ritin- a
romance, a man is always, or always oucht to be, careoriii- on the
utmost verge of precipitous absurdity, and the skill lics^in cominp
as close as possible, without actually tumblinc over. (313)
For this and other reasons, writins never ceased to be hard work for
Hawthorne. At times the compositional chore became almost too
difficult. "The fact is, I lave a natural abhorrence of pen and ink,
and nothinc short of absolute neces^itv drives me to them." (3U)
That "abhorrence of pen and ink," referred to so unhesitatingly,
was probably a feigned one. The sense of having created something
beautiful and sicnificant was undoubtedly satisfying to F.-iwthorne. A
-.vriter does not give a twelve-year apprenticeship to a profession wlrLch
he detests. In unguarded moments, flawthorne was vdlling to admit that
the bitter toil of writing was not without its sweetness. "The only
sensible ^ds of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing,-
second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and, lastly, the
solid cash." (315) The sense of achievement and satisfaction
accompanying the writing of the novels and tales, along v.lth a love for
Sopliia and the children, very probably constituted Hawthorne's greatest
pleasures.
no
Although Hawthorne was not in t!ie least asliamed of the nroney
hia writings earned, he renjained true to his artistic creed whenever
it conflicted with cash. Friendships were not to bo bartered in print.
In the controversy with his piblishers over the prefatory remarks to
Our Old ilome j the writer flatly refused to delete his dedication to the
no loncer popular, as far as the American people were concerned,
I-Yanklin Pierce,
I cannot, merely on accotint of pecxiniary profit or literary
reputation, z° back frora v-tiat I have deliberately felt and thought
it richt to doj and if I were to tear out the dedication I should
never look at the volume acain Tdthout remorse and shame. As for
the literary public, it rous-b accept niy book precisely as I tliink
fit to give it, or let it alone, 65
If the book did not sell because of the dedication, then well enou^,
but the dedication was a deserved one. It stayed.
"'When once a man is thorou:;5hly imbued with ink, he can never
wash out the stain." (316) Hawthorne readily adMts his fate, his
peculiar destiny to £:o on writing so lonr; as he is chysical3y and
ffliKitally able. Yet he never claimed creat Jiierit for his publications,
for he was too keen and detached a critic of his writings, too aware
of his own limitations and of the conditions vmder which he could
create, to grow rhapsodic over his successes. °6 in a letter to Fields
written in l85i}, Hawthorne pokes fun at himself. "Upon my honor, I an
not quite sure that I coroprehend n^'- own meaning, in some of these
blasted allegories j but I reraenber tliat I always had a meaning, or at
^^flelds, Yesterday -.vith Authors , p. 108.
66
Austin .ai-ren, "iiawthome's Reading," New 5nf:land Quarterly ,
VIII (December 1935), 1*30.
Uih
least tlioucht I had. "67 j^^ ^j^^h is that a Hawthornlan allegory
begins and ends in a preternatural realm, and that it is perraanently
fixed in a state of suggestibility, Ihere is no need for a cor^slete
and cold nieanini?.
The aversion to public nomen who "display tiieir natal ndnds"
is niore linderstandable trhen related to Planrthome's own reserve.
So far as I am a man of really individual attributes I veil nnr
face; nor ara I, nor have I over been, one of those supremelv
hospitable people TTho serve up their c;^ hearts, delicately' fried,
Tdth brain sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public. (31?)
Even though the author docs not reveal hiaiself in a sentimental y,'ay,
or write of his life in the nanner of a iiyron, this much is certain:
he does make his personal thought the fabric of all that he writes, and,
in addition to the subtle ways in which he cloaks his thought in
fiction, he frequently reveals his mental and emotional being in a
series of personal obsei-i^ations and affimations.
It has been noted that Ifawthorne did not r^trive for popularity—
that lie was little concerned with it, and that he was frequently
unimpressed by those who had achieved it. »l^ ov.n opinion is, that I
am not really a popular writer, and that what popularity I have gained
is chJ-efly accidental, and owing to other causes than v^ own kind of
degree of merit." (313) Ue Imevr well enough that his own works were
too soriber to ever be popular? that they t«jded to voice truths
wliich raanJcLnd was not fond of hearing, "If I were to meet ^rlth such
books as rnine, br,- another writer, I don't believe I should be able to
67pields, Yesterday ?/ith Authors , p. 75,
116
get through then." (319)
Hawthorne ■vTrote fron compulsion j but read for relaxation* He
preferred, for his ovx. pleasure, to pick np the wholesome novels of a
Scott or a Trollope* It is not estrange that one who vrrote so heavily
should «aijoy comparatively lighter readino; in his free moments* When
■vTriting to Fields fron Ehgland, as late as 1860, Ha^home still
cherinhcd the dcliision that he might someday strike a cheerful note*
"iVhen I £et hone, I viill trj to ivrite a r.ore genial bookj but the
Devil himself alisrays seeroc to get into rsj inkstand, and I can only
exorcise him by p^isftil at a time»''°^ The plain truth of the matter
is that Hawthorne could write only T^at he knesr* If he recognised, sin
as an actuality, then he coiild not write about it as if it did not
exist* The locale of the story itself, or the place of composition
made no appreciable difference? for, be it Salem, London, or Ron»|
life was everywhere the saae* Problems that Haisthome had begun to
toy vdth in his earliest stories, he continued to turn grimly over and
over in his later writings. His cry was that "I wish ("iod had given me
the faculty of writinf; a sunshiny book." (320) It was a cry
predestined to remain unanswered* If ho sometimes 'vrished that he could
write other^se than he did, he v/as quite convinced that this was not
to be. 65*
True pathos ic found in the novelist's reco(inition tliat the
^ Ibid. , p. 89.
°°T3ertha I-'aust, i 'airbhorne ' s Contemporaneous Repi.itation
(Fniladelpl-da, 193?), ■p*~T!IT.
li{6
abiUty to iTrite had at Ion- lart desei-ted hln. "Yet it is not quite
pleasant for an author to announce hiasclf , or to be announced, as
finally broken down as to his literar-/ faculty. "(321) In the last year
of his life, 1061;, Harrthome vainl^r' labored over The Dolliver j-ioaance.
but he seens to have suspected nonths before liis death that he would
never live to complete it.
"Subtlety, truth and beauty are noble ains ;7hich Hajsthome
shared v.lth other ^.Titers of fiction; cut in aspirinc to niake an art
more beautil^ul than nature, an art rmich sugcestod another reaDjn of
values, Hawthorne stood alnost alone in his time. "70 jt is indeed
true that Matrthome in his relationship to art struggled toward aL-nost
unattainable coals. It is true that he quietly accepted the task for
himself ^vhich he !iad assi-ned to the poet. It is also happily true
that he went further than laost artiste in realizing those seemingly
unreac;iable objectives.
In addition to the coranientary on the enumerated inedia of art
and to the personal unfolding of the author's relationship to his own
nediu.^, irarrthorne reflected with no little acuteness on subjects
tancential to the arts— taste, talent, genius, methods, media, and
aims. At tines lie praises, at other times ho finds fault, but he
always remains true to tliat spiritual standard which first began to
reveal itself in his preference for Gothic architecture.
70charles U, Foster, "Hawthorne's Uterary Theory, •♦ F.^!LA, LVII
(IJarch 19h2), 2l3. '
11j7
Taste
Just as society was attacked for its superficiality, even so
is taste condGinned for the same failing. Taste is cultivated,
lettered, man-created, iljnyone can acquire taste — provided he exert the
proper ainount of effort — in much the same way that one learns table
manners, j^et the acquisition seems iiardly worthtirhile to one with
Hawthorne's tinpretentious approach to life. Hawthorne was a siirple
person in vaanj ways — at heart a fartlly man| he was scarcely a
connoisseur. If ho did not like something— opera, for instance— he
resented the irrrplication that he was deficient in ^ood taste.
"Doubtless, I shall be able to pass for a luan of taste, by the
tine I return to Anierica, It is an acquired taste, like that for
winesj and I question whether a man is really any truer, wiser, or
better, for possessing it," (322) The sheer labor involved in
cultivating one's taste, causes ^Ia^Tthorne to qucction whether or not
the end result is worth the effort. If the acquisition is difficult,
it is somewhat rewarding in that it opens the way to a perception of
hi-hly refined beauties, "ffounting a few steps Iiigher, one sees
beauties, nut how inuch stu^y, how many opportunities, are requisite,
to form and cultivate a taste I "(323)
After soT« deliberation, the moralist cones to the conclusion
that taste is not necessarily relate<l to morality. "Taste secras to be
a department of moral sense j and yet it is so little identical vrith it,
and so little implies conscience, that some of the worst men in the
world have been the most refined. "(32lt) The artificial or
Ili8
Intellectual tone of taste sufficiently explains the apparent anorality.
A geniiine love of painting and sculpture, and perhaps of misic,
seems ofteii to l^ave distinguished men capable of every social crime
and to have forned a fine and hard enamel over their characters.
Perhaps it is because such tastes are artificial, the product of
cultivation, and, rfaen iiighOy developed, iii^Dly a Great remove fnxa
natural sxiiiplicity,(325)
Thus it is, as with tlie social order, tliat the fm-ther man removea
hiraself fron the sinple whispering of liis heart, the more corrupt his
c<»itrivances*
There is a distinct possibility that Ha^?thome felt himself
lacking in yAiat was cosmonly thought of as "good taste." Perhaps he
first beca.ne cognizant of tliis shortcoming during his years in England
and Italy. Thus, a Mawthoroe deficient in refined or cultivated taste
ni^it choose to dismiss both the social order and the standards of
taste as highly artificial, man-made contrivances. It is veiy probable,
however, that this was not the case. HaHrthome was iiis own best critic j
he knew his shortcoiaincs and was the first to admit them. It would be
decidedly unlike hini to deceive iiis reading public or himself on any
score. If Haarrthorne's evaluation of taste and society is to be
interpreted as the outcrowth of a feeling of social inferiority, then
it assuredly irorked itself out on a subcwiscious level.
The diatribe on taste is better understood in its relationship
to the total ilav/thomian thou-ht world. Taste, as the novelist saw it,
was a superficial, learned accomplisliment possible to all men. It was
not moral; neither was it intulUve. It operated, instead, under man's
law of the head. It had none of the matter of the heart about it; it
had no spiritual value.
Ih9
Talent and Ooiius
When dealing id-th the various arts, Hawthorne lamented the
scarcity of genius and the superfluity of talent present in this world.
The fjreat danger is that the inept, the mediocre, and the competent
are apt to tiiink that they have talent, and that each talented person
is prone to believe iiiroself a genius. A man never really knovra his own
roeaaureaent, for although he may Jiave the £ood sense to realize that he
has some talent, he never taiows its quantity or its quality.
But, after all, a lijan gifted 'Kith thought and expression
wliatever his rank in life, and his raode of uttering-; Ixiiav'jelf,
wietiier by pen or tongue, cannot be expected to ;^o through the
world, without finding luraself out—and as all such self-
discoveries are partial and imperfect, they do raore harm tiian
good to the character. (326)
Since the individual's self -discovery is so pitifiaiy incon^lete, the
arts are plagued with unfortunate ci-eatures who would waste others'
time and their ovm lives in an attempt to further that -wliicli does not
exist in the first place.
"Perhaps, moreover, he wiiose genius appears deepest and truest
excels i:xis fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws
out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is
profoundly, though unutterably, conscious." (327) It would appear in
this instance tliat ilawthome is giving too much credit either to human
nature or to man's intelli,';;:ence. In truth, thouf^, he is only
reinarking that genius mist have a recipient — that it caiuiot operate in
a vacuum— that to function as genius it raust goaehow coimnunicate.
ffevrtihorne iiirnself felt tliat the truths wMch he perceived and
artistically expressai were coaimon to all nanlcind rather than
1^
individual in thoir nature. A truth is not a fact to be learned as
much as it is the revelation of that v^r^ich the perceiver previously
knew but was incapaM- of erprefisin^. ^Tcnce, genius in its pririarj'
form naj' be thou^^ht of as the knack of giving form in some wortlirMle
raediun tc imivcrsal laiovrled^e,
Hajfthome's appraisal of genius repeats, for the most part, the
saie refraLn irhJch he played over and over when criticizing painting.
"There is verj.- little talent in this world, and -.-.-hat there ir, it soerrs
to me, is pretty well knojjn and acknowlodsed. :Ve don't often stusible
upon rreniuses in obscure corners.«(328) "^^estmnster Abbey makes me
feel—not horr nany creat, irtse, witty, and bright men there are—but
how very few in any age, and ho?,- small a .harvest of then for all t]ie
ages. "(329) V.Tiat little genius nay be tridy said to exist in this
world is, in a final analysis, epheneral. ?fuch of the great genius of
r^st ages lias been lost in transit. That which should by rights endure
forever as the heritage of civilized nan is eventually swallowed up by
time.
Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects
sometliing permanent, yet still vrLth a sindlarity of office to that
of the more e-jhemeral writer. A v/orlc of genius is but the
newspaper of a century, or perchance of a hundred centuries. (330)
Only God is i.eyond tine. The greatest of mn's acconplishments in art
are eventually lost into tlniej the great ii.riortal nancs, even the
poet's saci-ed naine, are no longer sounded.
Tlie Audience
i^rt has no e>d.stence apart fror. its audience. A painting, a
1,^
poem, a novel aclii-ves no finality in its printed form, nor is it
limited hy the intentions of the p.rbist -.«lio created it» Art comes
alive onl;'- when it is perceived, eT.(i reaches its potential to varying
ciesrees in the ndnd and heart of its perceiver.
"It seems to me that a vrork of art is entitled to credit for
all that it inalces us feel in our best noncnts; snd we mxst $adge of its
merits by the iiirpression it then raakes, aiid not by the coldness and
insensibility of our loss z^nlrl raoods«"(33l) The ber>t that one may
discover at h.is highest moments is p>otential in and belon.<:^s to the
piece of art under consideration. It is not so mich, then, vrhat the
artist has consciously put into his creation that liralts its
possibilities, but rather what the audience is able to find therein.
Tliis is not to imply that inferior \7ork has a claim to genius. All
excellence >vixich is to be found in art comes oricinally from the
artist hinself, but the limit of fdiat is to be found is fixed by the
audience. A rich piece of art throrwi open to a highly iraaginative
audience is almost infinite in its potential.
Since art work is dependent on audience response, tlie richer
the artist's creation, the greater the variety of that response.
There is no doubt that the public is, to a certain extent,
right and siur-e of its ground, \vhen it declares, through a series
of ages, that a certain picture is a great -prork. It is so; a
:^ea.t symbol, proceedinc out of a i-reat inindj but if it means one
thing, it seeras to nean a tliousand, and, often, opposite things. (332)
Because of its very depths, {?-eat art is relative. It contains a
variety of raessages for each and all raankind. If the truth and beauty
embedded in a nasterpiece be absolute — that in, in existence for all
152
iiicr.Id.nd~-the siar^ncx' and the dc^ce to -..iiich these qualities register
on the interpreter is a relative ^ne»
Althozigh audicacQs are hard precrxd to find beauty in the
saallar art objects, size has nothing to do vdth the excellence of a
eiven piece of art.
Greater [l^c;er| tiiin^c can be reasonably well appreciated
with a less scrupulous though broader attention; but in order to
estimte the brillianc^^ of the diaracnd e:,^cs of a little ajate bust,
for instance, you have to screw your niind dovm to them and nothing
else, iou nrust siiarpen your faculties of observation tc a point,
and touch the object exactly on the ri-ht spot, or -cu do not
appreciate it at all. (333)
If the observer does not succeed in sharneninc liis mind dov.-n to the
minutiae, he is apt to udss completely all that is present in the work.
It is difficult to api^reciate the beauties of a single piece of
sculpture v,-hen it is placed alone side the massive outlines of a
cathedral. Yet the beauty and the truth to be found in the sculpture,
if properlj- understood, might well surpass the ar/osome grandeur of the
surrounding structure.
Art audiences are frequently as fickle as first loves.
The "Gentle Iveader," in the case of any individual author, is
apt to be ertremeOy short-lived; he seldo:n outlasts a literarj-
fasiiion, and, except iri very rare instances, closes his reary^eyes
Defore the writer has half done with him. If I find liia at all,
it will probably be under some mossy-cTavestone, inscribed vdth a
half obliterated name which I ghall never reccnnize, (33l|};
There v;ac no avrarcness on "lav/thcme's part that Ms ovm artistic
productions migh-. command readers in future a^-cs. Neither did he seem
to realize the timeless qxxality of the truths which he phrased.
Perhaps the knor/led^e that audiences demand a certain catering from
their novelist, and that "thought grows mouldy from one generation to
153
the nejdi" dampened Ms snthusiasra for literary i^Eiortality.
' ''lake all revelations of the bettor life, the adequate;
perception of a -rest v/ork of art demands a gifted siiiiplicitir of
vision. "(335}) :.fedi'ams of art revelation are eleaental ones. Art
moves from its canvas, stone, or printed page into its a-udience
primaril^^ tbrousli the heart. The process is both sinrple and -onaffected,
for art reveals itself in the manner of religion and love. I^o amount;
of audience intellectuality 7d.ll hurry itc course. Lntelligence, ^liile
it deterndnes the range of one's conprehension, affects but little the
quality of it. Thus it is that an unlettered soul srdsi'it find as laich
or more in a given masterpiece as the ^sost widely publicized art
criticj even though he could not ©js^iress in words what had been felt
and soon, the perception of the urdcarned observer is equally valid.
ilrt's audience is not to bo li:i;htly disBisssd, V.iiereas the
ai-tist need not cater to tiie lov/ taste of the general public, he uiust
recogniae that Iiis art has existence only in the minds and hearts of
its perceivers. In striving to ferret out and formulate that \7hich
lies beneath the dross, the artist elects for himself the noblest
profession— tliat of brincing truth and beauty to lils fellovv nian. An
artist vmo contents himself vdth the ar-t creation slone, rather tiian
vrith the bonded duty of conrjunication, desecrates ills entire
brotherhood.
Faae
Havrthome's ideas on tmm nay have been partially determined
by his own lack of literarj' success before 1850. Prior to then, durinf^
f.5I.
tlic tine when he felt himself to be the ;'iost unlsiovm rjiEr. of letters in
/aerica, farae vras looked upon conte3:ii;uous3y. "The neciirest fa^ic is
that which cones after a nan's death." (336) In tnith, fane ttqc but
incidental to a [^avTt.horne pledged to and :;}Aded \tj his own set of ideal
standards. ".Is for fa.-ije, it is but little matter whether vre acquire it
or nrt."(337) If .laTrthorno ever nia-ture<! a derire to become famous in
the <syec of the populace, he never let it be ::nov.T». like ai;/ author he
wanted people to read liis boykc, wanted those books to sell, but fane
itself vras looked upon as tlie nost superficial of literary goals.
After fame found its wa^- to the novelist in 1350, he ceean to
paj- nore attention to it, but never actually changed his opinion of its
holloy.'ncGS, "A nan—poet, prophet, or whatever he nay be — readily
persuades hinself of his right to all the worship that is vol'mtarily
tendered." (333) T.Tiatever fane incidentally cones, the artist nay
willingly accept, but it the sanie tine he should realize that the
acquisition of fane is not in his power, and that whether or not
popularity ever cones is of little consequence.
'..liat nonsense it is, this care of ours for ijood fane or bad
fane after death I If it v/ere of the slichtest real nonent, our
reputations rfould have been placed by Providence riore in our ovm
power, and less in other people's tlian they now are. (33:?)
No matter hov; nan naj' court fane, she nay deny her hand; yet if he
turn hio back on her, she is apt to seek him out.
To Horatio bridge, Itofthome disparager; the popular acclaim
which he had begun to receive by 18?1,
The bubble reputation is as niuch a buWlc 5^ literature as it
is in -Tar, and I should not bo one whit the happier if nd.ne wore
world-wide and long-time than I was when nobody but yourself had
1S^>
faith in tnc.71
Ptill, tho vacof^tfAon civen to an author Vol^stors his tired spirits.
As a^e increases, af3 the ranf^e of pleasitre is narrowed, words of
cornraendation he^n to CBTt^r e greater warTrrth, "Toy cannot imafrine
hor? a little praise Jollifiee ns poor awthors to the raarrow of our
bones. "(3ltO)
I;on.r^fellow the poet, a )3owdoin clspsniete, had lonn enjoyed his
allotnent of fane, Harrthome, in the yenr of his death, poses the
issue of fa?ne to the companion of his college days. "Xou can tell,
far better than I, wiiether there is anything worth having in literary
reputation J and vfhether tJie best achieverientg seem to have any
stjbstanco after the." ra^a^f cold. "72 There is nothing durable about
fame, no solidity beneath itn ,'::litter. Of all the flicterin,?; shadows
of nan's phGnoraenal iTorld, fanie is felt to be the most elusive, and,
were it ."oinehoTf to be f^a.^ped, by far the rrwst imsatisfactorj'.
The Artist's Ideal
/irtists are not confined within the sordid coiipass of daily
life, but follow an ethereal spark -which nnxst eventually lead them
upward to t)ie beautiful. Strangely enotigli, the artist hovers both
rd-thin and vrlthout the circle of hJimanity, As one of the m^^^ers of
that circle he lifts froTi humanity those elements which are most
abiding and nost beautiful, shapes them in a sem-divine Ptrcara of
7lBidd{;;e, Recollections , p. 175«
72r>amuel lonefellow. Life of H. v/. lonnfellow . III, 29.
:.3^6
thmicht, and rottimr then to mn?d.nf? ir^ the forn of -rt. .'s ono r^ho
dwells outside and above the circle, he adndnister^ to hunmity from
his divino priepthoor^
3ut ^p.t, HKO-e rpecifically, is the ideal of art? •^■'hen the
artist rose hich onouch to achieve tho bcautifirl, the STnibol by which
ho made it perceptible to nortcl senses becane of little value in his
eyes vMlc hXa spirit possessed itself in the enjoj/raent of the
reality."(3M) Tf the percept-ion of hoautv is a "reality, « if it is
the suprerie destiny of art to fashion beauty^ then beauty is iindeniably
spiritual. Ha^■rthome's universe is thickly peopled vdth spiritual
essences which often pass under different labels. ••Reality," for
instance, is Icho-to as a s^-^iritual p^jb«rbance embedded in deceptively
concrete exteriors. -Taen reflectinc on beauty, 'lawthome thinks acain
-^ a spiritual stream florin- beliind the apparent one. The actual,
the spiritual, tho beautiful are ine^ftricably confu.sed, for they are,
-in fact, identical in their fiber. It is only in conterct that they
-ome to have different sisnifications-.^a.fferent shades and tones.
Clustered abstractions, thou,^i adMttcdly ill-de.fined, are central to
all fiat 'Hawthorne thou-ht and fnlt. "Tdke Sophocles, Hawthorne aimed
at an idealization v.-iiich was not a beautiful realm of cscaix; fron
actuality but was actuality shaped so that it ras universal truth."73
Should an artist accept the chaU-ence of his ideal, he Trill
soon find himself in continual conflict with the rude practicalities
of daily oxictence.
2).ai.
73charlQs :i. Foster, "ilaTrthome's Literary Theory," RVXA , LVII,
157
Thus it is that ideas, wriich grow up -vvithin the imagination and
appear so lovely to it and of a value beyond whatever men call
valuable, are exposed_^to be shattered and annihilated by contact
with the practical. It is requisite for the ideal artist to
possess a force of character that seams Iiardly compatible tvith its
delicacy^ he must keep his faith in himself nhile the incredulous
world assails hira vdth its utter disbelief j he must stand up
against mankind and be his sole disciple, both as respects liis
genius and the objects to which it is directed. (3 1^2 )
The necessity of holding faith in the face of tsrorldly rebuff is a
grueling one. Adiieronce to the ideal, however, gives a satisfaction
nwre divinely perraanent than any the outer world can offer.
ConsequCTitly, the artist pursues Ids ideal; he inoves beyond the
depiction of surface phenoiaena and into the complex realia of great art.
"The beautiful idea has no relation to size, and may be as
perfectly developed in a space too nlnute for any but microscopic
investigations as vdth the ample verge that is measured by the arc of
the rainbow," (3ii3) That beauty which is shape^i from the con^jlex
tickings of human life itself surpasses all other artistic achievements,
"It is not well to be so perfect in the inanimate, unless the artist
can likevrlse make man and rroman as lifelike — and to as great a depth
too~as the Creator does,"(3iji{} Yet even the inanimate, if properly
dedicated, remains permanently beautiful in its decadence.
But a castle does not make nearly so interesting and
impressive a ruin as an abbeyj because the latter was built for
beauty, and on a plan in vfhich deep tliought and feelinr were
involved? and having once been a crand and beautiful work, it
continues c^and and beautiful throunh all the successive stages
of its decay. (3i»5)
Beauty is eulogized so frequently by Hawthorne, is played with so
untiringly in his tales, that were it not for the knowledge of that
158
total orientation to Hfo, of ^.ich beauty is but a shining conponent,
the novelist n-a-ht vrcll bo rdsunderstood as bein- far niore of a
disciple to beauty than he actually was.
Certain liiglish critics of the l3th Century had eagerly
accepted "nature" as a law giver. Hawthorne, vdth liis Gotliic
temperament, found the dictuns of the IJeo-Classicists to be rather
cold and stilted. V.Tien speaking of nature, he uses the tern in a
ronantic application. Nature, and that wliich is congruent to nature,
is unaffected, unartificial, and uncodified. Nature is both a physical
presence and a primal spirit. "But I do not think I can be driven out
of the idea tliat a picture ought to have something in common with what
the spectator sees in Nature. »(3ii6) Tlie methodized nature of the
neo-classical poets is of little concern.
ilrtists, since they breathe a nobler air, are entitled to
ireave tlieir art work fl'on those rarified Insigiits which become their
special prerogative.
(Artists, indeed, are lifted by the ideality of their pursuits
a little way off tne eai-th, and are therefore able to catch the
evanescent fragrajice tlmt floats in the atmosphere of life above
the heads of the ordinary crowd. Even if they seem endowed with
little imagination individually, yet there is a property, a gift,
a talisman, conmon to their class, entitling them to partake
somewhat more bountifully than other people in the thin delights
of moonsliine and romance. (3l;7))
If an artist may not find sympathy and ffiendship among men of
identical ideals, where then ma^y he look. "If anywise interested in
art, a man must be difficult to please who cannot find fit
con^janionship among a cro?/d of persons, whose ideas and pursuits all
tend towards the general purpose of enlarging the world's stock of
159
beautiful product! C3ns«"(3i!.8} i
Although Hawthorne did not choose Ms warmest friends from
araonc the art fold— men like Bridg© and Herce were raore to liis liking-
still he took delight in defending the sanctity of an artistic
brotherhood. In 181^9, Just after the novelist liad been unjustly-
accused of writing political articles for The Salon Advertiser « he had
written in spirited letter to Jongfellow:
If they succeed in getting me out of office, I will surely
iimnolate sorae of th(m» • • . This I ^11 do, not as an act of
individual vencoance, Imt in your belialf as vrell as mine, because
they will have violated the sanctity of the priesthood to ■which we
both, in differsit degrees, belong.'^
The pursuit of the artist's ideal is never an empty <xie» No
matter how far short of his goal a rmn rmy fall, it is better to have
laade the effort. In rising far above tlie aninial state of existence,
in rising s?-ightly above that of the hu.'iian state, the artist derives
far more from living, hovrever brief and soeirdngly futile his life may
be, than the average citizen.
^This svxirr/f shadovsry, breesy, wandering life, in rmich he
for beauty as his treasure, and gathers for Ms winter's honey
what is but a passinp fragrance to all other men, is worth living
for, come afterwards what way. Even if he die unrecognised, the
artist has had his share of enjoyraent and success. (3li9)
Ideals iirere actualities to Hawthorne. "Indeed, it is evident
on almost every page of Ms works that not simply beauty, but a beauty
tJiat was truth was the goal of his art. "75 it is the ultimate aim of
art to give truth and to be beautiful. In order to accomplish this aim
7l4Saffluel Longfellow, Life of H. v/. Longfellow , II, 152.
75Charles H. Foster, "Havjthome's Literary Theory," P!.ILA. , LVII,
2li6.
160
to any degree, the artist mist deal vriLth that which is spiritual,
V.-hen he Ufts himself to work on the hi-her planes, the artist ray
experience more in a monent than nost mn in a lifetime; for it is in
lopsing himself into spiritual substances tliat a T!ian finds hinself .
The vision or kncorledne of an inner actuality, coupled trtth the
substantial ability to fornulate this knowledge into a beautiful and
neaninsful art, encoT^passes the ultiraate of human potential.
Methods and ftroblenis of Art
When an ideal is seen in terns of the utilitarian considerations
necessary for its application to phenoraenal life, it growe infinitely
more complex. What then are the problems which the working artist
must face, and what are the methods and riedia through which he nay
surmount those difficulties? In carrying out his ethereal ideas an
artist is forced to work with worldly materials. That effort
required to polish a scarred subject matter to an unblemished closs
is tediously painstaking.
Fancy servos ohe artist as an indispensable instrument of his
trade.
A license must be assiuned in briolitoning the materials which
tL-iie has rusted, and in tracing out half-obliterated inscriptions
on the columns of antiquity: Fancy must throw her revivin'- lipht
on tne faded incidents t^iat indicate character, whence a ray ^vlll
be reflected, more or less vividly, on the per.-jon to be
described, (350)
The writer is fiilly Justified in conjurinc up the past and presenting
it well filtered through the imagination and the fancy. Art is not to
stop vdth mere facts, nor in it to be hindered by a lack of them. It
161
owes its allegiance only to the higher truths, "v^lmtever procedures the
artist Kiay eeploy to reach those tx-uths are justifiable in the light of
the end result,
"i\n innate perception and reflection of truth gives the only
sort of originality that does not finally grew intolerable." (351)
Genuine originality, on vrfiich art thrives, has its roots in man's
heart. It It intuitive rather than learnedj like religion and love, it
is unaffected. It is limited only in tiiat nan, a limted creature, is
forced to express in words that wliich often lies beyond words.
"Language— human language— after all, is but little better tlian the
croak and cackle of fowls, and otiier utterances of brute naturej
soraetinies not so adequate." (3^2) The artist is bounded, then, by the
potential of the tools with which he works— marble, oil, words— and is,
therefore, riot always al)le to perfect the deepest and the r,iOBt
beautiful of liis thoughts. There is no true finality, as fai' as the
artist is concerned, for Ms aspirations are pa-one to roam aliead of his
practical ability.
Perhaps the major problem which all artists face is the nature
of the life compoxuid itself. The ariiist's chore, that of seekins out
a marble so thoroughly encased in mud, appeal's, at first {.:lance, an
impossible one. iSinute strands of dross clinc to the noblest creations
of raaiu "It is a heavy annoyance to a vrriter, rrho endeavors to
represent nature, its various attitudes and circumstances, in a
reasonably correct outline and true coloring, that so much of the mean
and ludicrous should be hopelessly mixed up with the purest pathos
162
which life anjT.-here supplies to xiiru."(3?3) ^ince the compound ig sc
pervasive, nnd since the ordinary fncts of daily relationship my
noiri.se escape it, the artist in forced to select and idealize certain
elements in order to crystallize that v/liich is best in life. Earthly
facts are b«t the outer breath cf "reality" 5 thoy reoain meaningless
until secured in a deeper relationship. "There is no ham, but, on the
contrary, coed, in arraying cone of the ordinary facts of life in a
slinhtly idealized and artistic ^uiso." (35ii) The artisrt does not
violate the intecrity of the life ccT^und by idealizing selected
incredients of it; nor docs he alter the nature cf tliat unchangeable
compound in offering up through an artistic mediun that ^vhich is most
teneficial to raan's spiritual welfare. Romance, as Ilairthome knew it
and TTTote it, stems fror a higher tnrth rather than from pure fancy.
"Impressions, states of raind, produced by noble spectacles of
TTh-atever kind, are all that it seems worth while to attcnpt reproducing
TTlth the pen," (355) Just as Hawthorne appeared to be somethinc of a
relativist in his conracntary upon art's audience, he appears as an
irqjressionist when dircussinr: tlic methods of art. A mere recording of
dail;.' events—surface dor^cription— has no value. The novelist had
warned his intir^tc friend, Horatio 'bridge, that he should not let
himself be llriited by r^at appears as factual.
I would advise you not to stick too accurately to the bare
fact, either in your descriptions or your narrative; else your hand
will bfi cramped, and the result will be a want of freedom tiiat rrlH
deprive you of a higher truth than that which you strive to obtain.76
^^Bridge, Recollections, p. 92,
163
In one sense of tlie trord Vlavrthorne is an irapresBionist} yet '.id seetns
to have identified impressions Tvith inttiitions.
Correct outlines avail 3J.ttlc cr not'iln(^, tho^ij^- truth of
coloring may be somewhat more efficacious. Irapressicns, however,
states of 'nind produced by interestfji.'^ and remarkable objects,
these, if trutlifully and vividly recorded, may trork a genuine
effect, and, though but the result of Yjliat vre soc, ro furthar
towards representing the actual sceae than ai^ direct effort to
paint it. (356)
It is the abfTbraction, the intangible, t?hlch has substance for
Hawthcxrne. Visible objects are but shadotTs. Although Hawthome
reconsnoids a form of iitrpressionisrr, ho trould tend to define the
iitppession as an intuition of trath and "reality,"
Cne means of acquiring a freedorn to create comes in removing
the chosen subject from the confusion of the conteniporaiy scene.
In truth, the artist (unless there be a divine efficacy in his
touch, making evident a heretofore hidden dignity in the actual
form) feclr it an i^TOoriour? Imr to rornove his subject as far from
the aspect of ordinaiy life as may be possible vdthout sacrificing
every trace of rese37ft>larK5©.(357)
The sxibjoct is first perceived in, and then extracted frora, the
materials of ordinars"- life. Second, it is moved through the
imagination rrhere it is placed in its proper perspective -with certain
knoT^Ti "realities." Tinally, it is artistically reassembled, without
once havinc violated its Integrity, in a new and finer unit. This is
the metiiod yihlch Hawthorne recomsnends} and although it is romantic in
its process, it is ultimately related to actual life.
Certain conclusions may be dravm from Hawthorne's rather
elaborate commentary on art. iirst of all, a complete fidelity to the
spiritual nature of the universe is mandatory. Second, the aim of all
162,
art is the crc£.tion and ccnamjoicatiori oi beauty and truth. Tliircl, the
size ol an art i.ieco lias notiiing to co vdth the qualitv of the art
therein contained, i'ourth, a preference for the Gothic i-aanifosts an
interest in tliat ishich is lifelike, rugged, and suggestive rather than
tliat wliich attecipts perfection and finality in sciootlicr lines. I'lfth,
art spi'ings fto«i the heart} it is intuitive in its oricin. fixth, and
finally, art, alcng v.lth love and r elision, affords man ills finest
o^^rtunity for expressing the best v/hich is latent iii his nature.
/irt has its function in ilavithorne • s universe, but it tloes not
supersede his conception of life's darker essences. To neglect the
perspective in T-iiich art vfas seen by liawthome is to distort t}ic
Itoirthomian philosophy. Kavd:horne was an artist, yes, but he tos many
other nen at the sane tL-ic. /i-t— thou^;!! it played a lead?Jic role in
t}ie novelist 'c life— is viewed, in a last {miQ^rsis, eg a partial but
afiirnative retreat, along rdth rclisicn and love, from the rock-ribbed,
eternal thunderinc of the sin-cloud.
CliAPTER VIII
imm MTDEE
Since people are curiosities, llsssthome njade a profession of
observing them, "No individuals were sufficiently humble to merit his
indifference or sufficiently courajnplace to escape his analysis. "^7
i^though what he saw in hxamn nature is intm:'eBting enough, what he
could not coiaprehend— t!iat Tufliich he never wrote about—is equally
absorbing in its absence. Jfuiaan nature is shaped at first Td-thin the
shadow of the unknowable life conditions preceding birth, and then "by
the lights and shadows of institutionalized forces at play upon the
emerging individual. It is, in fact, a jroduct of unchangeable
contingencies rather than a distinct, self-sustaining entity.
Hanldnd's nature is moiaded by all that it is forced to participate inj
it does not fashion its orni destiny. Finally, the apparait variety of
human nature is exceeded onl;>- by its raonotoi^.
Reactions to the fixed conditions of life— individual actions,
thoughts, feelings— provide an unfolding panorama v^ich the observer of
destiny's "arorkshop assuraed it his charge to record. fOien recordin.^:
group or individual responses to conditions or to other individuals,
he sayf as uppermost the infinitely varied aspect of huraan nature. Vihen
reflecting on and interpreting these same responses fron a distance, he
'^hlsvrton /urvin, ed.. The K'eart of lia-vrthorne's Journals (i^oston,
1929), p. xl.
165
166
reduced human nature to its predominant cl^acteristic-saraeness . The
story of human nature, if held up to the light in its sii^plesrt form,
presents its reader vdth what is perhaps the darkest one novel that
Hawthorne -.Trote. Yet human nature, however separate it may appear at
first Glance, is inextricably mixed with and derived fl-om the dark
pattern of prenatal "realities," ft-om the domestic-reli.^ious partial
release from that pattern, and from the crushing necessity for social
participation.
Human nature is limited in that man is a sinful creature.
Hairt>horne«s inquiiy into human nature rests upon the assumption that
mankind always has been and always will be in a state of depravity. -
In brief, his inquiry would determine the degree of tliat depravity.
Hawthorne would not, like Jonattian Swift, condemn man for a lack of
reason,- he would instead cliastise man for a ndsdirected reliance on
the intellect. If human nature is ever to improve— and the novelist
saw little indication that improvement was forthcoming—it must cease
to depend on mere intellect. I,fankind's nature is selfish, animal,
short-3i^:hted, and vain, yet it iias within it a spark which nay and
frequently does cause it to momentarily rise above its characteristic
failings.
Although the human potential is thoroughly bounded by the
immense forces under which it must subsist, it is at the same time
limited in much more subtle ways. J^sical life's con^ilex imperfection
imposes barriers at the end of eveiy pathway. In dealing rdth life,
and in dealing Kith fellow human beings, the individual is at constant
167
odds vTith these barriers.
Liinitations on ?JanId.nd
Life permits no erasures. Uixmsnlty is unduly restricted in
that each of its mistaken actions carries Ta.th it a harsh finality.
It is a truth (and it ^^ould be a vory sad one but for the
hir;her hopes wiich it sugcests) that no groat inintake, vfhether
acted or endured, in our rrortal sphere, is ever realOy set right.
Tinie, the continuiQ. vicissitude of circumstances, and the
invariable Inopportunity of death, render it impossible. If, after
long lapse of years, the right seems to be in our -pcmeTf vre find no
niche to set it in. The better renedy is for the sufferer to pass
on, and leave vrhat ho once thougiit his irreparable ruin far behind
him. (353)
Once an action has talcen place, man is sentenced to live forever with
its consequences. Ihxman nature is fatally limited In that it cannot,
like God, create nm life, lian is forced to live, and invariably,
during the course of his lifetime, forced, to err. Since man is forced
to nove imperfectly, and since he has no means of avoiding the ordained
errancies of his physical self, he is eternally' doomed to linp along
his barrier-encrusted patlwray. At each crossroad, once the virong path
is chosen, there is no backtracking, liaivthome does not speak
optina-sticaUy of a good life; for, v^hile there are possible degrees of
goodness, there is scant possibility of a wholly good and pure
existence.
"How different is the spontaneous play of the intellect from
the trained diligence of maturer years, v;hen toil has perhaps erovm
easy by long habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the
day's corafor*t, although the rest of the matter has bubbled mayl"0S9)
16C
Mwldnd's period of full activity is unbelievably brief. In youth, as
a neopnyte, it cannot be truly .aid that he has begun to live with the
actualities of Ufe. In his later period he is forced to ad.1ust to a
routine which no longer has substance. It is only in the ndddle years
tlxat tl^ total energies for life are unloosed. Hut here, in the period
Of f^ll activity, that which is original and spontaneous in the species
is rapidly squeezed by greater th:^ hum.nn forces into the rnere
nothingness of an on,pty pattern. Here, too, the mightiest effor^. of
Hian pi-ove ineffectual, for an inscrutable pn>vidence moves with a
swifter and a surer hand. "And perhe.ps the forms and appUances of
hunan life are never fit to nake people happy, until they cease to be
used for the purposes for which they were directly 3i.tended, and are
taken, as it were, in a sidelong application." (360)
In addition to the physical and mental consequences-whether
for cood or for evil-present in the rrK>st seendngly trivial of nan's
actions, there is a greater law of condensation at .ork. The principle
of a balanced .miverse-^thouch the compound is deeply gr^, rather
than an equal blending of the dark and the light-n^ not be violated.
Any effort, however nobly conceived, is apt to bear evil fruit. The
destruction of an individual evil leaves roon, for the developnK^t of a
newer and possibly greater one. Even though man is iVee to act-though
it is obUratory that he remain active-he must recognize that all
actions fall within the workings of a fixed, balancing principle. A
roature individual-one thoroughly and brutally initiated to living-is
frilly aware of this limitation.
169
It is only one-ejed people who love to advise, or have BXtj
spontjsneous pronptitude of action. hen a man opens both his ej^es,
he generally sees about as nany reasons for acting in aqy one way
as in any other, and quite as x^^sxxy for acting in neither, and is
therefore likely to leave his friends to regn^late their orm
conduct, and also to remain quiet as regards his especial affairs
tin necessity shall prick hira onward, (361)
"How strange it is,— the way in which we are siimrxmed from all
high purposes by these little honely necessitiesj all symbolising the
great fact tlmt the earthly part ox us, ^th its demands, takes up the
greater portion of all our available force, "(362) liumanity is
con?>letely and thorou^Oy limited. Its spiritual imirmurings are feeble
and infrequent. Inescapable mortal duties squeeze out daily the
nobilities of existence. Tims mankind, determinedly strivlnc for
advancement, succeeds only in standing still. Even though a certain
materialistic bettering of mn's external state is possible, the
internal core of huioan nature reiaains unaltered,
Hansan nattrre, *.ile it is a conwsito of the natures of both
se3!»s, is at no time to be identified ^rith either of theia. Woman was
allotted a unique natuxe and function j the nature of the aale, though
less joyous, is equally distinct. Of the two natures, that of the male
is closer to what Ilavrbhome meant l?y the term "human nature," '«Voraan is
of a softer texture, more sheltered, more spiritual fcian her mate.
Iran's very nature stands as the antithesis of all that is best in
v/oman •
Man's Nature
Man's nature has little in common with that of woman, for he is
170
at heart both vicious and brutisij. The male, if isolated from tho
tardnP- charnis of his laate, frcquontl^jr reverts to an inborn savageness.
V/ere it not for the restraining influence of centurr^-old habits and
customs, and were it not for the vritten and cocraon laws, nan might
well give greater vent to liis aniinal appetite.
It is soaetiines, though less frequently the case, that this
disposition to mke a "joy of grief" extends to individuals of ths
otner sex. Lut in us it is even less e:a;usable and nore disgustinr,
because it is our nature to shun the sick and afflicted j and,
unless restrained by principles other than we brin^ into the world
with us, men might folloiy tho example of many animals in destro^dng
the infirm of their crm species. Indecsd, instances of this nature
niight be adduced among savage nations. (363)
lian^a depravity exceeds that of animals because his cruelties are nuch
tnore refined. A prioordlal appetite for evil, combined with an
aptitude for subtly formulating and satisfying it, makes nan, at times,
tne most odious of beasts. He is perpetually capable of contriving
newer and coarser cruelties. "A singular fact, that, when roan is a
brute, he is the nost sensual and loathsone of all brutes." (36ii)
"Nevertheless, eitiier Manhood .nust converse with Age, or
^.omanhood must soothe him with gentle cai'es, or Infancy must sport him
around his cl^air, or his thoughts t»111 stra;/ into the misty region of
the past, and the old nan be chill and sad." (365) J.5an must have
companionship if he is to control ids indelicate urges. There is a
continual need for the warn and seriL-spiritual comforts found in the
society of women and children, llore especially do old men need a
wholesome companionsliip if they are to prevent tiienselves from becoming
phantom-like dv;cllers in the past, Llan exists as a complete being only
when he «iteM into partnership with the opposite aex.
171
V.Mle certain traits are in varj'lng degrees cororoon to the
general natvire of all roales, nvmjerous others are clxaracteristic of only
a liirdtcd niaaber. Although the "public Vr'oraan," for instance, was seen
in sliarp contrast to the true nature of womanhood, various oddities of
the male nature are not set against a shining standard, Hawthorne
proposes no single ennoblinc function to wJiich the loale of the sf)ecies
raay fasten himself. I:Iac]i observatiOTj on jnan's nature is a criticism of
soiTK failinc ijecullar to the inalo. Thus t^rpes, traits, abionaalities
swim before the eye vdthout the benefit of a functional standard
against ^^'hich to view them, Insinceritj^, for exanple, is characteristic
of some itien, but not necessarily of al3. men.
Insincerity in a man's cwn heart wust maice all his Gnjo^nnents,
all that concerns hia, murealj so that Iiis whole life must seem
like a nerelj'" dr anntic representation, /md this would be the case,
even though he were surrounded by trae-heartod relatives and
friends. (3-66)
The insincere rnan is doubly unfortunate in that his deceit places him
out of contact wit-i his fellow hunsan beings and therein prevents any
possible salvation which irdght c<xne to him.
IHrpicallj'-, nan is a weak-willed creatiare of the mnds. "In
truth, there is no such thing in man's nature as a settled and full
resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of
execution." (367) A mature rrem acts only when necessity de?nands it,
and even then his deedn are often hasty and iU-tined. In the moment
of action man is most fully alive, yet the determination irfiich forces
that action is but a temporary elation. The consequence is permanent.
Long-suffering participation in life, and the mistaken blunderings
172
which are a:i integral pait of that suffering, find surcease only in
death, ".-hen a inan's eyes ha^/e cro^m old Tri.th gazing at the trays of
the TTorld, it does not seen such a terrible ndsfortune to Jiave them
bandaged. "(368)
Those rare individuals who xrould attempt to aid nan are looked
upon v/ith sizspicion.
f fen who att«:55t to do the irorld nore good than the ^-orld i s
able entirely to coraprehmd are aL'xsst invariably held in bad~odor.
Buo 7ct, If the Tn.sc end ,;;ood nan can wait arfhilc, either the
present ceneration or posterity Yd.ll do him justice. (369)
In the lone or providential view, an inscrutable one, noble efforts
are cocqpensated for. It is in the long look, also, that huinan nature
takes on its distinctive saneness; for, indeed, when observed eye to
eye and noaent by moment the male nature exceeds that of Cleopatra in
its infinite variety. Vhen male nature is viewed fi«ora a distance,
vriien it is seen in terns of ir&Tiad experiences, surface differences
vanish and the true raw nature of nan comes into focus.
"But who can estimate the po-.rer of rontle influences, wiiether
anid material desolation or tlie norcO. vfinter of a nan's heart?" (370)
A partial inprovement of that wiiich is inherent Ij^ vicious in man's
nature may come through domestic modificatlcns. As a partner in the
domestic institution, man finds in his mate those qualities which
temper liis hardness.
Certain men, in spite of the gentle influence of womanhood, are
so fundamentally mean in tlaeir oxm right that thej' violate the dignity
of the natural order bj^ aspiring for greatness. "Some men have no
right to perform great deeds, or think high thoughts—and when they do
173
80, it is a kind of humbug. Tti&y had better keep within their own
propriety." (371) Each individual has a realm of activity to which he
ie especially suited and to ^hidi he ehoold restrict hiiaself . The
aisse and significance of wie's |xLace in an ordejred universe vaades
•^ith fortune and tdth the capacity of the individual, but the necessity
for working within the liudtations of caie's specific nature is quite
clear. Indignatioja-— sucJi as that ntdch the eBcaerg^we of the "public
woran" aroused— ds felt wheo any individual attests to awe beyiaid
the boundaries of his peculiar ftsnction. viMl© the ml® sj^ere ia aot
specifically defined by Hawthorne, nevertheless, it does exist only
within limits.
It is cliaracteilstic of laan tl^t he laoves by a series of
caruptions ratlier than at a continuous pace. "Men of uncojnmon intellect,
tiho have growi laoarbid, possess this occasiwial pow*^' of ndghty effcrt,
into which they throw the life of aany days, ajsd then are lifeless for
as aany aDre.'*<372) There is a reserve strength whi^ enables a
person to cast Ixis total energy into a period of intense activity; but
wiiile the consequence rankles ever afterward, the power of the initial
resolution inmediately departs.
Although certain actions taa^ have favorable effects, man's
goodness renains always in a theoretical realra. Evil traits are nuch
more evid^t in daily experiaace. "There are few uglier traits of
huraan nature than this tendency— which I now witnessed in mro no worse
than their neighbors— to grow cruel, merely because th^ possessed the
power of inflicting harm." (373) Hawthorne witnessed ugliness and
nk
iffiperfection wiienever he observed aan in action; caa's nobility,
however elicht it zsi^ht be, went relatively unnoticed.
Ian»3 nature is oi^en harshly represented, for oan in his pride
and vanity, llacrantly unairare of his irperfections, places too auch
faith in Ms ov.-n intellect. There are, indeed, aany lacn nho create
false beings of theaselves hj working through the intellect.
There are ordinary raen to whoa forms are of paranount
iaportance. ^heir field of action lies anjong the external
phenonena of life, i'hey possess vact ability in craspine, and
arransine, and appropriating to tlienselves, the big heavy, solid
unrealities, such as gold, landed estate, offices of trust and
emolument, and public honors. v:ith tliese materials, and Tsdth
deeds of goodly aspect, done In the public eye, an individual of
this class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice,
yhich, in the view of other people, and ultimately in his own view,
is no other than the aan »s character, or the man himself. (37I4)
Unqualified reliance on the intellect leads man into ndstaking the
phenomenal for the "real." In due time the heart's message becomes
inaudible. It is shut off by an ever-increasing concern with the
material side of life. Thus man— in the same manner that he constructs
the social order— builds a human artificiaUty, which cones to replace
his original self. It is this tendency, this pride, this vanity, this
lust for materialistic possessions and faith in a materialistically
measured success, which most frequently provides for man's undoing.
"Man's own youth is the world's youth; at least, he feels as
if it were, and imagrlnes tliat the earth's granite substance is
something not yet hardened, and which he can mould into whatever shape
he likes." (375) Before youth lias actually challenged the compound,
he is confident of his ability to fashion life at Ms own discretion.
In maturity he consents to Ms fate— accepts the fact that he is
17?
limited and that his dre&a of shaping the xmi verse was but a delusion.
Death follcfwB the ndddle years iiirith great rapidity, and, in the very
raaiffint of death, man ccBOtiniies to reveal his nature.
But thei'e is no one tiling which isen so rarely do, isihatever
the provocation or inducement, as to bequeath patrimonial paroperty
sway fi-om their own blood. They rssy love other individuals feu:
better tlian their relatives,— they may even cherish dislike, or
positive hatred, to the latter; bub yet, in view of death, the
strong prejudice of propinquity revives, and impels the testator
to send dam his estate in the line marked out by cus-bom so
iiiBuejaorial that it looks like nature. (376)
There is a distinction implied bet-ween man's nature and man's habits.
Hawthorne hints that the maternal heart and the paternal head have
little in conmxi. It is possible, even, that it is not nian's true
natuare to provide for his young. Custoia and tradition laay have
supj^ed a restraining influence vihlch is fsrequently mistaken for the
aale nature itself.
The favorable side of man's natxire, assuiaing that it exists,
is rarely coscaented on. "It is oft©i instructive to take the -woman's,
the private and domestic, view of a public laan; nor can ancrthing be
more curious than the vast discrepancy betwe^i portraits intaided for
engraving and the pencil-sketches that pasa £rcm hojd to hand behind
the original's back." (377) A man seen in the intimate quarters of
the domestic state laay be more or less of a man than the public sees,
but the difference is always present, lim, functioning in both the
social and the domestic iTorlds, may well have a different code of
conduct for each. The outer action, the social acticHi, is the one on
T*ich judgments are moat frequently formed. "Of most men you early
know -the mental gauge and measurement, and do not subsequently have
176
ouch occasion to change it. "(378) "^!on are so mch alike in tholr
nature, that they grow intolerable unless varied by their
circumstances." (379) Hawthorne never remarked on the nonotony of the
ferdnine nature, for woman is distinfmishable by the richness of her
divine depths, ^(an, on the other hand, ia consistently viewed with
the animal appetite foresaiost.
"But a man cannot always decide for himself whether his ovm
heart is cold or warm. "(330) It is an intereffting corollary to the
"head-lieart" distinction that coldness of heart is identified with a
lack of love for humanity. A warn heart, throu^ love and through
intuition, opens the way to religion and "reality." Considered on a
lighter plane, man's love is a comic vanity, a pathetic expression of
masculine e^o. "A bachelor always feels himself defl'auded, Tfhm he
knows or suspects that any woman of his acquaintance has given herself
«ray."(38l) There is present in the male lieart, however, a steady
thirst for companionship, for brotiierhood. "And yet the natural man
cries out against tlie p>iilcsophy that rejects beggars. It is a
thousand to one that the:/ are imposters; but yet we do ourselves a
wrong by hardening our hearts against them, "(302) In all but the
most hardened of male natures, there is still some small syajpathy fw
humanity.
Hawthorne read widely in the writings of Swift and Voltaire.78
78Marion L, Kesselring, ilawthome's IceadinR: 1823~18^ . pp. 62-
63 (Index;, Durint; the period Au^just 23, 1^130 to Nove-iber 20, IS30,
Hawthorne imde seventeen vdthdrawals at the 6alen Atlienaeum from an
eighteen volume set of Swift's writings. From October 2, 1829 to
177
The misanthropjr of gtd.ffc he found distasteful, yet it is not inprobatole
that the roraoncer foiind an echo of his cm thoughts in Swift's caustic
evaluation of huaan natiare. .Although Hsirbhorne reached some of the
sami conclusions in regard to huiaqn nature which Swift and, to a lesser
©xtont, Voltaire had entertained, he arrived at his conclusions through
vastly diffisrent thou^t processes. "I see laany apeclmms of Hsankind,
but come to the conclusion that there is but little varietur among thea,
after all."(3S3) lian»s depravity was a moral and a religious fact| it
■Has everywhere observable. The novelist never went as far as Voltaire
in ridiculing mnj nor did he degrade lilm with a Swiftian lash.
Hawthorne recognissed r®n's depravity, but he always Sield out a hope,
even If it lisrere an abstract one, that man's nature aight someday
wisely open itself to a brotherhood of the heart. Then, too, Hasrthome
would allow a teiopering of laan's nature through doiaestieity and, in
some instances, through art. Above all, he voxHd provide laan, in spite
of Ills higlily imperfect pJ^rsical life, with an iiroortal hoaie.
Like Swiit, liaiRthome adsdred individual raea— 4iis intimate
fi-iendshlps were extremely Tiarm ones— but put Httle trust in the race.
It is not that he detested tlie race, but rather that he was too aware
of inan's tendency to err at ev&ry given opix>rtunity. Ivlan's mi^ty
accoraplishiaents are satirically aK>lauded. "If/hat great things laan has
contrived, and is continually perforialngt ".^liat a noble binite he
isl»(33ii) It may be that the novelist takes some pride in aan's
icaterial progress. liowever, the word "contrived" is often used in a
January 7, I83I, he made fort:/Haine withdrawals from a ninety-two
volume edition of tlie writings of Voltaire.
178
derogatory eanae^-as in the phrase, "contrived by the perverted
ingenuity of laan." A recognition of the unique ccmnotation which
"contrived" held, coupled with the normal connotation of the irord
"brute," would lead one to suspect that Hawthorne yms sometimes
playful if not doT/nright satirical.
Perhaps it is best that the populace is able to keep faith in
a few elevated men who are actually little different from themselves.
find?n^^!nf°*v,*?'-I^^^ interest of the world not to insist upon
™^f?i ^ Its greatest men are, in a certain sense, vSv
^^J.t ^'^ °^ ""^ ^ ^^^ ^^"* °^" ^' ^^ o^^^ a little
worse? because a conimon mind cannot properly digest such a
fr^TJ^' ?f ^en know the true proportion of the great man's
good and evil, nor how snjall a part of hin, it was that tou^
our muddj' or dusty earth. (385) i>oucnea
Ordered existence is necessary. Any severe interruption of life's
daily sequence-whether it be war, panic, or a breach of trust-is apt
to disorganize the not too solid citizemy. It is undeniable that even
the loftiest of nortals must tread the same middy pathwc^r as the ragged
beggar.
tost Bjen, whatever their natures, are forced to lead a life of
continual cor^o.-aise with society, witli thenaelves, and with their
ideals. Earthly pressures are too demanding. Only a rare individual-
the artist, for instance— can rise above the rankling necessities of
physical existence.
At any rate, it must be a remarkably true man who can keep his
awn elevated conception of truth when the lower feeUnc of a
;^^JiJ"^v/^f °^^\^^ ^^^ "^^"^^ sympathies, and «ho can speak
out ftankly the best that there is in him, when by adulterator it
L^i^^'.K^ \^°^? ^^^^! ^^ knowr. tl^t he may make it ten tim^s
as acceptable to the audience. (386)
"Methinks it is not good for old man to be much together. "(387)
179
Old rmx have experienced nuch of Life, have dvflalt long in a brotherhood
of sorrowi they are so thoroughly satiated that the v&rj presenca of
one aged creaturo acts as a dopressant on another. Strangely enough,
the aged irvale remains youthful in his o-sm ^©s.
Youth, however eclipsed for a season, is undoubted3y the
proper, permanent, and genuine condition of saanj and if w© look
closely into this dreary delusion of growing old, we shall find
that it never absolutely succeeds in laying hold of our inneanaost
convictions. (388)
Ulale nature, unless it is well-te^Dsared by the human
affections, maintains its stubborn propensity for evil. Love's laro,
arising as th^ do from the moral seaitiaent, are too frequently
tranpled in the process of earning a livelihood. Man, in his atten^rt;
to conquer life's unconquOTatole coiapound is pernanently and fatally
hardened by the struggle. Tet •within th& male nature there resides
the !3eans of iaprofveaent. Hawthoi-ne did not believe that mesa's nature
had iniproved during the centuries, nor did he believe that a true
bettering was probable in the near future? but he did believe that
improvement, though ertreiaeay unlikely, was possible.
The law of natter iiaposes rather severe liigitationa on the
posfer of man's ndnd. Yet raan vaJjily p<ersist3 in working through his
intellect, ifen goes farthest wrong in giving an easy credence to his
arm raeager abilities. Pieman differs firom nson in that she is not so
prone to make this rdstake. Tlien, too, roraan's priiaal nature—the
purity of •wdiich Hawthorne would protect h\<- limiting woman's function-—
is superior to that of man. Tlie unsheltered male, with his brutish
legacies, is coarsened ty his daily engagements with life. Once
180
restricted hy the binding social law, r^'s nature fcecornes sliehtly
Bore admirable. Yet baneat!^. liis refined outer clothing man remains
a Caliban.
There is no true hatred on Ha»rthome»s part for the individual
raan or for a croup of mon. Actual?^, there is much syapathy. The
syrapathetic impulse loses force, however, ^¥hen placed beside an overly
keen consciousness of nam's imperfection, or, in darker terms, of man»s
depravity. This awareness led Hairthome into an instantaneous dlstruet
of that -Bhich was created by man.
Individual Natures
In addition to his rather elaborate cliaracteriaation of the
male and female natures, the novelist was tenpted to comment at random
on certain traits of human nature which were applicable only to
specific types of individuals. It is a general truth, for example,
that most people are somewhat vain. "Nothing, in the whole circle of
human vanities, takes strrager hold of the imagination than this affair
of having a portrait painted." (389) But all humanity is not vain to
a like degree. In his appraisal of individual characteristics as
opposed to tjTpical ones, Hawthorne recogniaea the great variety of
iTuman nature.
"Strange that the finer and deeper nature, whether in man or
woman, while possessed of evejy other deUcate instinct, should so
often lack that most invaluable one of preserving itself from
contamination with what is of a bp^er kindl«(390) The very presence
of man's imperfect body mkes evantual contamination unavoidable. Ko
161
Effltter hm pure the spirit of an individual irdj^t be, liis body is
forced into daily ^counters T.lth vulgar substances. bVjfortunately,
certain individuals ^th a high potential for a rich and good life find
thoir natures tlwarted by ill-fated sarital or professiOTial alliances.
"To chooso another figure, it is scd that hdarts i^ich have their
woll-sprinG in the infinite, and contain inec^baustible i^T5»athies,
should ever be dooined to pour theiaselves into shalJoar vessels, and
thus lavish their rich affections on the ground.** (391)
An aesthetic intolerance of all that is not beautiful fuHy
revealed itself in the Hawthoraian deification of womanhood. Beauty
was seized as the siiprerae ideal. Individuals bom without beauty are
to bo heartlessly eondeaned. "in u^ly person, vdth tact, aay mke a
bad face and fi£itt>e pass very tolerably, and Eore than tolerably.
Ugliness without tact is horriblej--it ought to be lawful to extirpate
such -sketches." (392) there is no humane gjnj^jathy for the ugly.
There is, instead, an extreEssly s^isitive if not atawrinal revulsion.
Ti7ith a cood bit of p^chological insight, Harthom* speculates
en humanity* s tiiaid creatures. Pec^e T/ho are quite vigorous in vocal
proclamations often grew passive when action is required. "It is
renarlcable that persons w5\o speculate the nrost boldly often conform
Tfith the Kiost perfect quietude to the external rejiUlations of society.
The thought suffices then, without investing itself in the flesh and
blood of action." (393) The physical appearance of tinddity may
sometimes cloak a forceful nature, "But these transparent natures are
often deceptive in their deptli| those pebbles at the bottom of the
162
foimtain are farther from ns thpji we t?dnk.''(39lj) riot vrjtil a crisis
arises, not until action is obligator:.', may an individual's true
raeasvrenent be taken.
It is tr-pical of certain natwes that under cxtrcnie
circTinstances they r^.otad find solace in a daydrean.
Individuals rhoce affairs havo reached an utterly desperate
crisis almost invariably keep theasselves alive with hopes, so nmch
the rx^re airily magnificent as they have the less of solid natter
within their grasp whereof to mould any judicious and moderate
expectation of cood.(395)
In contrast to the drearaer, other people-<uj wag the case with the
poet and the novelist— are destined to move on to nore nunerous and
more difficult trials. Success stays one Junp ahead, yet each neirer
and hirjher effort brings T7l.th it an intancible but higjily valuable
compensation. "But thus it al-ways is with per8<3ns r!io arc destined to
perforn great things, T-Tiat they have alreex^ done seenc less than
nothj-n^-, Vfhat they have taken in hand to do seenis Trorth toil, dancer,
and life itself. "(396)
,Aaong mankind's nass there are strangely constituted natures
for whon the divine obli<-ations of parenthood are a fostering thorn.
But there are rr.ld, forcible, unrestricted cliaracters, on whoa
the necessity and even duty of loving their own child is a sort of
barrier to love. They periiapn do not love their ovm traits, which
they recognise in their childr«i| th^ slurink from their am
features in the reflection presented by these little sdrrors. A
certain strangeness and unlikeness (such as gives poignancy to the
love bct'-reen the sorca) yroxad e:rcite a livelier affection, (397)
Taken tcget'ier, tlie observations on individual aspects of human nature
do not provide a stimulating thought pattern. They present no
standard, no unique then». In a sxibtle wgy, ther/ do iLlustrate th«
183
novelist's ability to single oirb and effnctivoljr eliaractoriae peculier
q^lirks of hmssn natisre, lli^ iHmstrate, too, on ability to hovq
behind a fiiT3 c^ctei'nality and grasp those internal truths Trhich are
aeldoiii foresliadowed in sta*face forms.
Int^racticais
Adjustnients betvreen pcrsonalitiss are ffequontly but not always
predictable. From his knowledge of laankind's inner ccaistitution,
I^awthorne was aMe to forecast with some accurate those immtn
interactions wliich occiir in everyday life. A breach of the affections,
for example, is seen to be tragic, for "It is perilous to make a chasm
in huiaan affections| not that they gape so long and wid©«— but so
quickly close again I "(398) Saoh heartbreak ia joore tragic in that it
is so readily healed* It is difficult to realise that time laaJses such
rapid adjustcaants. Peoptle ia diatress^-those unforttmates who &re
continually fronted \>j barriers and ciiasras— «ill instantly ijlve way
before a sincere eapressicn of sycif)atlQr. "Peoptle in difficulty and
distress, or in ajify laanner at odds ^th the world, em endure a vast
amount of harsh treatment, and perJmps be only the stronger for itj
whereas they give way at once before the aiiiplest expression of what
they perceive to be g©iuin© syHtpati:^.«(399)
Hawthorne constantly ran the dangers of one who CMJC^itrates
too coldly on a study of fellow huinans.
It is not, I apprehend, a healthy Idnd of mental occupation,
to devote ourselves too exclusively to tho studj^ of ijidi.vidu,il raen
arid worsen. If the person under examination be one's self, the
result is pretty certain to be diseased action of the heart, almost
before we can snatch a second glance. Or, if we talce th© freedom
to pot a p-iend under r/or ricrcficopo, ve thereby i:i-.-J^to M- froa
many of his tnie relaticms, aagnify his poculiaritiea, inevltablT
* ^u"^ ~" ^' ^^^^' "■^'^' °^^ cc.:.rse, pater, hin "ei- clunrAl^^
together again. What wonder, then, should yre be brightened Inr the
asi^ct or. a r»n^.er, „-l.ich, after a:.:,,-.-thou::h ttg can point to
every feature of his deforinLty in the real personage,-^ be said
to iiave been created hy ovjsclves.(iiOO) >—"^ ^ oaiu
I'he novelist feared the probable distortian -M^ch a calculated and
alnost dicintcrested eaanination of humanity adght KeU present. He
%va3 alno ar;arc tr.at an action, a reaction, or an interaction can be
fully understood only in terns of tlie total beingj and that an oiTtside
obaer^^er's best efforts at c^iaracterization are always partial.
Serious thouehts norraariy call for indirect expression.
wi e?2 ^^yi^'^^s approach one another with deep purposes on
both sides, they seldom come at once to the matter which they have
nost at heart. They dread the electric shod: of too sudden
contact with it. A natural iiapulse leads them to steal graduaUy
onrvard, Mdin^ thcin^elves, as it were, behind a closer, Sd still
oVS?S.s?!(&ir'' '""^ ''"' ''" '° "'^^ '"""^ ^'^ ^' "^
Man tends to build GraduaU^^ to Ids chief topic of interests he is
rcrely open and imediate in expressing his deeper concerns. Then, too,
there is a fornid^ble barrier separatinc all indj.vidrias. Society's
law often helps to formlate «ind intensify that barrier— helps to
prevent a free interplay bctryeen persOTialitica— especially vrfien one or
the other of the pei-sons concerned is a reputable wortly. "There is a
decorur, wliich restrains you (unless you happen to be a police-constaM^)
froia breakinc throuch a crust of plausible respectabiUty, even when
you are certaj.n that there is a l-siave beneath it,*'{h02)
Interactions betv;een indi-dduala do not aD.wajrs follow a set
pattern. An analysis of the huEian personality requires that certain
185
psychological conjectia'es be proposed, yet tlieso genex-alitiea forecast
only the probable nattiro of a given interaction. Even though such
stateaients cannot provide for the htiman variable, they n^ still
contain typical or Jgrpothatical truths.
It is the liardeat thing in the world for a noble nature — the
hardest and the most shocking — to be convinced that a follow-being
is going to do a wong thing, and the consciousness of one's ami
inviolability renders it still more difficult to believe that one's
self is to be the object of the wrong. (1^3)
Human interactions are frequently sys^lized in a materialistic
cloaking # "*There are really, if you stop to think about it, few sadder
spectacles in the world than a ragged coat, or a soiled and shabby
gown, at a festival, "(IjOii) let one thing is certains two individxials
cannot be brought together without an ensuing reaction of acme kind.
"Nothing is starer, horever, than that, if we suffer ourselves to be
drawn into too close proximity with pec^le, if we over-estimate the
degree of our proper taidency towards thera, or theirs towards us, a
reaction is sure to follow. '*(lt05)
The commentary on people as they relate to one another
is quite at randoin and at tintes erven superficialj yet on nuiaeroua
occasions it rnoven deeper into the human r^stery than the Arserican
writers parlor to Hawthorne had dared to go. If it teaches little
of Hawthorne's ideas, it teaches tmich of his ability to ferret oitt
those pj^chological relationships which play such a major role
in haaian life. In studying out the reactions of sensitive and
solitary people, tloe novelist had gone a long vray toward understanding
that one type of personality. It is high3y iasaracticable that
one writer attentat to conprehend in one lifetime the infinite
186
types of personalities which do exist. Marry of Hatrfchome's
observations on humn nature are essentially miscellaneous in that
the- are occasioned by particular people in particular circumstances.
mile they have con5)aratively Uttle adhesion, i^le they do not fall
neatlv into a systematized and fully developed thought field, they are
of Intrinsic interest in that they evidence the writer's talent for
successfully delving into the human personality at aliJiost any one
given point.
The Nature of the Public
A Democrat of the first half of the nineteenth century
reportedly put his trust in the people. Harrthome, a peculiar sort of
an aristocratic-democrat, held the public in low regard. "The ideas
of people in general are not raised higher than the roofs of the
houses. All their interests extend over tlie earth's surface in a
layer of that thickness. Tlio meeting-house steeple reaches out of
their sphere. "(1^06) In general, the public contents itself with that
which lies upon life's external crust. It is so accustomed to the
artificial, that a message from "reality" would come as a distinct
shock. To Hawthorne, who lacked the faith of a good Jacksonian
democrat, the public is little better than a herd of unthinking brutes.
Althou^ human nature itself is unchangeable, the outer
conditions of a people frequently undergo a movement toward
conservatism. In developing frcan its raw state, the public
occasionally learns a lesson from history. A leveling or stabilising
process takes place within the external aspect of living. There is no
107
Internal change.
The raore a people thin!«!, and the rcarc it learns, the lens will
it be acted upcai by frenzied inipulsos} as knowledge is difl'used,
populcrity xrill becone 'iiore a matter of ^udgnent than feelijigj a'-nJ
the great men of futurity will seldors rise so high, or fall so low,
as the creat nen of the past.{li07)
/is is the cane tJith anything husaan, the public has a heart
rhich nay be arotised to j^Tipathetic action. "Tlie pablic is despotic
in it«5 tesperj it is caprJ^le of denying coaaou justice, T;hen too
strenuously d^aanded as a right 5 but quite as freqpiently it ssmrds acjre
than Juarbice, lah&i the appeal is laede, an despots love to have it ina«lo,
entirely to its generosity. "(ij08) In this instance, "generosity^
stands as a synJ>ol for the "heart*' in ttie fsaidliar head-^eart
distinction. Usually, the heart — ^the supreme Hasrthomi«tn synfeol for
all that goes bc^^-ond mere intellect—is mentioned outri.ght.
I%€Si an uninstracted nsultitude attempts to see -with its ayes,
it is excoedLngly apt tc be deceived. »ihen, hosrever, it fomm its
judgmrarfc, as it usually does, en the intuitions of its great and
Tirana heaiii, tb.e conclusicais thus attained are often so profouiKi
and so unerrinc, as to possess the character of truths
supematurally revealed. (Ii09)
"Beality" can never be photographed by the eye, nor intellectual];^
arrived at by the mind of mn. It is only through an exercise of the
intuition that the artificial naj be pushed aside.
"So let each centuiy set up the raonustents of those vham it
admires and loves; and there is no harn, but, on tii© whole, much
pleasure in having such a reward before the world's ey&9»"iliX.O) It
is the gullible nature of -Wi© public that it should believe
Tirtioleheartedly in the jaoment and in the nien and the events of tlmt
BKaaent. The public at any given instance considers itself the crowning
188
achleveoent of all that haa preceded it in hiatoiy. In a natural but
rather pathetic display of egotiaa it yields its superiority to no
one. W»en conmonting upon talent and genius, liawthome 'lad repeatedly
dwiied a plenitude of true greatness. Yot the naive mareier in which
each generation deludes itself hy eelebratins its apparently g>^crt laen
has no real harm in it. "It is wonderful how few nai^es there .-^ that
csne cares anything about, a hundred years after their departure; but
perhaps each g^^ration acts Ln good faith, in canonizLng its o«n
aen.^dOl)
"I wonder -.Then ^n will bosin to erect inonuEients to humn
errarj Idtherto, tlieir pillars and statues have been on2y for the sake
of -lorific-xtion. liut after all, the ptrosent fashion nay be tiie best
and T?hol[e]sor!o3t.''(U2) It is the nature of the nublic that it
■hould erect monuments to its noble accc-iplishnents. Since inan goes
wrong TTcre often than ho cocs right, since error always has been and
always will be in the aacKjdancy, any atteiapt to dedicate njonanjcnts to
error would soon exliaust tlie available sculptural mterials.
^a^vthome never had tlie faith wdch a "good Deiaocrat" should
have had 5ji the populace. Public nature is seen as the caTiposite of
the ilD.g of individual natures. It is but grouped depo-avity. Granted
tliat the public lias the saiae abstract potentdLa.1 <-or goodness preset in
man's nature, it stubbomlj^ insists, like nan liiinself, on contriving
by Tneans of Its intellect. Thcai, too, ilaarthome r/as iguch raore of an
aristocrat, especially in his prejudices, than is coi^Eraily supposed.
The novelist did not write with the populace in niind| in his political
169
life ho scarcely regarded the opportunity of serving the public as a
noble ciiallent;e. *U.t hough llawthome neither hated nor feared the
groat mass of the people, he was overly conscioiis of the public's
insensitive and imttdnldjis nature, and quits pessiiaistic conccarning
its general caliber and ability.
The Nature of the Sick
Sickness, whilQ it is sonerally thought of as a teiaporary
condition in man's total journ<j^, can becoias in rare cases the
predondnant force in an individual's being, ^i^peoially is this time
of those persons t/Iio are chronically ill or disai.'led.
All persons chronically diseased are egotists, wliether the
disease be of tiie mind or body; v^ether it be sin, sorrow, or
merely the more tolerable calamity of soiae eaidless pain, or
Hiischief ajxing the cords of Eoiiial life. Such individuals are
made acutely conscious of a self, by the torture in Ydiich it
dwells. Self, therefore, crows to be so pa^irdnent an object vjlth
them that they cannot imt pros ant it to the face of every castial
passer-by. Hiere is a pleasure— perliaps the greatest of v/laich the
siifferer is susceptible--in displaying the wasted or ulcerated
liaft), or the cancer in the l^reasti and the fouler the criitK, with
so raich the more difficulty does the perpetrator prevent it from
thrusting up its snake-like head to fri^ten the world; for it is
tliat cancer, or that crime, tihich constitutes th«dr respective
indi-viduality . (1A3 )
A man under these rath^ extreaie conditions no longer retains his
natiJire as sn artist, politician, or farmer; for the presence of the
illness is allowed to direct Iiia vshole personality— -to becoros, in fact,
his individual nature.
""•ITherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of
the pi^sical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these." (IPLI4)
A phjrsical illness may have laOTtal origins. The notion that a person's
190
aental and emotional constitution may influence if not determine
actual bodily health is a widely accepted one. Acquaintances may
reflect the horror of an illness and thereby cause the paUent greater
discomfort. "The sick in mind, and perhaps, in body, are rendered
laore darkly and hopelessly so by the manifold reflection of their
disease, mirrored back from all quarters in the deportment of those
about theai they are coi^lled to inhale the poison of their om
breath, in infinite repetition." (Ia5) V/hen a sick psrson finda
hinself the center of attraction he is apt to grow nsorose. '^e are
apt to make sickly people more aorbid, and unfortunate people more
miserable, by endeavoring to adapt our deportmsnt to their especial
and individual needs. »(Ia6)
Hawthorne was amaeingly al«rt to the psychological nature of
illness. .Vhile his analysis is scarcely minute, it should be
remembered that the psychology of the day was in an extremely crude
state. In one instance, the novelist goes b^ond the actual
vicissitudes of illness itself and poses a deeper inquiry. ^Whan the
machinery of human life has once been stopped by sickness or other
impediment, it often needs an inpulse to set it going again, evm
after it is nearly wound up."(2a7) In the consnentaiy on society, the
fact that an individual vftio has once lost his place may have difficulty
in re-entering the marching ranks of humanity was stated ^rith force and
certainty. Illness, then, can be viewed as a condition which brings
man to a temporary standstill, and allows an ever-noving hunanity to
go on ahead. In this perspective, the aftermath of an illness is
191
haaaai^oun in that th© individual concerned taa^ have diffictHty in
regaining his proper plac« in society, especially i£ he has been long
abeent from it.
Yhe Twilij^ht Zone
lion^s rdnd is caught up under obtain conditions into a
subconscioua or twilight zone Tejiim-e the basic truths of life are aj*
to break through unhangjered try jasterialistic barriers ♦ IMs passive
preternatural state, ^©th«r tarou^t on by fatigue, sleep, extrerae
anxiety, or corporeal imsting, betokens a new and separate ssode of
existence. Its nature is of two worlds— a conssscious and a subeonsciotis
one. Here in a state of guprciae passivity, the individual may receive
direct cormminioation from that "reality" Tshich remains hidden from his
conscious ^e. Hra?e the extraneous weight of aaterial peresences is
saelted away; here spiritual energies are at work.
The sleeping mind is habitually receptive to Btessages from a
"reality" which is normally lost beneath the seeEdug solidity of
phenoiaenal substances. "Truth often finds its way to the mind close
inuffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with unconiproaising
directness of matt^j's in regard to vhlch we practise an unconscious
self-deception during our waking iisoraents.»(ijl8) That deeper and
truer life which flows beneath the grosser currents of the ordinary
one finds in the twilight acme its opportunity for ^twing the heart
of man. "The mind is in a sad state rAi&n Sleep, the all-involving,
cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but
suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets
192
that perchance belong to a deeper one. "(1^19)
"kiOien the heart is full of care^ or the mind nucn occupied,
the summar, and the sunshine, and the moonlight, are tnit a gleam and
a glinraer — a vanue dream, which does not coine -within us, but only
Hiakec itself i^iperfectly perceptible witiiout."(]i20) At tines the
continually present physical form, man's body, is so depressed by
troubles tliat externality no longer registers on the inmost inan.
Life's outer procession continues, but the inner being is oblivious
to it. On other occasions, man's spirit deserts his body.
There is sad coniXision, indeed, ^en the spirit thus flits
airay into the past, or into t!ie nore awful future, or, in any
manner, steps across ohc spaceless boundary betwixt its ovn region
and the actual world; where the body i-emains to {iuide itself as
best it may, with little more than the mechanism of animal life.
It is like death, without death's quiet privilege, — its freedom
from mortal care.(l;21)
Man exists — for the time, at least— in a state of supreme iaelplessnese.
Life's cares remain ^Yith iiim, gall him, but death's freedom is denied.
If a man is reduced to a twilight state of being, he often
finds tliat he can no longer function efficiently as a member of
society, lie is not able to keep the necessary foothold which it is so
perilous to lose.
Notliing gives a sadder s«ise of decay tiian this loss or
suspension of the povTor to deal v/ith unaccustoined thinfts, and to
keep up vn-th the swiftness of the passing moment. It can mei^ly
be a suspended animation; for, were the power actually to perish,
tliere would be little use of immortality. tVe ajre less than
giiosts, for the time being, whenever tl-iis calamity befalls us.(I;22)
A person so subdued b:f mcmtal, emotional or physical circumstance that
he can no longer keep up with the endless onward movement of life,
"shivers'* in his private solitude of separation.
193
Hawthorne's twilight zone is soTaewhat coraparable to a hypnotic
states
Put there ie a species of intuition,— eith^ a spiritual He,
or the subtile recogniticm of a fact,— which comes to us in a
reduced state of the coiisoreal system. The soul gete the better
of the body, after wasting illness, or ^m a vegetable diet may
have nrijiEled too nsich ether in the blood. Vapors then rise up to
the brain, end take shapes that often image falsehood, but
scfflieti'fies truth* The spheres of our cosipanions have, at such
periods, a vastly greater influence upon our own than isiien robust
health gives us a repellent and self-defensive ^iergy«(ii23)
Here the individual is perilously open to various external influences.
The suggestions of hia fri^ida are as pillars to h±8 weakened isdnd,
SinoB h& has no -will, he ie ea^ pr<^ to the will of others.
No raatter hem outmoded the Hairthorniffla noaffiwlaturo— ■vegetable
diet, ethOT in the taood, vapor»*-4he situation tihloh he describes^—
that unique state of being in whieh an indivi^al dwells in two worlds
yet in neither-4ias paychologlcal validity. ISsdem p^chiatrists often
attempt to reduce their patiants by hypnotics, or Ir/ soae other less
spectacular Htethod, into the same twilight aone of isiiich Hafflrthorne
wrote. Here, with his pati®st in a relas^ passiveness, the
psycJiiatrist atteir^jts to &rm out tho»e truths which Me beneath the
surface of individual lives. Hawthorne watt concerned with the natup©
of this inysterio\is zme. Perhaps he felt thnt the reliction of
physical actuality, cJiaracteristic of the twilight aone, miglit provide
spiritual insights by a partial reiaoval of the fcaremost barrier to
spirituality.
Fvc tpoBe and Power
The twilight acne is but a taaporary state in an individual's
I9h
nature. There are, ty contrast, zore pcmanent and equally poc^Jlar
states of existence T»hlch arise fron pl^sical beginnlr.jg. In the
ttrLlicht zone, tlae mterialistic is minimzcd. In the nature which
centers itself upon power or a guiding purpose, the aaterlallstic is
emphasized to the utaost. Ihus it is that an individual's desire, or
the stren-th and rarJc achieved in the fXilfiLnent of that desire, nay
bccone that person. Tlie individual no longer functions :vith the
xmiquo nature Tvhich was once his birthright, but becomes rather the
embodinent of ranlc, power, or purpose. Instead of the individual's
achieving his soal and naking it a part of himself, he is svmllowed try
and lost inside his own objective.
Cnce the apparantl^y- solid presence of rank has thoroughly
evidenced itself, it bocones its own excuse for being.
^«^«^?'^^^^f°'^^'^'^' ^° massive, stable, and ali-iost irresistibly
in?)osing in tne exterior presentment of established rank and great
possessions, that their vei-/ existence seeas to give then a ri-ht
to exLstj at least, so excellent a counterfeit of right, tliat few
poor and humble nen have pcral force enough to question it, even
in their secret minds. (l:2li)
Strength defies all challengers. "Strength is incoroprehensible by
weakness, and, therefore, the more terrible. There is no greater
bugbear than a fftrong-^filled relaUve in the circle, of his own
connoctions.'»(U5) The strong-wiUed parson, the rnn of rank and
prestige, Kawthome saw as a rather definite personality type.
Needless to say, the novelist Uttle adadred him.
It is unfortunate that the male intellect often consecrates
itself to one supren^ purpose and in so doing forfeits its
individuality. However noble an avowed aim laaj' be, the process of its
achievensDnt is ctrevm ivith accornpanyl:^ evils. Those evils v^JLch the
pro.'^rcssian tcrerard a purpose thmsts onto the innocent tcratandor are
not nearl;,' so .fatal as tiiat ijinalterable evil ^lich a nan srorn to a
sliigle purpose brings upon hiiaself .
This is alwaj's true of those msn xfho have surrendered.
thenjselves to an overruling purpose. It does not so lauch in^iel
them from rdthout, nor even operate as a laotivo pov/er Tdth.in> but
grovrs incorporate mth all tliat they think and feel, eaid finally
converts thesj into little else save that one principle. (li?6)
"iniis sense of fixedness— storo' intractability— seer?® to belong to
people nho, instead of hope, "Bhich exalts everything into an aity,
caseous eaMl oration, have a fixed and dogged purpose, around vMch
everything congeals and crj-&-t.ini?.e8,"(li27) In pledgins biinself to a
purpose, mn t?huts hinsolf off fron the partial comforts i^hich life
ns^- afford. In effect, he chooses his own fom of isolaticm, and
makes his aia a barrier between hiniself and huaanity. Perhaps
Hawthorne ovcrstresses Ms point, perhaps he isakes taonsters of his
observed subjects by speaking in too firra a generalization, yet he is
but conmenting to the best of his ability oa the sundry aspects of
hunmn nature i^nich fell before his eyes*
The Nature of a Hero
In his youth, Ilawthome clierished sosie grand and noble ideas
concerning heroes, although lie had never personally met one. Later in
life, he carae to doubt the possibility of heroism. He grew
increasingly aware of the scattered handful of great mm which histoiy
could offer. At age sixteen, the youth had noted vsith anticipation
that: "Perhaps the noblest species of courage is in a cood cause, to
196
brave the bad opinion of the irorld,«(1^8) Thirty years later, the
novelist had settled into a Ilrni recoenition of the fact that society
makes the man, and that the individual does not laajestically shape hia
cnvn fortune*
Great men have to be lifted upon the shoulders of the whole
world, in order to conceive their great ideas, or perform their
great deeds. That is, there nust be an atmosphere of greatness
f!'^^ ??o)S *^°^i— a ^e^ cannot be a hero, unless in a heroic
world. (ii2y>
"The greatest obstacle to being heroic is the doubt whether one may
not be going to prove one»a self a fool; the truest heroism is to
resist the doubt| and the profoundest wisdom to know when it ought to
be resisted, and when to be obeyed ."(1130)
Hawthorne was reluctant to admit—and necessarily so, in the
light of his total pliilosophy— that any man could accomplish much
good, could function nobly, without producing much evil at the same
time. Heroism is looked upon with suspicion, for it is unlikely that
man's basic nature would permit his rise to such heights. "How
singular it is, that the personal courage of famous warriors should
be so often called in questionl"(i,3l) The supposed chivaliy of
antique days is vigorously questioned,
I doubt Aether there ever was any age of chivalry: it
certainly was no chivalric sentiment that mad© men case themselves
in inqpenetrable iron, and ride about in iron prisons, fearfully
peeping at their enendes through little sUts and gimlet-Jioles.
The unprotected breast of a private soldier must Iiave shamed his
leaders, in those days.(li32)
Although Hawthorne had little to say about the true nature of
heroism, his reaction to the heroic is provocative. The novelist
seemingly had little heroism in his own bosom. He never warmly
197
espoused a cause j he locked wilii dlsfcrust upcai those Individufil'e nrho
did. Although he would defend his ideals and firiendships under
pressure, as instanced in his stand for the unpopular BYanklin Pierce,
he never spoke of ideals which were worth fighting for* If Hawthorne's
pM:'8caiality lacked any c«ie ccaDpcaient, it was enthusiasm. A hero is a
p&taon capable of ehaping the universe* The tmivarse '^ilch Hawthorne
knew was not that nalleable.
Bpoverbe on Ifaiaan Nature
Approxiiaately twenty of Hawthorne's observatitms on huBian
nature are proverbial. They are short and to the j^intj imfortunately,
they have little depth. Yet their peculiar quality, their strange
limitation is of interest far beyond the laerit of the stateaents
themselves.
l!he shorter time we have to enjc^^ our riches, the mo3?e we
wish to asiass then»ih33)
flappy is it| and strange, that the lighter sorrows are those
from ^ich dreaias are chi©f3y fabricated. (i43li)
Is not the kindred of a cosiasn fate a closer tie than that of
birth? (I435)
All really educated men, Aether they have studied in the halls
of a University, or in a cottage or a workshop, are essentially
self -©ducated <,ih3^)
Nobody will use other people's experience, nor have any of his
own till it is too late to use it,(li37)
Nothing is so intolerable as a little wit and a great desire
of showing it. (1*38)
Yes, old friend} and a quiet heart wiU make a dog-day
ten^rate*(l439}
JSQ
It is strance what sensaUono of aublindty nay spring from a
very huinble source.(iiiO) o » « «
It is scarcel^r decorous, however, to speak an, even when we
speak inporsonally.dilil)
Kie moment when a man's head drops off is seldom or never, I
am inclined to think, precisely the most agreeable of his Ufe.(iai2)
, ^f^? ^^® ^Si^test heart, the heaviest is apt to be most
plaj'ful.(lUj3;
For, one of the hardest things in the world is to see the
difference between real dangers and imaginary ones.Uiiij)
The moral effect of being without & settled abode is very
wearisome. ( I4U5)
No man who needs a monument, ever ought to have one.(ljli6)
ihliif^ ^^^'J*^^^ ^s apt to spoil the objects that interest him.
ChhsT^ * ^°^^ traveller can have patience to write his travels.
For nobody has any conscience about adding to the
improbabilities of a marvellous tale. (liit9)
There is no estimating or believing, till we come to know it,
what foolery lurks latent in the breasts of veiy sensible
people. (150)
The nomadic life has great jKivantages, if we can find tents
rea47 pitched for us at evoiy stage. (1^51)
Nathaniel Hawthorne had little in connon with the recognized
proverb stylists, Franklin and liner son. Franklin specialized in
giving practical advice to an industrious and crafty Yankee populace.
Hawthorne had noted that "onlj^ one-eyed people give advice"; he was
content with reporting the true state of life as he saw it, Hawthorne's
observations are descriptive rather than prescriptive. Sin, for
example, is defined through active instances; or in tern» of the
199
conditions Tshich it larovokes. Tla^horne could not prescribe, for he
knew no preacriptione which trould work. Bm Franklin, to txhe contrary,
wag quite practical in his c«m proverbs; he spoke in terns of
mterialistic sitcoegs, Hawthorne wyl^' conaients cm huaan foibles and
singularities. He was incapable of the Franklinian pictorial proverb.
Emerson inrote blithel;^^ of the God in laan. He haiamered out
gem-incrusted proverba suffieleffit to drive an individual aa to greatw
self-reliance. Ifejerson thought mn aore significant than llf« itself.
Life is shaped by the hands of a nsan who has found God in hiBsself •
Haewthorne, in sharp contrast, felt that life itself was quite rigid,
and that it moulded and controlled the individual. Forces,
institutions, congwunds were infinitely stronger than the will of the
individual. Ekaersonian proverbs contain an active and unrestricted
declaration of faith in the power of the individual. Hawthorne's
inmost convictions forbade a similar faith.
Both Franklin and rjnerson areached large audiencec with their
proverbial bits of wisdoa. The former instructed the American public
in sjateriaHsaj the latter, in idealism. Both gave golden nuggets of
wisdom toward which an individual inlsht strivei both gave maxiiQS for
the proper ordejnS.nc of one's conduct. Both aesuiaed th«t life is
pliable, flawthome felt that life is restricted by the very eleisents
of which it is composed. Success is not the acquisiticai of
materialistic goods nhich a Franklin ndght advocate, or the idealistic
self-reliance which an Emerson would proposej but it is, in actuality,
little more than a recognition of and acquiescence to the ooa^xjund of
200
life. Success caniiot coae by accumulating narble, or by denying the
existence of Eiud| it can come onl>' fi'oja a careful treading of life's
surfaces.
Life is a coiDplex and solemn affair, but a superbly ooral one.
Harthorne found no one proverb or group of proverbs onto wliich he
could fasten his faith. Ke saar only partial exits, and even they were
beset with numerous obstrucUons. Hairthome waa well qualified to
observe lifej he excelled at steeping his observations in thought and
pourinG them into rich literary moulds. He was not capable of writing
proverbs in the American sense of the word, for he did not presume to
give advice. The more general or the more practical a statement
became, the nore enpty of true meaning it was likely to be. It is
only when the novelist is reflecting on the underlying nature of the
life around liim tiiat he is in his element.
"Hawthorne was always very tender of the feelings of othersj
and thougli he could not help perceiving the oddities and frailties of
those about hia, the percepticm in^xLied no uncharitablKiess on Ms
part, and was recorded only for his jarivate satisfaction. "75*
Hawthorne's observations on human nature are unduly limited| he was
unable to take the practical approach of a Pranklin, or the optindatic
approach of an Emerson. In essence, Hawthorne realivsed that humanity
was so constituted by its nature that it raust be continually chastened
by life, tfunan nature makes a truly successful life difficult if not
oo, N ^^'^^^an Hawthorne, Nathaniel flawthome and His ;ife (Piston,
201
impossible} for the inctaiit a ma:: begins to r.ove about, he is apt to
meet tdth disaster.
hlavrbhome wrote about failures. 3oth the depraved nature of
hiamanity itself and the graynesa of the cois^oimd in v;hich EanVdnd must
live forbid success. The raajcrity of hianan errors rasQ'- be attributed
to the inte3J.ect; they are brought on by pride. If nan woiild but
llst&n to his heart, he saight then find his way cleared} at least, th©
human situation vovUji be vastjy improved. This is the one bit of
advice which Fjorthorn© felt free to give. It is not much i«dth which
to challenge a universe, but it is better than no hope at all.
CHAPTER IX
NATIONAL NATURTS
In the settiiig forth of those features which distinguish
various nationaliUes, certain fandliar liawthomian principles find
additional development in a nore concrete Jjwt frequently prejudiced
thought area, /^ereaa hum»i nature maintains a deep and constant
quality regardless of the race, creed, or political subdivision Tiithin
which it nay fall, national natures are to be deterrdned on the basis
of their surface uniqueness. The for^nalized depiction of a national
nature—that croup of characteristics raarlcedly confined within given
bordcxs—is, -^am contrasted to a probing of huaan nature, qiute
superficial. Although huaan nature is the same for all nankind, an
iiiiglishman, a Frenclraian, or an Italian does possess a peculiar national
nature by which he may be set apart fron the remainini: body of
humanity, Wliile the inner nature of an individual is fixed, his
external oi- api arent nature as a member of a national group furnishes
a new and sepai-ate field of inquirj-.
:Ven though his rdnd normally functioned on deep and abstract
levels-~as reflected 1^ the "sin to society" thought pattern—
Ilairthome found time to record surface distinctions. On occasion, the
portrayal of r national nature is elevated by an especially keen
insight. l!ore frequently, patriotism, provincialism, Puritanism and
202
203
pre,1udice dictate ^?hat aw^ear as carefully ccmsidered ;JtjdgJtKmt?s. "Hho
cormGntary on national natures affords a new and valuable InqiJiry into
Hawthorne's developing philosojiiy. It springs from a different kind
of thinkinc. ^%ile it adaittedly lacks depth, it is colorfully
characterized by the 9d»ie sharjaiess of perception encotmt«r©d in more
complex and shadowy thoi^ht fields.
The Bnslisli
People, places, and things Aiuerican are decidedly superior to
the best which a visitor my encounter in Shgland. Of this, Bmthorne
•ma certain. "Underlying his writings <ai Ihgland, it mght merely be
pointed out, there is a solid sub-stratum of t^iat we iriay call, for
lack of a better word, ikiericanisra."^® Ehglishnjen are less p}\Tsically
attractive and less w©ll.-!i!sanered than Aiaericana. !:::specially does the
English landscape and cliEiate suffer Mien oasspared to that of its
former colony.
In spite of the sever© criticisjtffi istdch he hurled at eveiything
Ihglish, in spite of the frequ^tly bitter antagonism from -which he
never freed himself, Hswthcarao was emotionally^ at^acted to aigland.
In truth, the criticism of Qigland consists of two separate and
ccaiflicting sets of ideas* The first and weaker of the t^w, an
attraction, was bom of a cultural reverence for England's traditional
grandettr. The second and stronger, a repiilsicai, was rooted in the
patriotic pride wiiich an American felt for liio fledgling democracy.
•^^iandall Stewart, "HOTsthome in thglandi The Patriotic ?^otive
in the Note-Dooks," New Ehgland .juarterl^/ , VIIX (Lferch 1935), 13.
20li
The appeal TJhich Encland misht awakon in an Anerican iTas continually
forced to give cround before a more deep-seated animosity. But then,
on a longer visit, the Enslish crow wore palatable. The further along
one goes in -laiffthame's acquaintanceship vdth lihgland, 1353 to 1360
the less severe the criticisnis becorae. Yet, even after he had coiae to
respect the English people, long after the heart had ^^rone out of his
Anglophobia, Hawthorne continued to berate the English from time to
tine.
But the decidedOy toned-down conrjents of i860 are a long way
from the caustic criticisms of 1851, "I think the social rank of
Englishnen (always conscious of sombody above them) prevents then
fl-om having ary dignity in their manner. » (152) Kasrfchome, speaking
as a patriot and a democrat, wuld der^y the aiglishman the one quality
in w-iich he took the warmest pride—his dignity. The observations on
ijiigland, even though they seem unnecessariOy prejudiced and harsh, are
given in a straightforward endeavor to point out those significant
peculiarities which mark the measure?r>ent of a people, ?iigland'a
citizenry was repeatedly denied those attributes which were
traditionally granted as a birthright— dignity and polish,
aigllshjnen are not made of polishable substance— not of marble,
but rather of red froe-stone. There is a kind of roupluiess and
uncouthness in the raost cultivated of them. After some conversance
with them as a people, you loam to distinguish true gentleraon
among them; but at first it seems as if there were none, (1^53)
Flun^) and pongjous matrons, so frequently encountered in English
society, offend the ideal of womanhood. Beautiful and slender American
maidens arc infinitely more pleasing to the senses, Hawthorne was
205
seldom inpressed with Eo^fland'a vtmm* Althou^ an occasional
eocception escaped ccasdefflnation, the great bulk of aiglish femininity
he looked upon with a cold ^e. "I really and truly believe that the
entire body of American washerwomen would preseaat raore grace than the
entire hody of Baglish ladies, war© both to be ahown up together." (li^U)
"An Englishuan's aspect and behavior aevesr shocks, and never
fascinates •••(li55) The Siglish are accused of dallnessj thairs is tfe«
laode of a weighty but laiddle-class respectability. Any aovenient beyond
that prescribed aaode is inconipatible with the nature of the people. In
indents of extremely vain patriotisaa. Hawthorn© was likely to suggest
the annesaticai of atigland. "fhe truth is, I love Iceland so mch that
I want to annex it, and it is l^ no mst&na beyond the scop© of
possibility that w© may do so, thou^ hardly in jsy lifetime." (ii56)
"I i^all be true to ray coimtry, and get 8l<mg ^th Jolm Bull as well as
I can. The time will coaae, soc«j©r or later, when the old fellcsr will
look to us for his salvation. "(liS?) Possibly, the novelist felt that
the aigland of the 18^0 »s was ^tering a genuine period of decline.
More probably, the ijunwdeat proposals st®o fro® a natural desire to
stand up to and strike back at the &gland of which i^erice was so
recently a colony. Youthful xaemories of the V^ar of 1812 aay have
provided a background of hostility wiiich never quite subsided.
"It is good for the laoral natxjre of an American to live in
Bhgland, ainong a raore sin^jle and natural people than ourselves." (1^58)
It is indeed strange that a comparison, opposite firom the one which is
normally eocpected, should be made with such certainty. Hawthorne
206
aasuned the existence of an American culture which assurecGy did not
measure up to the high level of his published views. He delighted in
turning back onto the aiglish those veiy criticisTus which Ehglish
travelers alwst unanimously made of Araerica. iiairthome felt that
aiglishmen disliked Americans, and like a little bpy he reciprocated.
♦« i^ ^ SisHshman were individually acquainted with all our
!«rSTf ''^'ti^^^"' ^^ Americans-ond liked eveiy n«n oTtS^,
and ^lieved that each mn of those nillions was a Christian,
honest, upright, and kind,~he would doubt, despise, and hati
Allegiance to nobility is seriously questioned. "It is queer
how the Qiglish uphold their nobility as an institution, yet ridicule
and abuse the individual members." (1^60) Since nankind is leveled by
sin and sorrow, since human nature is lindted and constant, it may be
doubted whether the nobility-however naterialistically well off they
may be~are actually any better, or for that natter apy different,
from those lesser persons who would pay tribute. Yet the peculiar
psychology of liiglish national pride, while it nay allow single
attacks, ever protects its ingrained ties with royalty. The most
typical aiglish trait, one found throughout the social hierarchy, has
received such universal darning that there is little need for recording
it. "This Ehglish narrowness is veiy queea-, and is just as much a
characteristic of gentlemen of education and culture, as of cloim8."(li6l)
If one symbolic institution may be permitted to stand for all
that is most thoroughly Fjiglish, it is found in the formal and
forbidding dinner.
207
Tile aislish have not tho art or the nature of meting each
other natijrally, and for the upperajost purpose of social enjqymewfc;
and so thejr laalce the dinner, which ought to be a raere mobhod and
jsjcdiura of bringing them together, the great and oversrhelming
object, to Tshich all true intercourse is sacrificed. (1^62)
Dinner partakes of the saiae artificiality tfiiich waa attribizted to
taste Bxvi society, Jiawthome scarcely reached the point of
sophistication vrhich one njust attain in order to enjoy an English
dinner. »I have no pleasure in anything^-a oigar excepted. Eto«
liquor does not enliven mej so I very seldoia drinSr my, except at
some of these stupid English dinners ."^^
% 1858, the novelist had arrived at a more balanced and
perhaps more pcsietrating analysis of the Shglish character.
Nobo<fy but an aiglisliaan, it seems to me, has just this kind
of vanity,— a feeling raised up with scorn md good-naturej self-
complacency on his ovm raerits, and as an aiglishjian; pride at
toeing in foreign parts? conbeiapt for everybody around i-iiiaj a
rough kindliness towards peopl© in general, (I163)
Still, the attraction-^repalsim inn^" conflict remined substantially
unaltered. In a letter to Helda, the novelist succeeds in clarifying
his personal feeling toirard the Sagllsh.
The monstrosity of their s©lf»concelt is su<^ that anything
short of unlimited admiration inpresses them as raalicious
caricature. But they do sae a great injustice in supposing thai
I hate thera. I would as soon hate ray am people. ^2
As l«to as 1863# the familiar jibes at Kkjgland's dun,
bullying, and belligerent nature continued to be expressed. "It is
very sincular how kind an Enclishsnan will almost invariably be to an
•^■Caroline Ticknor, Hawthorne and Uls Publisher , p. 162.
82
* James T, Fields, Yesterday with Authors, p. 111.
208
individual American, without ever bating a jot of his prejudice againot
the American ciiaracter in the lvmp,*>(h$h) "If you make an Eiigliehnan
smart (unless he be a very exceptional one, of whom I have seen a few),
you Bake hla a monsterj his beat aspect is that of a ponderous
respectability. ••(U65) "In fact, in a good-natured yisy, John Bull is
always doubling his fist in a stranger's face, and though it be good
natured, it does not always produce the most amiable feeling." (1|66)
Since liairthome repeatedly censured the aiglish, ev®i though he had
come to admire thea, it m^ be assumed ttiat his lengthy period of
observation provided a ju»tificati<m for what were felt to be
indisputable points of criticism. Unfortunately, the interpretation
of a national nature, especially a foreign one, tends to evoke an
endless succession of g.neralities. Ifany of the reactions which
Hawthorne expressed had been voiced by other visitors to Lhgland, and
would continue to be voiced for many generati<ms to come.
"In fact, nobod}^ need fear to hold out half a crown to aqy
person with whom he has occasion to speak a word in £hgland.''(l|67)
The aiglish were reprimanded for wliat was felt to be a blatant
materialism. They were delicately taunted for the superficiality of
their favorite social institution. "It has often perplexed me to
imagine how an aiglishraan will be able to reconcile himself to any
future state of exLstwice from vrfiich the earthly institution of dinner
shall be excluded. "(Ii68) finally, English womanhood receives her
final insult.
I desire above all things to be courteousj but, since the
plain truth must be told, the soil and climate of liigland produce
209
feminine beauty as rarely as they do delicate fruit i and though
adiairable speciiaens of both are to be Eiet with, they are the
hot-Iious© asieli orations of refined society, and apt, isoreover, to
elapse into the coarseness of the original stock. {I469)
England's gentle sex failed to inspire |a*aise, and there is little
doubt that it was closely scrutiniaed. Hasfthorne took a constant
delist in exercising the raale prerogative— discerning and judging
f^dnine beauty. i%ould a coiaely maiden fall b^esth his gase, he was6
not loath to admit her excellexice*
At long l&st, the ^lis^ nature casie to be adtaired*
l^imi an EngHshiaan is a ge^leraan, to be sure, it is as deep
in hijT! as the laarrow of his bones, and the deeper you knew him, the
more you are aware of it, and tixat g^iwation after generation has
contributed to develop and perfect these unpretending tnanners,
which, at first, imy have failed to in^ess you, tmder his plain,
almost hoffloly exterior. (1^70)
ISirestricted ja-aise for the Snglish character seldom flowed from the
novelist's pen—in truth, it "isras not Ilasrthome'c wont to extol anyone,
inothers and beaoitiful jsaidens excepted. For tiws inost part, the writ far
proceeds by pointing out the flaws in humanity's armor. fl» leas
harshly a person is criticized, th© better he is assuined to be. When
a person or group is cosffluended, it is quite certain that praise 1«
warranted. '•^Jhat otiier men ever got so smch out of life as the
polished and wealthy Ehglishiaan of to-d^?"(li7l) A note of envy vsa^
be detected in Hawthorne's lauding of the English gentlemen. Yet
hOB&wr fisush he might come to admire and envy tho Bhglli^t prejudice
persisted in breaking through.
"The conflict iii&% rag^ within him between the love of the
beauties of an old aristocracy and the devotion to the ideals of
210
young democracy preoccupied him during hie l«at years. "^3 Hairthome,
in hia steadfast loyalty to America, saw England with a biased eye.
Paradoxically, in light of his criticisn of the an-lish people, he
searched lihgland's graveyards in the hope of discovering his ancestral
name adorning some noss-growi tonbstone. Hawthorne longed for EhgUsh
ties. The vacillation between Anglophobia and Anglomania adght well
be identified with a more basic conflict—one between aristocratic and
democratic coinponents of Ma»rthome's am nature. Theoretically, he
was a thoroushgoing democrat. Aesthetically and einotionally, Hawthorne
had aristocratic hankerings which were not easily dismissed.
The Scots
A single profound observation on the nature of t\\e Scots barely
succeeds in fully characterising the people. "The Scotch seem to m
to .Tst drunk at very unseasonable hours." (1|72) It is interesting to
note an attempt at Ur^ness, especially when it falls within the
inordinately heavy pattern in which the novelist usually wrote.
Hawthomian humor is rarely if ever funny in a pure sensej frequently
it cloaks a veiled moralism. Almost invariably it seems to be a grim
laughing at human foibles— not out of malicious pleasure, not always
for edification, but simply because they do exist.
The French
France proved itself a disappointment. The climate, the filth,
and the rapid-speaking Jl-enchraen were disconcerting. Jlawthome had
23sohneider, The History of American Philosophy, p. I]i2.
211
naively hoped to coiwerse with the l^aichmen in tJ^ir OHn t(Migue— •
French was the one fcareign language wiiich he could read with skill—
but he soon realiaed tiiat this was not to be# He never tapped the
spirit of Francej he did not claiia to imderatand her people.
"But a Fr^chiaan is aa different from a Qegmffk, as quicksilver
fron lead. It is ijapossible to HSke a saciiine of him." (1*73) If
Bmiithxxme knew the French nature but poorly, he knew the Gwraan not at
all. The ab\indance of art pieces i»*iich JP^rance had to offer was
soia©«1iat intriguing* '^Tmily, I have no i^nspetliies towards the ftench
^oplej their ^es do not win laine, nor do their glances laelt and
ndngle with mine* But they do grand and beautiful things in the
architectxiral wayj and I am grateful for it«*'(li7lt) Finally, the
JTeochoan's nature is elevated far above tost of the drab St^lishnan.
"Svery Frenchraan is probably nwre of an artist than one ianglishtnon in
a thousand." (U75) The best that may be said for the spars© conaoBntary
on the Fraich nature is that it is well-pliraa©d| at its worst it ie
trivial, prejudiced, and extremely cursory.
ThB Italiana
"It is veiy singular, the sad eiTfcrace with -which Rome takes
possession of the soul.*(h76) "Side by side with the massiveness of
the R<»an Past, all matters tliat we handle or dream of nowad^s look
evanescent and visionary alike." {ii77) Hawthorne Altered imperfectly
into the spirit of Italy. He came to but a partial understandinp; of
the Italian natiire. For the sost part, the coramentaiy on Italy is
concerned with art objects and places of interest rather than with the
212
people theraselvea. Then too, Hawthorne' a knoirledge of Italy waa
llraited to a sort of vague feeling which was itaelf incapable of being
auccinctly formOated. It is indeed difficult for a traveler in a
foreicn land to comprehend Tr5.th any certainty the inner conatitution
of his host peoples. At best, he nay iiope for the oatabllahmsnt of a
aysipathetic bond between himself and the strangers about hiia,
£>specially is this true when a person travels late in life, long alter
the characteristics of his ovm national nature have firmly settled in
his being. However mich the nature voyager may desire entrance into
the hearts of a foreign people, he remains, tlirough the solidity of his
past experifflice, a stranger.
In light of the superficial but bulky barrier separating an
observer from the nature under surveillance— regardless of the
individual's lengtli of contact ^rith that nature— it is reaarkable that
one nonages to characterize a nation to any true depth. Hawthorne
succeeded in one or two instances. He became aware, for example, of
the discrepancy between American and Italian piiilanthrojy,
(An Italian, indeed, scldon dreane of being pirilantluropic,
except in bestowing alms aiTJong the paupers, who appeal to his
beneficence at every step; nor does it occur to hL^i that there art
fitter modes of propitiating Heaven than by penances, pilsrlTages,
and offerings at shrines. Periiaps, too, their system has its
share of moral advantages; thenr, at all events, cannot iTell txride
thexas elves, as our own more energetic benevolence is apt to do,
upon sharing in the counsels of Providence and kindly haloing out
its otherwise is^ii-acticable designs. (U7v/))
Perhaps the one raoat piercing observation deals with the fact that
falsehood seeajs quite native to an Italian.
i But Italian asseverations of any questionable fact, lum^ver
true they may chance to be, >iave no ^/ritness of their triath in the
213
faces of those w!>o ntter them. Their words nre spoken ivith strange
earnestness, and yet do not vouch for themselves as condng from ainy
depth, like roots drasm cut of the substance of the soul, with soaie
of the soil clinging to thoa. There is always a something
inscrutable, instead of frankness, in their eyes. In short, they
lie so much like truth, and speak truth so rauch as if they were
tellinn a lie, that their auditor suspects himself in the vrroag,
whether he believes or disbelieves themi it being the one thing
certain, that falsehood is seldOTn an intolerable burden in the
tenderost of Italian consciences, (1*79))
Any attend to characterize a people on the basis of their
uniqu©iess is doosjed to failure* Since huiaan nature is &v&xy9ttk&re
alike at all times, those rojaax^s flfaich wotild establish subtle
distinctions bcrti*^ various peoples are as disputable as a boundary
line itself. National iiatures are invariably depicted in tersm of
differences, btit the basic sirailaritlos -Rhich undmrlie these surface
lineasrents are infinitely ajore eigjiificant. The life pattern of which
Hawthame wrote aK>lied to all mankind. The natioaal traito granted
to various peoples belcMog to a differeat and laaaer level of thought.
Although the novelist succeeds reasonably well in msfcinc distinctiont
on a national t®sis, he evidences a proficient talent rather than a
profound one. He displaors his jaind at work on a laore prosaic level-
on a level where raany other writers, Irving, Etoeraon, and Heiry Janes
among them, have equaled or stirj»ssed him. Even ti^en he tujmed from
foreign shores to his native laid, Hawthorne's ability to characteria©
on a national basis wes not coraraensurate with his other talaits.
The Americans
There can be little doubt that Hawthorn* held a limited
understanding of Ixis own nation. Svsn though he was proud of America
at large— both in the principles wMch prescribed its va^ of life, and
2lk
in thoir loss perfect social and political actualization—he .vas a
regionalist in his thinking. The IVilted States was too xmlimited n
piece of territory' for one person to eisbrace. ilawthome felt that the
nation and the poopls had no tn;e unity, and tiiat sovereignty rishtOy
belonged to the individual state or re-ion. Aiaerica's vastness, in
.viiich Walt V/hitman found one heartbeat, abat^hod and composed Ilwrthonui.
The TO-iter's oarly obsei^ations en i-oaerica sparkle with a
strong flaw of pride in that 'aoral strength w!xLch was capable of
absorbing and correcting the entering gush of forei£?i hmianity.
^^J^^'^^ cheering, also, to reflect, that notliing short of
rlf^l^ ?f*'^?'^f°'^ '"^"^^"^ *^ strengtli of moral influences,
diffused throughout otit native landj-that tlae stock of home-br^
^tUG 18 large enough to absorb and neutralize so much of foreign
yet by an almost inevitable necessity, proinoto the welfare of the
countiy that receives tliem to its bosoia.(U8o)
America is a land in which workable poUtical idoala sirring from a
solid, uti.Utarian laorality. On ot.her occasions, a pei-verted
patriotism was capable of provoking an aristocratic and bicoted
declaration against foreigners, "Nothing is so absolutely abominable
as the sense of freedom and equaUty, pertaining to an Aaerican,
grafted on the laind of a native of any other countiy in the world. I
do IlATo a naturalized citizenj nobody has a right to our ideaa, unless
bom to thoni.»(|;3l) Taere aro portentous indications that Hawthorne
was something of an "American Firster." He seldon leaped to the
defense of racial or religious rnlnority groups. Notwithstanding the
democratic principles to which he pledged hiiaaelf , a strange form of
aristocratic prejudice continuously made itself known.
21^
"Wo Amoricans are t'.ie best people in the world j —'but it is a
poor vcrld at that«"(i|02) There was no delusion that Amorica had
achieved a Utopia 7dth her fom of govemnwrrt, but merely that she
excelled ^hen cospared with other nations. Hesrthorn© did not believe,
alcKig vdth Bnerson and "S^Mtaan, that Araerica rras destined to go wi to
greater and greater heights* He foresaw that this nation, like all
others which history hft» recorded, would reach a cliiaax and an
inevitable decline. Perhaps h© feared t^at Aiaerica wiakl fall into
decadeiwe before she had realised her fullest potential* There wan no
denying that Arnerica was yet in a state of rawness— that her people
were not yet fastened to her soil* '*0h, that we eould Imve ivy in
^ffl©i^ical ^iiiat is there to beautify us, when our tinse of ruin eGra88."(li83)
Regioaalisa, aecesitiiated by prospects of a civil war, beoeane
a favorite theme*
I wonder that -se Americans love our country at all, it Iiaving
no limits and no caienessj and "Brihen joxi try to laake it a uiatt^r of
the heart, everything falls array except one's native State] neither
can you seiae hold of that unless you tear it out of the tMon,
bleeding and qtdvering.diBit)
In 1861, Maarthome wrote his publisher, Ticknor, the suprea^ ejcpression
of ids regionalistic sentiment. "Perhaps, hcruperver, I shall have a new
Roiaance ready, by the tiu^ Mea- ajgland becoaee a se^parate aetion— «
consuiaraation I rather hope for than otheindse."'^'* In the same year.
Hawthorn© informed Horatio Bridge of the delight which he felt in the
dissolution of the Union* "Whatever happens next, I must sfiQT that I
rejoice that tho old Unicai is saashed. V^e never were one people, and
QiiCaroline Ticknor, Hasythomo and His Publisher , p* 256.
216
never r««13y had a country since the Constitiition was fcrraGcT,"^^ The
Civil war was interpreted as a natural occxirrence in a country which
had tried to fona a union of heterogeneous ref^ona. Although he was a
loyal Not aielander, iianthome respected the sovereign power of the
several states be;-ond his region.
In the vast e:ctGnt of our ccuntxv, — ^toc vast by far to be
taken into one small huiaan heart, —^we inevitably lijidt to our
State, or, at fartiiost, to our cm section, tnat Rontinent of
physical love for the soil w5iich renders an Ehglishiaan, for
exainple, so intenseli^ sensitive to the dicnity and i?ell->>cinG o{
his little island, that one hostile foot, treading anywhere upon
it, would make a bruise on each individual breast. If a man Iwes
his own State, therefore, axid is content to be ruined with her,
let us siwot hin, ir vfn can, but alio-.? iiini an honorable burial in
the soil he fights for.(li85)
Fl-eedoms trtiich this country had come to take for granted were
pointed to 7.1th pride. "But with wliom is an Araerican citizen entitled
to talce a liberty, if not with his own chief njasistrate?"(U36) At
the sarK time that the excellences of the A^jerican ss'starj wore called
to the fi-ont, its deficiencies did not go unnoticed, "There never
existo<l any other goveiTuaent against vihlch treason was so easy, and
could defend itself by such plausible arguments, as against that of
the United States." (1^87) In spite of the numerous weaknesses which
democracy mi^b have, Hawthorne preferred it to all oth«r forms of
gov«tt7iroent.
The unthinking patriotism of earlier years was strongly
modified by the unnatural adoption of a cosrwpolitan attitude. In
cominc to admire Dngland, Hawthorne became increasingly aware of
^^Horatio Bridge, Personal Recollections , p. I6p.
217
Anjeric«'s orudeness. He deridecl, vrith some Justification, the American
travelers with trlicn he was tfirown in contact # '*.An /^aorlcan, be it salA,
soldoR turns Ids best side outormoat ahroad.} and an obs^irvor, who has
liad much opporturdty of seeiiig the figta*o which the^ nalce, in a foreign
ccuntr:,^, docs not so siaich •minder that thear*® shcwild be a severe
criticisn on thoir manners as a 2X)ople."(li88) In a letter to Ticknor,
ti^ pscudo-soj^isticated, European attitude I3 more pronotmced. "I
wish I xfere a little nore patriotic { but to confess ihe truth I had
rather be a sojourner to anor other country tlian return to acr own* The
United States are fit for taany excellerrb purposes, but thc^ certainly
are not fit to live in.'*^^ ^ lo^9$ llawthome had been so long in
arigland that a strange cosiaopolitan d;>''Q Imd b^iai to color wliat were
essentially provincial fibers*
Froro an Araerican's viewpoint, a severely strained relationship
exists between himself and the Shgliahraan. "Nevertheless, it is
undeniable that an Anerican is continually thrown upon his national
antagonism by some acrid quality in the moral atmosphere of
aigland.**(ii8P) "/oi Aiaerican is not very apt to love the English
people, as a whole, on whatever length of acquaintance." (l}90)
riawthome held a low opinion of the general populace of any nation-
America included, /iuierica's went of a culttiral hsritase had a
chastening effect, and the realisation that America must still tvum to
Bncland for elegance in art was sorely lamented. "But, alas I our
philosophers have not yet taiight uo what is best, nor have our poets
^^Caroline Ticlawr, Hawthorne and His Publisher , p. 21ii,
213
aung us Tfhat is bcautirullcst, in the Icuid ol lilc that ..o 2U3t Icadj
and tlxcrefora Tre atill read tli. old :Jngaa3ii ^rtsdor., and iaarp upon the
ancient strines.«(!,5l) xIa«rthorne felt the n.ed for a strong native
voice in America. Perhaps he in^uld have agreed with Si^son in
demndins the apiDoaraiicc of a -.alt v;hitaan on the A.i,erican scene.
At tlBies, IlaiTthornc evidenced a sho<3' apati^ foi- national
concerns. This lack of interest in national affairs aay r^vc stemmed
fro;n a deepljr set provincialism. ^ 7 Lbre probab:ijr, it should be
credited tc subtler orxgii.3. liations are destined to evolve, under
providential suidance, at a slou and stead;, rate ;«iich lacrtal aian w
neither lessen nor accelerate. Then too, national natures and nations
thenaelves are of relatively nxnor ii:gx>rtance in that tuey exist as
entities orOy in terns of distinctions ^ch have no internal or
spiritual depth. Though Ii«vthorne, as a traveler, was almost forced
to recognize national natures, and thougli he recorded th^a with an
aiaost mechanical skill, his heait was not in tho matter, for
iiairthome's principal cancems had charted a different and deeper
course, iihile man tho national being v«is of sorae interest, the
individual ^-in :-ds relaticnsidp to hinsclf , his society, and his
God— proved a much niore intricuinr; subject.
The l^a-itans
One group of peoples, distinrruished by religious rather than
"jHenj^ j^yjj^g^ jigythornc (London, IC7?). Jacies' bioia^ao^rv
ImoT '"" that Hairthorr^e was essentially ^nci^Stis
21S
national boundaries, ccoain-l^^ elicited cl qyii^jatliGtic ivapcnse Xroo
Hawthorne. Tlie Frritan era xfc^ ono of siibctance and solidity.
It was ST. a^e yrhcn v:hz.t T,-e call talent Aod far less
consideration than now, but the laasslve aateriala which produce
stability aivi di^^iit:- of character a crca^ deal :.Toro. Hie people
poasessed, by hereditary right, the quality of reverence; which,
in their doGCoi^.dontc, if it curvive at all, c:dGt3 in smaller
proporticxi, md with a vastlj^ dindnished force, in the seaection
and B3ti?note of i:ubllc ncn. The c':ianzc laay be for ^cod or evil,
and is psrtly, perhaps, for both.(h92)
Puritanisms helped to set the tone for America. Tiie bustling mergy of
the Puritan in trar and eoiamerc© prepared the way for Ben;Jasn.n Franklin
and the /bnorican ideal of success. Yet beneath the external vigor of
the Rtritan fathers there .abided a settled raoraMty founded upon a
sriffl recognitiMi of life's harshness.^ "Tlieir iiroediato posterity,
the generation next to the early emigrants, wore the blacJcest shade of
Puritanism, and so darkened the national viaaae with it, tliat all
sub8©q»-T©nt years have not sufficed to clear it up. S© have y«t to
learn again the forgotten art of gayety.''(ijS»3)
Despite their ctemnoss, the Piiritans irore quite huraan at
heart.
Had the;^- followed their }iereditarj' taste, the llm England
settlors would Iiave illuetratecl all -ve^jtc cf public i::5>ortanco by
bonfires, banquets, pageantries and processions. Nor ^"ould it iiave
been irrpraoticable, in the observance of oajestic cerer»nies, to
combine ndrthful recreation with, solermity, and givu, as it were,
a grotesque end brilliant embroideiy to tnc great robe of state,
which a nation, at such festivals, puts on.(Ii9U
"But it is an error to suppose that our grave forefathers—though
accustomed to speak and tMnk of h-imm existence as a state merely of
'^^Porry iaXLer, The Mew .^-land lajid. p. 37,
220
trial and yrarfare, and though unfeignodly prepared to sacrifice goods
and life at the behest of duty-nade it a matter of conacience to
reject such means of comfort, or even luxuiy, as lay fairly within
their grasp.-d^^S) In religion, however, the Puritans displayed a
strength-^hich Plawthome admired— in their preference for an austere
siraplicity. "The Puritans showed their strength of ndnd and heart, by
preferring a sermon of an hour and a half long, into which the
preacher put his whole soul and spirit, and lopping away all these
externals, into which religious life had first gushed and flowered,
and then petrified." (1^) If a people may be elevated above the rest
of humanity on the basis of outer or apparent characteristics of their
group, the Puritans deserve such elevaticai. But in torms of human
nature, the Puritans are seen to be susceptible to those same failings
which have kept man a constant companionsliip whenever he night
congregate.
A few scattered reflections nowise represent the true nature
of the Puritan people. Since the novelist had personified the very
spirit of Puritanism in his art, there was little need for his
reflecting on concepts so richly and fully presented in fiction. It
is quite evident, moreover, that Hawthorne respected the Puritans.
In their moral fixedness he discovered a strength for dealing directly
with life rarely equaled in other peoples.
Nwr Bagland
However well Hawthorne may have understood his ancestral land,
his observations on the New Ihgland people are quite shallow. "The
221
New-Qiglandesrs, as a peojixle^ are not apt to retain a revengeful sense
of injtiry, and nowhere, perhaps, coiad a politician, however odious in
his power, live raore peacefully in Ids nakedness and disgrace. "(Ij??)
A love for New England is obvious, but the reasons beliind that love
are not clearly given. "New Englarwi is quite as large a Itiap of earth
as w heart can really take in."(iiS>8) Noraally, the reflections on
I-Jew laagland's quality are in a general and rath^ traditicmal manner,
"lirhen a Yankee is coarse he is pretty stire to b© vulgar too." (1^99)
"Yet there would be a less striking contrast between Southern and
Hew-Bngland villages, if the fonrier were as much in the habit of using
white paint as we are. It is prodigiously efficacious in patting a
bright face upon a bad jaatter."(500)
Similarity of KatiEreg
Whatever llorbhorne purported to isrite about, he was of
necessity writing within the fiwunswork of his p«:«stmal jMlosoplQr. An
atter^ at characteilsjing naticmal x»txires was accordii^ly dooraed to
failure. In truth, in li^t of the Hawthomian philosopher, a
funda»Maital and final recognition in regard to all national natures
was necessary. "Indeed, I doubt whether there be anything really
worth recording in the little distinctions between one nation and
anotherj at any rate, after the first novelty is over, new thlngg
equally conBnonplace %lth the old." (501)
All in all, the coirmentary on national natures is almost
wliolly destitute of ideas. This is not to say that it is without
value, or that Hawthorne is any less successful than many anothesr
222
writer in portrnyinc national character. Indeed, the observations are
significant in that the/ present a contrast to the more abstract
workings of the riavfchome ndnd. They show, also, the liMtaUons
i»hich provincialism and prejudice may i:npose. They delicately hint
at Hawthorne's aristocratic hankerings. Finally, they convcry the fact
that Rawfchome could be quite like other uriters at tiiaes, no better
or no wrse, in skillfully presenting surface distinctions. ^Vhile the
depiction of national natures is not unsuccessful, it stands priaarily
as an interesting contraat to the n»re rneaninsful conception of huaan
nature rather than as a vital portion of the Ha^homian thought
pattern.
CHAPTER X
eaDGRsss, dmom, kjotherrdod, ahd war
Ihen the dominant concepts which Il3JTthome*s observations
illustrate are considered as a unit—that is, the life coBpstmd into
which nan is Iwrn, the iraraitigable forees pl^'-ing upon hia, and his
own iinperfect nature— the novelist's conclusions regarding the
lindtations or possibilities of aortal life are nsore readily understood*
"Realities" preseait before birth— sin, providence, the lixysical
compound— combine with perpetually functioning religious, social, and
domestic forces to fix the course of manlcind within a binding patteirn*
Hawthorne's opinion in the various thought fields-*»Ti^ch constitutes
his personal philosophy— foreordains and necessitates whatever
theorizing he nay offer concerning the possible attainaerrbs of earthly
life. The Har,'thoniian specxdation on these attainments and on the
limitations i^ich detez^Ttlne them tends to crystallise Ms philosophy,
Thourjh the observaticas on each constituent clement of the
thou;;ht >ittern are conclusions of a sort in that they clearly define
Hawthorne's orientation to that specific subject, and though thej' are
mutually dependent rather than exclusive, the meditative cornaentary on
progress, reforn, brotherhood, and v/ar briiiga tiie seendr^gly divergent
phases of thought into tiieir sharpest Eingle foctis. The exposition on
these topics nay be understood only in terns of the pattern as it has
223
22Ji
been developed to this point. Once that pat.ei-n is accepted,
liwrthome's stateaents appear both natural and inevitable.
1
PROGRESS
Ihe word "progress" evokes a variety of responses. It may
call to ndnd the bettering of man's phcrsical environment-^re
abundant food, shelter, and clothing, a greater choice of conveniences,
a lonser life span^-in truth, all of the visible and measurable
iioprovements irhich man's ndnd has effected since the beginning of ti«e.
Second, progress inay be thought of in terms of man hi^elf : the men of
the present are intrinsically superior as moral being, to the men of
the past. Both man's pliysical welfare and his am nature are moving
toward perfection. Too often, progress as measured in terms of a
physical advancement is confused with a true or spiritual progress of
humanity. If man now leads a longer and more refined life— one
clustered with material conveniences-it is assumed that he leads a
better one. Hawthorne was not confused on this score, for he refused
to associate the material with the spiritual. In conformity with his
expressed views on sin and human nature, he could not believe in a
true progress-that man himself and the "realities" with which man
must contend were anjirise improving.
In 1836, Hawthorne held faith in progress in the first sense,
the popularly accepted one. "It is not, we hope, irreverent to say,
that the Creator gave us our world, in a certain sense, unfinished,
and left it to the ingenuity of man to bring it to the highest
225
perfection cf ^^iiich final end physical things are susceptible. "(5X)2)
liiterial pi'ogress is possible, but the perfectibility of mortal life
lies beyond Ean's jaeager ability. Vsn, as the instigator of his own
advanceHcnt, betters his -worldly lot and thereby creates a form of
progress. !niis does not is^" that human nature is as easily mended.
It was not long, moreover, before Hav.'thomo v;as to lose his faith in
the possibilities of material progress.
"Rest, I'eat, thou weary worldl for to-!iK>rrow« s round of toil
axKi pleasure v/iU be as wearisoiae as to-day's has beenj yet both shall
bear thee ons'/ard a day's march of eternity." ( 503 ) lean's world is
moving forward quite G^aduallyj each nev? da^' is better than its
predecessor in that it adds its bit to the total heap of j^terial
progresB* Advancerasnts are so slo's^^ln coming that they laay not be
measured by the individual eye, 'Thus gradually, by silent and steady
influences, are great changes wrought." (50U) Pfflrhaps in a lifetime a
jaan raay observe no change, yet a steady and supposedly forward
evolution of life is insisted upon. The eiror lies in anticipating
that any one man or a:^ one age maj'' cither effect or vri-tness a
T!(holesale repatching of life's fabric.
Ifeiterial pai^gress, frequently identified with true advancMient,
carries vdth it a cocgiensatory evil. '*It is a great revoluticm in
social and domesrtic life, and no less so in the life of a secluded
student, this almost universal exchange of the open fireplace for the
cheerless and ungenlal stove. "(505) "In one way or another, here and
there and all around us, the inventions of manlcind are fast blotting
226
the plctureaque, tho poetic, and the beautiful out of humn life."(?06)
A stove, taken as a sjTitool of nraterialistic and utilitarian values,
crassly replaces that which my be nore aesthetically satioiying. The
loss of the fireplace night ttqII be interpreted by a ron«ntic or
sensitive person as a destruction of the beautiful. ?«ch new item, as
a part of the totnl scho'ae of procrens, replaces an older itenj -vhich,
despite its lack of irtilitarian norit, nay have a greater intrinsic
value from a spiritual viesrpoint. Inventions, nechanical in?irovoraents,
often offend aesthetic sensibilities by their very coarseness and
nenness •
Each age, in spite of tho debased qualities which it may
evidence, has a right to a niche in the eventful stream of progress.
Ilawbhome had coine to think of procress as consistinc of rnere
"difference" rather than "iraproveraent." Vithin this special
interpretation of the word, each age progresses beyond the preceding
one in that it develops contrary characteristics. The fact that the
newer age may be more sordid in many respects does not sitvnify that
prccress has not taken place. "The earnest life of to-day, however
petty and homely it rnay be, has a rirht to its place alongside of what
is left of the life of other daysj and if it be vulgar itself, it does
not vulgarize the scene." (50?)
The heart, Hawthorne's favorite medium, provides the only
entrance into spiritual truths. Since its inessaGO is constant for all
men at all times, it acts as an agent of conservatism. Man's
intellect, linked with coldness and pride, is extremely erratic and
227
ingjeri'Qct in tiiat it laay Xead Imn ia de-wious Odrectioas. Tiie operation
ox the iiUJid, since it has no claisa on spiritiulity, cfixuiot iiava
stability.
If laaiiJciiid -ware all intellect, they v/ould bo coritjaiually
changinf;, so that one ago would bo mitirely unlike another. The
gi'Qat coiiservativo is the heart, v^iiich reaoins the sarao in all
ages5 so that coinmon-places of a thousand years' standing are as
effective as ever. (^03)
ilawthorne, by iGi^S, had growii fond of raakiag th© rather
conventional past-present coagjarison* If this tt;ndeiicy aa^- be takon
as a liiark of increaaing age atid coiiservatisia, it m^ equally well be
interpreted as a longer and tdser look at tiae's total program.
It takes dosm one's overYieoninc opi:iion of tho present time,
to see how wzny kinds of beaixfcy and raa^ificence have heretofore
existed, and are now quite past away and xorgottsn; and to find
tliat we— who suppose that, in all raatters of teste, our age is the
very flower-reason of tia©— tmt we are poor and seagre as to many
things in which they iirere rich. Taere is nothing gorgeous now.
Vie live a very naked life, (i>09)
The question is whether or not there 1ms been an^'' prepress at all. Is
it not true that otlxer ages have reached greater iieights than the
present one is capable of achieving? iilodera life, wJiich appeared to
Kawthorn© as overly siechaniaed, led hiiti to laj^nt the decrease in
beauty which seemed iaevitab3;5r to £ollm the wake of mechanical
progress.
"Thought crov/3 mouldy, -.hat was good and nourisliing food for
the spirits of one generation affords no sustenance for the next, "(510)
The necessity for raoving onward, the noe<i for a continiial adoption of
the new and discarding of the old is undeniable. Each age has a
peculiar temper, and if it is to succeed in being itself it nust cast
228
off outmoded parj^jhemiOia of the paat. Ifen must maintain a steacfy
and incessantly changing fonrard motion ..ithout once glancing back.
Failure to move, to change, to march into neir and different regions,
invites stagnation and decay. In many ways, the concept of process
necessitates self-deception on humanity's part. It is deiaanded of man
that he participate in the illusion of progress, just as it is demanded
that he participate in the artificiality of society. But it is not
necessary that he blind himself to tho actual nature of those forces
of wiiich he is a captive.
"Vie soon perceive that the present day does not engross all
the taste and ingenuity that has ever existed in the ndnd of man, that,
in fact, we are a barren age in that respect." (511) In returning to
the then-^-now theme, Ha-."thome elaborates the conviction that his
age is a particularly arid one-that it lacks the rich and lavish
qualities of past times. "The world has ceased to be so magnificent
as it once was." (512) Yet in the same breath with which he affirms a
lack of actual improvement in life, the novelist presents his supreme
message of progress.
«nH II;^Tf '/^ ^^ ""''^ ""^^ *° ^^ gathered from these petty
S r^!i'?f circumstances, was, «Let the past alone: do nofseek
t° ^^ iui ^^°^ °" ^° ^^-^^^ ^ ^^^^^ things,-at all events,
that i^^Ln^^^^ ^^ t' r="^^ *^* *^^° ^^S^t W can ^eJS '
i2o i!^ LJ^*? ^^^ ^^""^^ *° ^^^ identical sliape7that you long
ago left behind. OnTrard, onward, onwardl"(5l3r
It is required that the new should replace tho old. There is no
insistence tliat the new be superior to the old, but merely th«t an
onward movement is mandatory. It is obUgatoiy for nan to keep moving,
to delude himself that he is lii5>roving. Above all is newness
229
indispensable if the individual is to escape being stifled by tradlticm
vhlch passes on the evil of past societies wiiile losing the good in
transit.
The cardinal piirpose of contonrporary lasmkind, as Hawthorne sar
it, was the furthering of a false scheme of progress*
It is the iron rule in our d^ to require asn object and
pur:^.ose in life. It laakos us all parts of a complicated sch®Rie of
progress, vrhich can only result in our arrival at a colder and
drearier region than we were bom in. It insists upon everybody's
adding soraewhat— a mite, perhaps, but earaed by incessant effort—
to an accumulated pile of usefulness, of Miich the only use will
be, to burdeai ovr posterity with even heavier thoughts and more
inordinate labor than our own. No life now wanders like an
unfettered stream; there is a raill-^^eel for the tiniest rivulet
to turn, v/o go all wrong, hy too strenuous a resolution to go all
right .(SHi^i
Ifen has lost his sense of values in an egotistical effort to posh
aliead at all cost. A|^)arent progression is often an actual decad«ice
in that it is Ejerely the heaping up of new and different rubbish*
Indeed, it laatters but little in the l<aig look whefchsr a laan shall
contend for or c^ainst progress j for all efforts at interfering with
matters bc^rond mortal control are ineffectual*
In one instance, iiawthome poses— in teiias of the pljQrsical
conditions of an individual life— Ms recurring distinction between
actual and apparent progress.
Republicffii as I am, I should still love to think that noblemen
lead noble lives, and tliat all t'ois statG]y and beautiful
environment nay serve to elevate them a little way above the rest
of us. If it fail to do so, the disgrace falls equally upon the
whole race of mortals as on theinselvesj because it proves that no
raore favorable conditions of existence would eradicate our vices
and weaknesses. How sad, if tfiis be sol (515)
A favorable natural environment does not always create a better man.
230
The Tfholo issue of progress U clouded ^th deceptions; for rianlcind is
prone to accept mterialistic botterlngs as true progress, .vhile failing
at the sane time to consider the moral aspects of the problem. \?ere all
mankind somehow cranted the luxurious comforts :*ich a nobleiaan aay
enjoy, there is no reason to believe that the intractable quality of
human nature would bo substantially modified. ?o the contrary, this
external rectification right well introduce coapensatoiy evils raore
dreadful than the ones it has replaced.
"As regards its Tlnor tastes, the ^rorld changes, but does not
Improve,- it appears to me, indeed, that there .have been epochs of far
more exquisite fancy than the present one, in natters of personal
omai^t, and such dcUcate trifles as we put upon a drawlng-roon
table, a inantel-piece, or a what-not. "(516) Repeatedly, Hawthorne
claims that procross consists of chance rather than inproveisent. Each
bit cf material gain trhich raanklnd earners unto himself maj- well be
balanced by a corresponding loss in spiritual values. "Nevertheless,
the world and indi^duals flourish upon a constant succession of
blunders." (517) Procress— when it comes at all— seldom followB the
desirrned schemes of mere mortals; it is fortuitous, lim is scarcely
capable of conceivinc an aim and carrying it through to success.
Providence takes pleasure in disrupting just such a project. Yet,
somehow the world moves onward.
In his most openly conservative statement, ilawtlwme admits
that the drea"i of progress provides him little personal satisfaction.
"Eveiybody can appreciate the advantages of going ahead; it might be
231
Tsell, oofflet lines, to think whether there la not a word or two to be
said ill favor of standing stiU or coing to sleep," (^8) In a letter
to longfellow, the conservative viewpoint is mde doubly clear. "I
have had enough of progress, Uow I want to stand stock still, or
rather to go back twenty years or soj and that is what I seem to Jiave
done in coiaing to £3xgljmd»^*^^ Havfbhomo never truly jsaintained faith
in pro-re ss. Be could not see tiiat hunsan nature had iapfoved, or that
it showed any indication of fxrturs isga-ovementi he did, however,
cherish an abstract hope that in^aroveEient loLght soraeday coiae.
Actually, all men and all ages have been very aiuch alilce, suad were it
not for nan's need for diversity, he raight on$oy liimself equally well
by standing still.
Late in life, Hawthorne voiced the expectation that humanity
night be gradually' evolvins to^rard a basic sijuplicity, ?/hich sugsests
in turn a movement toward the heart—for the two are invariably linked
in Ha\Ttho2irie's thought. "Those words, 'genteel* and 'lac^like,' are
terrible ones, and do us infinite nsischief, bijit it is because (at
least, I hope so) we are in a transition state, and sliall esaerge into
a higher aode of simplicity than has ever been kno?m to past ages. "(519)
Perhaps inan is on the laove army from an artificial order of life and
into a ssore spiritual one, but as yet tJiere are no mnifest indicationa
tliat tills is the case.
liawthome Iiad returned shortly before tds death to a faith in
Q^Saaaiel Longfellow, Life of H. W. Longfellow. II, 275,
232
Itt-ogrees vastly different froa tlie one he had held in IO36.
iiatuer tJum suc.i nonotopy of slug^isii ages, loitGrins on a
village-sreen, toilinc in hereditary fields, listening t^ the
parson 3 vrone lengthened through centuries in the i^raj- I.oman
church, let us welcome whatever change my cc«ne,-<;haSe of place,
sociaa. cui3tc2ae, polxtxc^ institutions, modes of worship,-
trusting that, if all present things sliall vanish, they iill but
'f'tJ^'i'^ lor bottor systeias, aiid for a Iiigher t.^e of aan to
clothe his life in them, and flin^ them off in turn. (520)
It is not so much that God gave man a '.vorld to perfect, but merely
that man raust keep moving about in that world. .«hen man progresses,
he must act on the assumption that the now is better than the old,
Althourrh such faith will not alwaj-s bo Justified, the necessity of
movement and difference, the necessity of escape from the aoldly
weight of the past, mandates an effort in its behalf,
Hawthorne's conception of "reality" forbade an optimiotic
belief in the perfectibility of mortal life. "He was too much of a
realist to change fashion in creeds. Time, experience— he is always
remembering—have created men as we find thaa, and very likely only
time and e:-T>erience can make them over into something different.»5>0
Indeed, the period of time in which a man lives is not necessarily
superior to a given past moment in history. Still, the Hawthomian
message is not one of retrogression. It does not propose that a man
should content himself with reveling in the glory of antique days.
It insists, instead, on the absolute necessity of forward movement.
It warns that change is the most that can be expected in the wa;^- of
progress, and that all chianges are not for the better. Nevertheless,
^Parrington, liain Currents. II, 14142.
233
ffiffii mist continue Ms rprandlose atteiapt, at irnprovcanent. IlnaHy,
ilawthorae laments the shortslshted association of natsrisl progres.<5
with actual prof^ress, for in this confusod identification 3aan deludes
no one but hl-aself , By ne0l«cti.ng the spirit^jial aspects of prccress,
man is apt to arrive in a region more dolefia tlian tlut fron which he
tmom
Hawthorn© was not easil;?- swept off his feetj h© wag ncyt one to
rebound to the bugle call nor follow the banner of sealous refonaers.
Active participation in reforsi aiov^ents novw tei^pted hia, for he mm
essesntially a conte^jrplatlve laan* Soiae j«ople, soasible ones at that,
slirink from any attai^od laedklling with life's well aet balance, for
the;' fear that such ejqjerimentation frequently brings aboxit a greatei*
destruction of good than supfai^ssion of evil* Hfflrfchorne waa auspicious
of narrow men, of fanatics, ^th their long petitions and unique
scheines for salving the world 'a sore spots. The naivete of those raen
Wao proposed to erase the earth's bl©raishes with swift fiaid war©
strokes, who planned to chance the life cospound, both ajiwsed and
frightened hirn.
Much of this disinterest, in refona jnay be credited to a general
lack of concern for the political activ3.ties of the day. "Nor does it
follow that his afcepticisra toivard reform resulted any raoro fi-oia apathy
or a imnt of humanitarian iuroulses thon fron ignorance."^ The daily
23ii
events of contor^porary life T7C3a:a iagjortant to Ilajrthorne mirOi' as th^
BjrTabolized ideas. Reform oovements, as they developed, saeiaed ovei-ly
concomed with rectiiying the outer or phenomenal situation, jliile
leavins tiie basic cause of the evil untouched— not tJiat aaii 7^:3
capable of chan^inc tiiat cause. Individual atta-apts at cont^ding
^Ith providential forces v. ere to be pitied i.i pz-oportion to their
sincerity. Reforu, than, is a vain, conTused, and nlsguided stragcle
c£ ran '3 intelloct to rcctif^r conditions which are whoUli' beyond man's
control.
"Cn the whole, I find inyself rather laore of an a!x>nt:loni5t In
fcelin- tlian in principle. ''(l>'21) ;a.tliou-h Ilatfthome was not a traitor
to trie Union cause, he could not keep rroa feeling that too much fuss
was being nade over a defect isliich only ti: >e could erase—in ti-uth, he
v^as not aroused by the slaveiy issue, Tho fervor -.rith which liis
sister-in-law, FJ.izabeth Peabody, pushed the cause of th^ abolitionistt
pro^/ed a constant irritant. In comentins on the abolitionist cause,
'lavrthome had written to LonjifelloTf that "There are a hundred !.iodes of
philanthropy in which I could blaze with intensor aeal."^ :<Tien
Longfellow took up slavery as a t2ieiae, liis novelist friend was not
iB5)re3sed with t2i€ poet's taste in subject natter. "I vaa never nore
surprised than at your writing poena about Slavery. I liave not seen
thien, biit have faith j.n their oxcollence; though I cannot conjecture
91\rlin i\trnor, "Jlavrthomo and Refonn," New Hhrq and iuarterlv.
XV (December 19h2), 702. * ^
^Sanuel Longfellow, life of H. W. Lonnfollow . H, 208.
235
.:;at sp<2CieG of excGlleiice it will bo# lou have never poetised &
practical subject liitherto."'^^ Slavery was looked upon as an evil
v.: -.carcely to be reiaedied by laaii's Teebl© eXXorts-, in due
'^'■"'-j V:.-xger useful, slavoiy woidd crusa^le beaeatii its oxm
weight. -vil tlicn, it is not ^rell for roan to laaddle in
prcvidesitial affairs.
One t^eakaess in all i-efor?a njoveEients appeara in the narromiess
of the rofoi'iaer biaself .
Then, again, though the heart be large, yet tlie ndnd is often
of such moderate dimensions as to be exclusively filled up with
one idea, .ai&a s. good raan lias lon^ devoted hlaself to a particular
kind of beneficence— to one species of refona— sia is apt to
becosne narrowed into tlio liraits of the ijetii virnerein lie treads, and
to fancy thsi^ is no other good to be done on earth but that
solfsacie good to ifnich he has put his hand, arid in the ve3:y juode
that best suits his cmi conc©ptions»(522)
A fanatical and single-^pairpofled reforriier becomes so wroui:;ht up over
the one that he fails to aee the saany. If a jnan m>u3.d aim at true
reform, he ratst listen to Ms heart and atteaipt a liiaitlecs good,
ratJier tlian content hiiHself vrith a special benefit. Reformers ere to
be identified with the aan of purpose who, in sacrificing his ^ole to
one aim, becoiaes a solitary and cold being. In effect, a reformer, in
liftinc up his banner, too frequ^itly steps beyond tlie circle of
huruonity and ttereby cuts iiiinself off from those w!ioa he would aid,
"But, alasi if reforriers r/ould midorcrtand tite spiiere in which
their lot is east thej/- must cease to look tiirou^^ pictured windows.
^3 lMd. , I, 2.50.
236
Tet the:r not only nso this medlwn, hvt rni-taJcc It frr the ?*ltest
s;mshine.''(.^23) A refomer seldom. If c-/er Icokr vpon "reality"? J-c
contents himself vdth rearranjinc the sisrface mnifestatlons of evil
rlthoirt dlstwbinf: 5.ts Internal roots. He makes the same rdrtalre as
those nen w'lo irovld r.osrarf pronress only in terms of tanclblos. In
11-ht of the optiTrdstic, Torfectibilitarian, ner-thoughtist, and
rcforrtlst environment Into rhlch Itewthcme novcd so warily, egpoclally
c'-xtrir- his residence at Concord, he felt It necessary to reconsider
rhat he beUeved, and. to state in iin-lstakable terms ho*r v;ronE the
contemporaiy r^orld ^s in his mderstandinc.^^ Reformers, thou-h tlioy
actue^lly effect but little, -.^ork upon a danceroua delusion in assurAng
that a inDlleeble Torld mra5.ts th.eir hand. »No sagacious inan ttIII long
retain his sagacity, if he live excl'.-sively amon- reformers and
procresslve people, Trfthout periodicallly rstrmj.xs into the settled
s7,^eTn of thirrs, tc correct hinself b./ a new observation from that
old stand-point," (5?2ij)
If one evil is removed, another rapidly fills the vacancy.
Any man-made drea-n of altering that rrhich is by its vory nature
unalterable hartois toward failure.
• + "^^ l"" "" *"^^"c^i i" a^-1 historj^, of the hv^j^ ttlll and
7? i !f ;f' ^"- perfected any great rnoral reform by nethods which
it QdarTfccti to t.'iat end; but the pronrosfi of tho r-orld, at cve-r^r
step, leaves some evil or Twon^ on tho nath behind it, which the
wisest of TTjinkind, of their own set wirpose, couAd never have
found the TTsy to rectify. (?25)
p. U22,
^«Mark Van Doren, ed., Tlie li^st ci iiatrthome (New York, 1951},
237
Life's eoapoimd retains its original f^a^osz in thv face of m;:3's
i!M>st violc-nt designs at renovation. It is for this roascn tlmt
L_ ■ -. ..TvS arc better iGft -ondone* Since ti^ne roform
B-jfiesi's lii^hl^' ii„ii:3rol)a:-'le, c:sn's insufficient cxearticKs arc apt to
a, ■•■-:■ 'R'^^ly worsen the situation r/nich he lias chosen to remedy.
-: idea of total reTorra or eradication strongly appealed to
.-:.., . . .ii -.'.'e quit a housoj, v?e are c^qjoct-Gcl to r£il':c it clears
for t; . : -upantj— Mi;-' ouglit we not to leave a cleai vjoi-ld for
tlic conin/^ rcnei'atiDn*"(>26) Ic^aj-2^'-, each genoration should be
aU.ov^ed to move fomYard unencumbered* Actuallj', hovcevcr, this 1': not
to ■> . ■-,■■-: .--...-iQ foarod the as® and crowbar of the reformer} he
...:.„ ■ . - "L-intonded renovations were r.ot only ineffectual, but
dangerous* "I>at the liaud that re-ncvdlec Ij always r^re seen" , .-
t-i...:. u;;c..t ,.■ ;.c.i destto^Si^iSZl)
.1\: :-..-;, ^... an over-all ref orsaaticn of Iruaan natui ^ v/'^iild bo
welcomed, woi'o it possible, ap«3cific crusades dealing orOy -vdth the
outsr 5j]-iado\vs ox evil are ridiculous xton the outset* "Tlie
teir^Jcrance-riforiJiera unquestional-l;/ dci^dv© their cossidssion from tlie
-Ivinc 'oueIic..i:cc, but Jiavo a-./. - -ake:\ fuUy into its
counsels*" (523) llavrfchome coiild find no juati^cation for a gonial
optist;'.:: " joiild ass.ino roan to be perfectible* He found no
comfort in the sux-erficial md narrow projects of th© refonaersj in
fact, he cringed from tiiem* Reform can be effective only wiien it
blots out tlio old ■svil} wh«n it becomes eradication or paalficaticffl
rather than a mere rearranging* Only deatli, firo, and flood can vfork
238
8uoh a miracle.
.^x^*T °^ ®° wretched a state of things, ve accept the
ancient Deluge not merely aa an insulated phenonenon, but aa a
periodical necessity, and actoowledge that nothing less than such
a g^eral washing-day could suffice to cleanse the slovenly old
world of its n»ral and material dirt. (52?)
Hawthorne was scarcely warmed by the fiery spirit of reform
iiM.ch consumed the literary- folk of New Jhgland. "Profoundly
skeptical about all social reforms, convinced of the innate sinfulness
of the human heart, he seems to regard almost any form of unusual
ambition or achievement as a syn^jtom of pride and lack of love. "^5
It is not so much that nan should remain passive, should dread action,
but rather that he need awaken to the dangers involved when, in
relying too heavily on his intellect, he oversteps mortal prerogatives.
Visionazy delights, cloud wanderings, and a belief in man's
perfectibility ran counter to the pattern which had grown rigid in
Hawthorne '8 mind, "His amusement over the Brook Farm venture, his
attitude toward slavery and the Civil War, and his 'laissez faire'
theories in general, reveal him as a hardened realist.''5'6 i^ can be
seriously doubted wliether the schemes of reformers bring about
anything worthwhile. Not only are the results of reform questioned,
but the effort itself is looked upon askance. Plawihome was
suspicious of men vdth a devouring causej he was distrustful of
<;««• -. f^"f ^ff^ord Parkos, »Poe, Hawthorne, lielvillei An Essay in
Sociological Criticism," Partisan Review . XVI (February 19U9), 161.
^^chneider. The I-uritan lUnd. p. 260.
239
visionaries and zealots} above all, he was skeptical of man's ability
to alter life. He saw that ain had nwre perman^ce than those who
TTOiild fight aeainst it. He realized, too, that a superintending
larovidence held firm control, and that to neddle with its rdnistrations
was to invite disaster. Since Hawthorne did not believe in progress,
it is unreasonable to request his trust in reform— (which is itself
but the ineffectual instrumait of progress.
3
BK)THERBOOD
Hawthorne's theory of brotherhood has caused such consternation.
Bi(^raphers have pointed to it as evidence of optimism on the
novelist's part, Thou^jh Hawthom© professed the principle of
brotherhood, though h© ranked it anrong the most praiseworthy of human
appetites, he did not find the principle at work in the rhenoaenal
world. Hunianity is drawn together hy the spiritual bond of the hunan
heart. An intelligent humanity should acknowledge this brotherhood
and act according to its dictates. HaEwthome intensely desired the
comsuimnation of this ideal. "And the truth ^diich JIawthome perceived
perhaps more profoundly than any other was that of the brotherhood of
njan. By inheritance and training he tended toward exclusiveness; but
both his heart and his intellect shovred him the siiallowness of such a
scheme of existence.''^? Unfortunately unselfish examples of the
doctrine of brotherhood in operation w?re rare^j- if ever observable in
89,
5*7 Julian Hawthorne, "Hawthorne's Philosophy,"* Century. XXXII,
zho
vaartal life.
The feeling for brotherhood is intuitive. In essence, it is
little different ft-om inan's desire for society. Unlike that desire,
the appetite for brotherhood has not yet been sxirrendered to an
artificial actmUzation. In truth, the principle is rarely acted
upon at all. nth the social appetite as a foundation, nan, working
through his intellect, constructs an artificial order. To the urge
for brotherhood, which is cloae^or allied with the social appetite, r^
pays little h«ed. Thus, while the principle of brotherhood haa within
it the force for an inneasurable good, njar.'s nature denies that force
an opportunity to prove its worth.
«^e there any two Hving creatures who have so fev. sympathies
that they cannot possibly be fWend8?"(530) Concurrent with the
synpathetic bond connecting all humanity, there is inherent in the
very pattern of life a darker aspect of brotherhood.
t>,«f ^?h^ thouf^ts sadden, yet satisfy rcr heart, for they teach me
^TJint £?°''k''''1^"' ^''^' ^^^' weather-beaten hovel, Sy caU
!f hnf h . ? brother,-brethren by Sorrow, who must bel^ inmate
botht oJher Lr:!(53lr''''''^^ '" '''''' '-''' '^^ ^^ ^'-^
In sin and sorrow, man encounters the nost formidable levelers. There
are no exceptions, all men— no matter what their talent, rank, or
wealth— nmst, to a like degree, confront an inflexible life pattern
iihich directs the course of man, and is, in return, nowise shaped hy
him. Religiously speaking, man is of a brotherhood in that he shall
eventually dwell in a connnon spiritual realm no natter what his
material worth and circumstance in the earthier one.
2ia
Kasrthome nevei- hai'dened himself against the entreaties of his
fellow laenj he was a comparatively *ea^ touch" for beggars, or for
anj'-ono in distress. Contact v/ith humanity — the warn feoLing vrliich one
gets frora aiding his fellavr creatures — is assuredly wortiBrhile. "There
is so much want and wretchedness in the world, that we laay safely take
the word of any inortal, \!hesi they say they need oui- assistance; and
even should we be deceived, still the good to oxir selves, resulting
from a kind act, is worth Hsore than the trifle by ■R^ich we purchase
it. "{^32)
But the true faculty of doing good consists not in wealth nor
station, but in the energy and wisdon of a loving heart, tiiat can
syiapathlze with all mankind, and acknowledges a brother or a
sister in every unfortunate man or T/oman, and an own child in each
neglected orj*ian.(533)
Individual charity. Individual contact, is preferable to the thin,
cold efforts of organiaed groups. In an optindstic nroraent, Hawthorne
points out the ntssr to a good life, Tne acknowledgement of an abiding
and binding brotherhood with cme's fellow meai— a d^slaration from the
heart— stands as a starting point froTn which all manner of goodness
may afterwards flow.
It is possible, of course, for a man to so live that he not
only fails to advance, but somehow actually hinders, the onward course
of events. Yet in a greater sense, few men succeed in eluding, even
iiK>raentarily, the extensive ties of humanity. In his very existence,
man is forced to work within humanity's circle and contribute, in
spite of himself, to a form of prosress. Each individual has an
ordained function in tiiis life, ithether or not he chooses to assume
2h2
the duties of that function, ntill he frequant^ contributes,
not^thstanding his stubborn waywardness, to the progression of life.
-Hcnr many >rho hare deemed ther^selves a.Tta.onists will andle hereafter,
irhen they loolc back upon the world's vide harvest field, and perceive
that, m >^consclon3 brotherhood, they were helping to bind the
.elfsa^e sheafl«(53U All ™.n are reduced to an equal status by the
cor^^ound Into .n^ich they are bom. Distinctions for:ned upon material
criteria are neaningless beside this soleim truto.
Dispositions more boldljr speculative raay derive a stem
SrlT'^L?'^''; dir^ovcr,-, since there rLtlTe.ll^^'^t^
loir one. A -vTirier scope cf view, and a ^eer^r- iuX-h^ Zl
universe were thereby tmnbled hcad-l'one Inloo^o^Asf
-^t an Intlmte brotherhood is thia in which we dwell, do
^t we may to put an artificial re:TK>ten«s between the high creature
and the low onel»(536) Ifu:nan nature is invariable; life itself Is
equally constant. Only mterlal absurdities separate inan from nan.
"How superficial are the niceties of such as pretand to keep aloof!
I^ the Td,ole r,orld be cleansed, or not a inan or woman of us all can
be clean.«(537) Go where ho will, nan is fastened i^ a Icinship of
i«perfectibility to Ms fellow beincs. Aristocracy, or any other
apparent criterion of inequality, is but a fabrication of the
intellect. Different and better physical conditions do not bring forth
different and better nen.
If man would but reject the materialistic set of values to
which he now adheres, and take up spiritual ones, then m^ht he coine
2h3
Into a lasting brotherliood. The £rat©rzial bond odots, but It is
cccQtinually denied, for isaa is not yet alive to its pcssitdlitieB. He
persists in vwrking fclirougli lus debased and juasnificently inperfect
intellect, "'-ere ite once to rely fully on the heart, ihen and only
then could he expect a blossojaing of lo'otherhood* Need tor reform
would be past. Tnmx and only t^ian, would progreas, in a dQspei' sense,
have tak«a place.
Thare nay cQ:ae a tiine, even in this frorld, when we shall all
understand that our tendency to the individual appropriation of
gold and broad acres, fine houses, and such good and beautiful
things as arc equallir enjoyable by a nultitude, is but a trait of
iinperfectly developed intelligence, like the siagsleton's cupidity
of a penny. Itnen Vnat day daivns,— and px-obably not till then, —
I imagine that there ^vill be no more poor streets? nor need of
almshouses. (538)
Brotherhood, both as a principle and as an ideal, leavea littlo
to be desired. Once put into effect, it might well prove itself a
panacea ftx* manldnd's ills. The trouble is ttiat huiaanity seems
incapable of changing its ways* Instead of evidences of brotherhood,
one sees everywhere its veiy antitliesis* Ikvvthorne, wli®a tliinJang on
ma abstract level, tends toward optiraisra. Ti-je principle of
brotherhood, no matter how warjaly the novelist advocates it, reiaains
an abstract principle* V*hm he stops to look alxjut hin, v^en he stops
to study tlie scene from which all soimd obaervationa arise,
brotherhood, however laich raan Rd^t need it, is no longer evident.
The Lack of Brotherhood
Since ?nan is brutish in his desires, since sjnapatliy is not
present in his original nature, brotherhood, though noble in principle.
2hh
finds no actualization in life,
IJoat men— end certainly I coiad not arrays claim to be one of
t,ie exceptiona—have a natural indifference, if not an absolutely
hostile feeling toward those isfhcm disease, or weakness, or
calamity of ar^ kind causes to falter and faint anid the rude
jostle of our nelfish existence. The education of Christianity,
it is true, tlie ayrapathj^ of a like experience and the exargxLe of
women, T:ia;/ soften, and, possibly, subvert tliis ugly characteristic
of our sexj but it is ori,-inally there, and har: likewise its
analocy in tiie practice of our brute brethren, who hunt the sick
or disabled nienAier of the herd ftom among them, as an enein^. It
is for this reason that the stricken deer goes apart, and the sick
lion Grimly withdraws hiraself into his den. Except in love, or
the attachments of kindred, or other very lonr- and habitual
affection, we really have no tenderness. ($39)'
In truth, life's unfortunates are sonetimes rewarded with abuse vh&x
aid is requested. Thou^^ the divine ndniatrations of woman may
partially soften man's outer nature, his primal lusts remain latent
and unrjodified.
"I wonder how many people live and die in the workhouse, having
no other home, because other people have a great deal more than homo
enoughl^CSliO) Brotherhood depends on mutual aid, but man is
inherently selfish and grasping. Thus, brotherhood gives viay before
man's unending sinfulness. Although brotherhood exists as a "reality"
to Hawthorne in the sense that all of Ufe's elements converge so as
to level humanity into a oneness—still it does not exist as an
observable fact, for the selfish and in^wrfoct nature of man refuses
noble principles an opportunity to operate.
Not onlj' is man indifferent to the suffering of his fellow
human beings, but he fl-equently delights in adding to the woes of those
in distress. He takes a sadistic pride in his strange talent for being
inhuman, "It was certainly one of those crises that show a man how few
real fri«ids he 1ms, arKi the tendency of nenkind to st^d aside, at
leasts Old let a poor devil flgbt his own troubles, if not assist them
in their attack."(51|l) Man's nature is unquestionably debased* Until
it is radically amended, there can ba no brotherhood. Sine© hiiraan
nature has always hem the massg since it efvidmces no trend toward
iraproveaaent, brotherhood, thou|^ it exists as a noble appetite of
ima&nsG potential, has faint substance as a discernible fact,
Hawthorne proposed the primjiple of larotherhood in all sincerity^ he
searched longingly for overt evidence that Ms desire had an earthly
actuality. He was forced to conclude, however, that brotherhood
belonged, as of his mooaent, to an abstract realm*
k
WAR
It is ironical, perhaps, that a study of JJairthome's ideas
should begia with "sin" and end with "war." Yet, this seeias to be the
pattern. In lieu of the novelist's over-all concept of mortal life,
TPiar rather than peace provides a aore fitting cliiaax f<a" his pliilosophy.
Indeed, Hawthorne had little or nothing to reanark on the subject of
peace. Had he written upon it, doubtless he irould have suggested that
peace msty come throu^ a universal brotherlwod, -Bhich comes, in ttirn,
from listeninf; to one's heart. Actually, peace remains a remotely
distant possibility.
When the fractions of Hawthorne's thought are totalled, it is
not surprising that war should, in keeping with feat intecration,
appear inevitable, "It is the beauty of war, fc<r men to comnit mutual
2!»6
havoc Td.th undisturbed good-humor," (52*2) Man, since he will not
accept his bonded brotherhood, since he remaljia greedy and vain. Uvea
in a state of continuous strug-le with his fellow beings. History is
little -nore than a clironicling of ceaseless warfare.
It is a sad thought, that men of the sword, whether as
individuals or in arndes, should hitherto have filled so large
space in the annals of evQiy nation, mil the tijne never come,
when all, that pertains to war, shall be nerely a matter of
antiquarian curiosity? (5^3)
There can be no ojd to war as long as huiaan nature and the
life pattern in which it is caught up continue unchanged,
ffill the tine ever coirie again, in Aaerica, vhen we aay live
half a score of years without once seeing the likeness of a
soldier, except he be in the festal narch of a conipany on its
suOTier tour? Not in this generaUon, I fear, nor in the next,
nor till the I&llenniuiaj and even that blessed epoch, as the
prophecies seera to intiinate, will advance to the sound of the
trumpet. (5lili)
"There is no renoteness of life and thought, no hermetically sealed
seclusion, except, possibly, that of the grave, into which the
disturbing influences of this war do not penetrate," (51*5) On3y death
provides a final escape. Only partial exits from life's harshness— of
which actual warfare is but an overt synbol— «re open to ran.
Prtmitive man was by nature vicious and bloodthirsty. Modem
man, though he has refined his r»thods, retains the same primordial
urges. "Set men face to face, with weapons in their hands, and th^
are as ready to slaughter one another now, after playing at peace and
good-will for so many years, as in the rudest ages, that never heard
of peace-societies, and thoUf;^t no wine so delicious as what they
quaffed from an enei^^'s slcull.«(51*6) Hawthorne would agree with
Thoffitts Hobbes' statement t "it cannot be denied tout tlmt the natural
state of men, bsfore the;-/ entered into society, iraa a mere war, and
that not siTTiply, but a war of all xaem against all iaen»"^^ Hobbes,
thoush a pessiisist in regard to huaan nature, vras quite cocgjlacent
concerning tho nxoral qualities of a political state; he felt that a
state founded upon reason -B-oxild control raan's natiare. Hawthorne did
not believe that man ^as capable of ruling himself by reason, nor did
he have faitli t?iat political and tsocial institutions truly inodify man's
orijjinal nature. Though laan's nature laay be restrained tgr the soeial
order or softaned by the doraestic one, it retains intact its native
potearbial for evil.
War aaxi its attendant glory are repugnant.
ftat, in tjnith, the ishole system of a people crowing over its
j^litary triui^s had far bettei- be dispensed with, both on account
of the ill-blood that it helps to keep fennenting aoong naticais,
and because it operates as an accunulative inducement to future
geaierations to aiia at a kind of glory. Urn gain of vlAch. has
generally proved nore ruinous than its loss. I heartily wish that
every trophy of victory laight cruiablo av;ay and that every
remniscence or tradition of a hero, from the becinning of the
T?/crld to this day, could pass out of all raen's memories at once
and f orever • (5U7)
Heroes, when Hawthorne failed to appreciate in the nanner of rsaierson
and Carlyle, raay be vieiTed as symbols of man's decadence. Since tmr
has neither victojrj^ nor ^d, man would be Kiser if lie would play down
the meiaorials to his viciousness rather than glorying in them.
IIa(wthome'e conclusi(»is on the possibilities for true progress,
reform, brotherhood, and peace resemble ideas •R-hitdi H6bbes, Voltaire,
^^Thofflas Hobbes, The English vVorks of Thorns Hobbes. ed,, Sir
William Molesworth (London, 18ia;, II , 11.
2hB
or S^fb irl-ht Imve expounded. Hawthorne differs from other gloony
proGnogticatora on nan 3ji that he would go beyond the limits of mortal
life and propose a spiritual ex}.stonce as conpensation. He differs,
too, in adTdtting a pro-.-idontial suJ.dance-one T^rlch in itn own due
time salves the w>unds of adversity.
In contrar;t to an apparent similarity ^th the thought of a
select croup of rrriters Trho savr life in somewhat the same tones,
Hobbea, Voltaire, and Ssift, the total Hawthomian pattern has a
decided uniqueness. First of all, the nature of huiaanity is heavily
clouded by a long standing propensity for evil. Second, nfo itself
is rendered nK>re odious by the harsh and rigid constitution of the
pliysical coapound in which man etemaUy dwells. Third, laan has
iflthin him, normally in a weakened state, the instruments for his own
improvement, but his nature forbids his relying on them. Fourth,
there is c pervading morality wJiich gives to all life a spiritual
sicniflcanoe. Fifth, tlie spiritual life is taken en faith, it is
elaborated but little, for it is assumed that the mortal life is of
more imr.ediate concern. There is no advice regarding the marker in
which physical life should be led in order to obtain spiritual rewards.
The enphasis is not on a good life, but rather on tlie nature of life
itself. Sixth, in considerinc earthly life, Hajrthcme constantly
returns to sins, evils, blendshes, iniperfections. Han is seen to be
both vain and vicious in his original nature. Seventh, and last,
Hawthorne proposes the obligation of living life, of living with
blemishes— of accepting them-rataer than blinking one's eyes at them.
2h9
He affirms the necessity ox living Tfd.tliin society and of contributing,
in one's o»n way, to the pat'ogress of tliat society. Vftiile he severely
eriticiaes the falseness of certain ;:Bn-aade institutions, ho does not
deny tlie necessity for their existence. He accepts life for -what it
is, and wges tliat man, vdthin lAs am liExltations, make the best of it«
CIIAPTEHXI
THE SINTHSSIS
In attempting to ai-nthasiao the tho'osht pattern ol a given
individual it is nccessaiy to introduce the eaotional phase of his
beinsj for, in truth, tiie distinction between so-callod jaental and
oi^tional reactions is often an artificial one. '^he eaiotions of so«
individiials reaain in subservience to a fixed rjental orientation to
life; tliis stability seeas to have been true of liathaniel Hawtiiorne.
Bttt a aan is never pure ndnd. i;vsn in the instance of those rare
beings ^10 attempt a oental regulation of their oaotional life,
certain tei^ramantal oddities force their way into the pattern.
ilsjTthorae, like laost oortals, was possessed of prejudices and
characteristic neatocsscs, as well as niore praisewortl^r attributes.
In short, his thought is liniitad by and intimately related to his
uniqueness as an individual, A aere cold recording of the life
details of a biographical subject fails to re-create a personality,
neither ;vill an exclusive stu<fy of a man's ideas evoke a warm-blooded
inage. It is wll, therefore, to seek out a brief profile of
Hawthorne as an emotional being in order that the workings of his mind
may be better comprehended.
The Emotional ixiuation
Had }Ia»rthome followed the pattera established by his ancestors
290
251
he vfould probablsr liave becoiae a sliip's obtain, Keithsr Ms heredity
nor ;d.s envii-cauaeat suXXiclently account for liis dssira to -urita. ilad
the novalist absorbed and repiiriwued otiasr ami'Q idaas, his philosopiiy
jaif^t well be understood ia teras or its som'ces, laatead, the ^ature
constitution of '.iawthomo's total b«ing dtixies an aagy analysis, liis
early reading habitis, iioia© eavirosMffint, aiKi heredity undoubted]^
explain the raaii ia part, but t'osy do not adeqiiatsly explain luai. A
person with a keen and iasaginative aiiid misy iorisailato an original
orientation to life, liiis is not to suggest that the prbbl^as
Hawtiiorne i*eflected on were neif probl-jas, or iiiat tlae answers he
offered -ifere new misvers, but i^rely that they were the aore or less
waique answers of a diatinct personality,
Haarthome was essaitially a raan of alight emotional pressure.
Since he acknowledged the natxire of the life coqpoiand, iie realised the
futility of ffliittcing e&ger dasaands upon it. iHa interest lay in thoughts-
not in thinking upeaa the af^aaront surfaces of life, but in milling
about anong the deep and abiding currorAa of esdstence. Too oft^i
tiiese tliotights caae to hia -aith a disturbing force all their own.
Lights and eliadoars are otmtinually flitting across my inward
sl£y, and I Imcw neither whenco tiiey eoiae aor v/hither tliey goj nor
do I itiquire too closely into thesi. It is dangerous to look too
HiLnutely at such j^onoKKaia, It is apt to create a substaaice,
where at first th«re was a aere shadow, (51|8)
Ht^peatedly, Havitharrje refOTs, alaost wLtli paride, to Ids native
aversion for labor, "Oh, belovedest, labor is the curse of the world,
and nobody can rneddle >dth it, without becoming poroportionably
brutified,"(51iS>) It is questionable whether tiie desire for coagxLete
252
indolence was genuine or feigned. It in true tfiat the time spent in
uninaginative and aestheticariy unsatisftrlng work— the kind Hairthorne
waa continually forced into for his livelihood— takes something out of
a nan. Especially is this true when ths individual concerned is
prodded fey an artistic appetite for creating,
i?hai plagued with difficulties, liawthome was capable of
evidencing a tenper shockingly in contrast to his tradiUonal restraint.
"Always when I flounder into the midst of a tract of bushes, which
cross and intertwine themselves about n^ legs, and brush rcr face, and
seize hold of ngr clothes with a nultitudinous r>ripe— always, in such a
difficulty, I feel as if it were aL-nost as well to lie down and die in
rage and despair, as to £o one step further. "(550) Notwithstanding
an occasional flare-up, the ess^tial disposition was a reserved one,
though far from timorous. From college days onward, there was great
difficulty in getting the writer to speak in public. "As ndght be
expected, his theces and foraisics v,-ere beautifully written, although
the argunaits in then are not always logical; but it is significant
that he nsver could bs prevailed upon to make a declamation. "^9 Quite
late in life, during his stay at Liverpool, Hawthorne finally
accustomed himself to public speaking. After returning to Araerica, he
lapsed again into a native reticence. He preferred to listen at "The
3at\u*day Club," though he might have been a center of attention had
his disposition so inclined hijn.
^^Frank P. Steams, liathaniel Ha^Ttliome (Ifoston, 1906), p. 69.
253
^&n Hawthoiti© did spealc it T?as -srith a finmeas not to be
li;^t3y discounted. "Alcott, riho iras Ms nearest neighbor at the
Wajsrside, once reranrl-ced that there was onlir one tuU in the Hawthorn©
family, and that mas Natlianiel's. lEs will was law and no one thought
of disputing it.*^^^ During the engagement period, Hasithome felt
obligated to notify SofMa of the intractable nature of her beloved.
"But I forewarn the©, sweetest Dove, that tb^ huslsaaid is a most
iBBnalleable manj— thou art not to siqppose, because his spirit answers
to every touch of thine, that therefore every breeae, or even every
whirlwind, can upturn hixa trom his depths. "^^ Hawthorne rtaed his
hose -ivith a tender finmeasj he regulated his ami life with a surer
handi but he did not seelc to interfere in the life of his friends.
He tended Fds crnn gardrai, g^iarded his fences, and never traiagpled his
neighbor's land.
Throughout bis lifetime, liasfthome chrcmicaUy coaplained of
the hard isork which i»riting necessitated. The s3!iooth2c/ flo^dnc
sentences to be found in publi^ed prose were not easily conte by. "I
Iiate all labor, but less tliat of the hands tiian of the head." (551)
Yet Hawthorne never shirksd aental efforts, and in tl» end he must
have found them rewajrding. As long as he was physically and mfflitally
able, he could not stop writing— no inatter hour grating the task.
Could I have the freedom to be jjerfectly idle now — no duty to
fulfil— no jnental or physical labor to perform— I could be happy
^O Olbid. , p. 210.
^Q ^Love Letters . I, 158,
as a squash, and imich '.n the sa'ne inode. 13ut the necenrity of
keeping ny 'wrain at work eats into my comfort as the squash-bugs
do into the heart of the vines. (552) 4"«» i-wiga
^en, after tho novelist's return fror. Europe, ttie ability to cotnpose
fiction left him, he was the first to realize his loss. There rras
mch vet to be saidj the sanie faniliar ideas wore haunting his ndnd—
perhaps Tdth a nore disturbing vigor than ever before. .VMle the
practiced talent for sracefu.1 witinc remained very much intact,
Hav,-fchome had lo^^^t the knack of inbedding his thoughts in organized
and sicnlficant narrative. Although he never lost liis interest in
people, his ability to create a living set of fictional characters
was greatly shak^i.
In his fiction, liawthome wrote about people. Ln life, he
liked thera in spite of the wayrordness of hujHan nature— ?Thich, after
all, can not be remedied. "tM.es8 people are nore than commonly
disagreeable, it is r^ foolish habit to contract a kindness f.»-
them." (^$3) V.'ithln his fandly, the attachioent yrhich the young
Havthome held for his aother and sisters was undoubtedly tender. As
a youth, he had TOltten wr^nOy of his -^her. "Oh how I wish I was
again with you, with nothing to do but go gunning. But the happiest
days of r^r life are gone, .i^y was I not a girl that I ndght have
be«i pinned all ir^r life to s^r Itofcher's ap^^>n.»102 j^ ^Later years,
the accidental death of louisa, the novelist's younger sister, was
acknowledged as true tragedy.
l^f^'^^^S ilawfchome, "Nathaniel Hawthorne Prepares for
College," New England ^juarterly . XI, 70.
2$S
Hawthorne hsd perhaps a half' dozen inti.Tjate friends j the
political threesoEje of Bri(%©, Cilley and H^ce fron college days 5
Br' '-• ■-■rlnn the peidod in aiglandj TicI:rior and Fields, his
publishers, late in lifo. Araong wlters, Ilassthorne fonaed close but
not overly intimate jPriendships with 'moreait, Imgfelloir, and Ifelville,
It is significant that the cojJipanioriship of practical nen like
JVaaklin fierce and Horatio Bridge was preferred to that of the
iiaerson and Alcott variety. ^'Pierce, Cilley, and iJrldg© w@r© all bora
politicians, md. it was this class of aen tdth vjhcm it tmiad seen that
Ilawtliorae naturally assiiailated.''^^ Keither a lifelong associaticai
tslt!! pontlcallj td.nded coErades, rjor the salaried poaitions which
Flavrthome obtained through his i)oliticiil li-iendships, were sufficient
to pronrote a gcsirdne interest in politics, Julian Hasthom© records
a letter Sron his aimt ishich tsstifies to his father's characteristic
apathy f'ni" political concerns, «In the evaiing ws dlsicussed political
affairs, upon which we differed in opinion^ h© being a Democrat, and I
of the opposite party* In reality, his interest in such tilings vms 90
sLt-ht that I think notiiing would have kept it alive but ny oontentioua
spirit. ♦•^'^
Rarely if evor did Hawthorne fail to laake a strildng and
favorabl© impression on those t«*io cams to know id©. Flersnan Jcelville
had written to the effect tliat "I shall leave the world, I feel, with
Kiore satisfaction for having conje to knoir you. Knowing you persuades
^*^3steams, Ptothome . p. 6h,
10^ Julian iiasrthome, Hatrthorn© and Hia Wife . I, 125.
2%
than the Bible of ojt inHrortality."^^^ In the course of his
lifetime, ?l2T?thorne received nore ?d.ndnos3 iVon hi? friends thaii he
coiad evc:r repay. Bridge, wM.le reoainin- ancnyaous, had backed the
publication of Hairthome's nrst voluiae of short stories. Tearn later,
JVanklin Pierce had granted him the most choice of political windfalls—
the Uverpool cons'olship. Both K.cknor and ?ierce de\'oted thcaaselvee
to the novelist in the year of his death. Tlcknor, in fact, died
quite unexpectedly while atteraptins to nurse Tlairbhome bad: to health.
The enthusiasm tdth irfiich these ftdondships were held is not easily
overstated. The respect wloich both friends and acquaintances
accorded Hasrthome stands as a mcnumont to liis character.
"I wonder if ever, and how soon, I shall get a Just cstimte
of how rasny Jackasses there are in this ridiculous srorld.^iSSh)
People disapixiinted Hawthorne iiajaensel;.^. In spite of his fondness for
individuals, the stupidity of the creat oass of hurasnity was vexing.
Indeed, the aristocratic side of Harrthorae's nature was prone to
regard mankind as soniethin- of a buinpldn. /ji open bitterness sonetines
cot the best of a native kindness, Peaiiaps the strangent ore remark
he ever nade in this connection appears in a letter to Horace Conolly,
"Certainly I nust say it for myself, there is tho least gall and
animosity in ny nature and the greatest and sweetest quantity cf the
milk of hunan kindness that ever existed in any son of Adasi. I ar. a
true Christian and the onl;r one I ever net wlth."^^
p. 159.
lO^Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, I'eaorles of ^IaT.-thome (Boston, 1897),
257
fbe renown nhtah the rc«aano©r rec^ved nevtir qait© ccnvinced
hiffl th&t his life was a success. It la^ be that the inability to
solve probleias ratlier than marely ppesont them— the apparent
iij^jossibility of finding a a©t of tenable prescriptions— contributed
to that feeling. "How strange that it should coiae nc«r, when I raay
call sgrself faasous, and prosperousl— when I am hai^jgr, tool— -still that
nsjm dreea of life hopelesslj « failarel**($55) Bcmvmr mich he wrote,
however laich he analysed, tlj® papoblease w^© atill there. %iting
helped to clari^ them, but it could not remove thm» Ihile the
transcend^talista were finding brighter and brighter msnera,
Hasrthome continued to depict the several aspects of tlae saiM dark,
ancient problesa.
"If each cXoan would but Iceep within itself, and show it»
respect for itself Isy aiEiiji^ at iiothiag he^srm^f Hheiy would all be siore
i*espectablo. But this kind of fitness ia ©videaatly not to be escpected
in the future? and s<a5»}thing else aust be substituted for it.*($5>6)
Although Hawthorne belienred in deiaocracjr and brotherhood as principles,
hiB emotional teiaperacaent was not always in harmony with his ideal.
It is possible that Haw1^ome*» aristocratic and frcquentJy bigoted
observations have a theoretical basis. If it ia assumed that each
individual hag a designated function in an ordered world, then the
overstepping of the llraitations of that function— as was the habit of
^^JKSanning Hawthorne, "liawthome and the Man of God," Colophon .
Ho. 2, II (Inter 1937), 231. Conolly was a sliriit acquaintance of
whom flawthome was not overly fond.
258
■public women"— «dght well bo interpreted as an insult to Providence.
Moreover, it would constitute an unwarranted intrusion into the apherm
of one's fellow mortals. Theoretical reasonins nay partially account
for these aristocratic leanings. Still, an aestlietic squeanc rmess—
the sane wiiich railed against fat Tromen—appears central to Hajrthome's
very nature. "It is not good to see musicians, for they are usually
coarse and vulgar people, and so the auditor loses faith in a^y fine
and spiritual tones that they might breathe forth. "(557)
Beneath the stem and decidedly fonrddable countenance which
liawthome doubtless presented, the centle quality was e?ver present.
"Whoever has a kindness for rae may be assured that I have twice as
BMch for hira.»($58) .hen strangers appealed to his generosity,
F^sfthome fi^uently aided them. He was always Tdllinc to help his
friends. At the sane time he was cold toward organized philanthropy.
For the nost part, the novelist strove to practice the principle of
brotherhood in daily life. It is true enough, however, that the
slave's plight failed to iraprese himj Hawthorne did not go along with
the abolitionist in claiming the negro for a brother. Still, ho was
often moved to action by individual instances of distress.
>.hen the Rev. Mr. Cheever was knocked down and flogged in the
streets of Salem and then inprisonod, listrbhorne came out of his
retreat and visited hia regularly in jail, showing strong
syn^iathy for the nan and great indignation for those who had
maltreated him. 107
I^&jney is always an insaediate cancern for a family man. "If I
107 James T. Fields, Yesterday with Authors , p. 69.
259
ireore but & imndred tii^s richer tham I am, htyv very coof ortable I could
b©#"(559) For Ms otoi part, Hawthtaiie was not selfishly attached to
those pleasures which woney can buy. In one of SojMa's eulogistic
■^tdbutes to h^* hu^^and she po^ts to his rather simple taste*
". • • 1» is as severe as a stoic about all personal comforts, and
never in his life allosed hirasolf a luxury. "^^° Fortunately, Sophia
ms not the type of wife triio pushes her husband onward to roonetary
goals. Nor was Haafthome the type of husband vho was easily pushed.
"We are very happy, and have nothing to wish for except a better
flUed purse— «ad not iaprobsbly gold would taring trouble with it|, at
least cy wife says so, and th^«f<»^ exhorts bib to be content with
little.-i^^
Writers can becoae quite disgusted with those readers who
attack their literary |a-oductions out of bias and stupidity. Ihe
unfavorable criticisms which Hasthome's writings o« Bhglawi prov<^ced—
and the novelist fait that he had rejaresenfced the £hglish fair3y— 'irked
hia considerably. Hawthorne inforraed his publisher. Fields, of the
diaappointi^^nt he soiaetimes felt «fcon con£pcmted with such criticisms.
'n?hat a terrible thing it is to try to let off a little bit of truth
into this laiserable hiaifcug of a world." ( 560 ) Kan's social order, as
well as the set of values upon irtiich it rests, is so artificial in its
niake-up, and so indecently vain in its righteousness that it tends to
^Julian riawthoame, >Iaythome and His iVife » I, 372.
lO^Horatio Bridge, Pex-sonal Recollections , p. 90.
260
castigate truth. Haarthorae urate »hat he felt to be the truth about
llfei it waa not his custom to placate his reading public.
"/^hat right have I to complain of any other nan's foolish
impulses, when I cannot possibly control r^r own?" (561) Although
Ha«rfchome iras temperate in his drinking and sacking habits, he was
capable of unloosing a substantial oath upon the proper occasion.
Horace ConoUy waa disnayed by Hairthome's proficiency at wearing.
Conolly and Hawthorne had Just left Longfellow's corr^^any, when it
became evident that the novelist was disturbed by the events of the
laeetinc. "Hawthorne, if great in nothing else, was transcendently
great in profanity and swearing, and on this occasion he gave full
scope to his powers in this direction. »^0 The point is that
Hawthorne was not free from the typical characteristics of a robust
male. He had been in sUght trouble at college over gangling j he had
a temper which occasionally got the best of hinj he was quite fond of
a cigar and a good drinkj he had a discerning eye for cocwly raaidensj
and he was more than adequate aa a profaner. In spite of the
intellectual and artistic turn of his mind, Hawthome was veiy much
alive as a nale animal. Although he took life quite seriously, he waa
scarcely a pnide.
The fact that Hawthorne preferred «ie back seat to the rostrum
is misleading. Only a steady and vigorous strength could carry a man
through a twelve-year apprenticeship at his trade—especially when
r 9 TT ^^^^ 'Hawthorne, "Hawthorne and the I'an of God," Colophon .
261
neither moae^ nor recognition vrore forthccMlng frost the outside irair34»
Then, too, Haxrthome was no enbtmsiastj he lacked that se^ T^lch
sometijaea sustains a man in the face of such odtte* It can only be
assuraed that he was avidly c<fficernGd ^th wtdting of life as he
understood it— not that he had a message to bring, but that hs needed
to find an eicppeasion for those shadows which peopled his silnd.
That detersdned strength iihiJBih. kejit Ha^rthorne at his pen stands
in contrast to another side of his nature, in innate sl^ess vaa
always pres^it* Hawthorne did not desire to intrtKte his thou^ts on
others, nor did he invite advise from the outside world. "I have
aljfays hated to give advice, especially i^en there is a prospect of
its being tak^.**(562) If the notion of an op^ brotherhood irith aan
gripped his ideal longings, it was actualized only in a handful of
friiaidshijs. It is doubtful thai he talked ov«r his initaast thouj^ts
even td.thin this intisaate group,
j^iotionally, Hawthorne was quite like other men» He was not
especially Broody and jasrosej he was certainly not a hermit in any true
sense. If he was not talkative, persuasive, arKi dynamic, his infinite
strength of chajractMr arsply con|>ensated for his reticence* Bven thouj^
Hawthorne has been erroneously described as an ernotional oddity by
several of his biograjAiex^s, he assuredly did not lack individuality*
That individuality, that unique esTiotional equation which laakes of each
man an entity, relates definitely to tlawthome's philosophy. Sone men
are laore free from their einotions than others— ^ilawthome cjvidences
remarkable control in this respect— yet no aan is totally free. It is
262
in a fusion of the Dontal and enotional constitution of a nan that the
total being eoerges.
As writers fade into the past, their personalities are lost
into time. Art replaces the nan. Flato is no longer an individual,-
ho is but a s-/sten of ideas, l^enever possible, it is desirable to
knoir the eajotional uniqueness of an artist as well as Me mental
pattom. In Hawthorne's case, the elemwits of his «aoui;ht were given
in detail, not alw^s consciousHy, by the artiat himself, ^s mental
approach to ILfo— thou[^ it deals frequently with v.iiat are normally'
tnouciit of as intangibles— is notably clear, mere&s Itorthome did not
embrace all the aspects of living, he defined enough of them to
elucidate quite specifically ]^J.8 mental equation—his orientation to
life. Still, in drawing conclusions concerning that orientation, it
is Tfell to keep in cdnd the emotional being— though he is less well
lOTOTm than the mental one—for it is in synthesiaing the tiro eleiaenta
that the Haaarthomian philosoj^jy approaches conipleteness.
The 5:/nthegis
An imaginative writer necessarily expresses his private
interpretation of the society in iiliich lie finds hiiaself j but some
writers, Hawthorne aiaonc the number, are n»ro concemed with depicting
those phases of Ufe which are present in varying degrees to all
specific societies but liraited to none. They probe, eometiraea
successfully, the very texture of life. Alttiough these writers are
somewhat restricted by tixo tenor of their own society, tliey advance
b^ond that restriction by portraying the seeningly eternal aspects of
263
exlatence*
Subjects iTi-fch & limited application failed to dia3-leng©
?Ia?thonie; onl;y those imiveraal situations n&ilch offered ©i^orttmity
for a broid tmr&l oxpanaion troly interested liiia. Indeed, a reader of
Hawthorn© often suspects that tha encoimtered f^-cticaxal characters are
personifications of Ideas rather tiian mere people, sissrtliome began and
ended with ideas* Ms notebooks are dotted vdth idea gero®, many of
•sfhich ware later devs^oped in fictioxu It is in their art form,
fiction, tliat these ideas reach their grandest actuality. Tms, irhile
a studrr of Hawthorne's thought pattern is a world in and of itself, an
application of that study to his mritinga provides a backgromid— one
i3i many "wso^s superior to a biocprapliical listing of the surface events
of a man '3 life— against which the fiction stay bo better understood.
The Hstrfehornian thought pattern se€salng3y has no b^imiing,
no laiddle period, and no orxd^ It evolves by feedii^ itself on nor
obsei-vations, but tlist evolution consists of elaboraticw aad
solidi float Icm rather than charge. An interpretation of the Harthome
ndnd which -srould ccanvenientl;/ compartuBntaliase its developntent into
different chronological perioda has Uttle basis in fact. Certainly
the Hdnd matured, b\it It advanced in an almost predetermined fashicai.
TIio overpowering ononess of HssrthtMme»a thought cannot be ignored.
The chmgeis iwhich imrriagc and literary recognition brought abotrb need
not be BitnlT'd.Jsed, birt they v^ere not of sufficient iniport to
substantially alter the fundaiaaital thought pattern. Those aspects of
life which Havrthome accentuated wore set down with a thorou^going
26k
consist ency.
Sin does net exist as a latent or slunbering beast, but as an
active and observable manifestation of the hard fact that it is not
onV native but central to all life. Coupled ^th the endless
acttiality of sin, wMch inay nowise be evaded, the physical texture of
life itself-t'ie onjnipresent aarble and aad— prefaces and deter^^ea
the possibilities of aortal life. If a witer disagreed '^th
Hawthorne's prinia.- assu:^ption that evil eocLsts^-cn assu.-nption uJuch
Ifelville, for exaaplo, understood— there was scant likelihood of a
aeetins of the ndnds. Accordingly, Ilatrthoine wus not coafortod by the
stiiT-ing messages of optiaisa current in his day. Nature, ftom Trhich
the Transcendentalists drew strength, held Hanthome's attention not
as a irhisperinc of God, but as a hi^ocOyph of cold and unbondin-
directional forces,
"•an is never tlie shapor of his om universe, but rather tha
follower of a providentially assigned course. .Thile froa God's
vantage point the individual ."»rtal functions as an infiniteainal
Inaction of an over-all prograa, front raan's liraited view, life
approaches cDaos. EapecialOy is tidis true when nian seeks to shape the
life materials to his ovm liking, or when he anywise attenpts to move
contrary to his allotted daatiny. The fact tliat rnan can neither see
nor coinprehend providential guidance does not lessen its absolute
power.
Thus, tfic life pattern vrlth which laan nuat ever contend is
harsiil^' constituted of sin, the jd^^sical coi!?K>und, death, and an
26!?
Insensitive and often, frcaa ebbeh's point of view, brtttal ppovidenea,
Pfovidenee, vrhlla it, ig iLLtiraately end necessarily go<rf, since it is
the activation of God's divine plan, appears qtdte rmali^nant •'ji
individual instances. ?&n*s best proni'an— in fact the only
intellljieaat prosras which rm^ bo followed In the light of the
■mjdeniablo and tin<diangeablo conditions into T*ioh he is bom— ^?w«ild
begin Tfith a resignation to the actnal ?rctbstance of life. Within that
liEdtation it behooves isan to act cat hia role to the f?ill extent of
his capabilities. Earthly life, th«i, is a niaturinn; pilgri!!Ki<»e— •
norraally a solemn one* While the life pattern e?d.sts in all its
jtrs3'tiess, there are other aaptects of the total scheiae yet to be
considered* Althou^. therr do not s-aper sede or deny that grac'ness,
they do provide a to^'rporar:^'' relief.
Society requires '::mn to participate as a raesjber of the group;
thus the social force Is of inescapable concern throughout earthly
life* Though sensitive and soHtary persons rebel against that
jMur^iicipatlon, they arrive nowhere, as in the experi^ce of Thoreau at
WaldfBi, by separating theiaselves from raseikind. The wiser cotirse is to
accept the social order regardless of its artificiality. The sH^t
pleasures -which it inay afford are prefarable to the iclness of
isolation. In truth, it is only as laan functions within the group
that he ratay be said to ejdst.
The manner in 'cvhich Hawthoiwc arrived at his religion ia
debatable. His faith in GkxJ may have its origin in the recognition
tlxat the actual terbtire of life doHarnds an eventual balancing* In
266
other .vorcis, out cf a lolt aoed £ov order, riasrthorM bbj- have evolved
a suprooo dcit;^-. Ii,re probably, iie iiold a convaitional and
unquestio.-ii.-:- faifch ia God-one cliractl;,' ir.tuited-ono ;vkLcii was far
aore than a ratianalized croatica of :iis oim iatoLlsct, Third, it Is
possible that the spottj and shadovo' beauties of this life led
Katrthome to rscocaiae tiae existence of tiiat spirituality of which
they were but i^pei^iect siiaasrings, iiegardless of the reasons behind
Iaa»thome's roli^ion-aad it is not certain that tlio novelist hXaaelt
could liave stated thon-hia faith ^ aa pure and as permnont ua was
/iis belief ir: evil. It is only in tlio iaoorbal state that aan finds
a f ul2i' natured "reality-wthat ho is no longer liaited by the liiysical
coiapound. But that life, XThilo it is certain, is far in the futurej it
13 ba^/ond Juan '3 prizai^- concern— iiio o^n: iaperfect world. Taa religion
to T/Mch •la'jthomo adiieared did not peroLt mn to function as a noble
Edcrocosa of God; instead, it lod to lusitod and ia^5«rfect actions
beneath th.e djiscinitable ^-uidance of a divine will,
Ilajsrthome's laind was not carried forward by the external
niirniurinGS of life. Wars, elections, the headline events of the de^,
failed to intrisue him, for iae was thoroughjy aagnotiaod by those
"realities" .vhich regain stable ba-.eath eruptive surfaces. l-Vom this
pattern, v/hich grows more nanifest '.vitl: each additional glance at the
life scene, nan has no perraanent relief. For creatures of this earth
only partial pleasures are available. In proposing a donestic
relationship founded upon love, Hawthorne forwards an ideal vhich
observable life never quite attains. V/omanhood and art are envisioned
26?
in a pirc and untramaoled state* In their Idshost respective
developBKjnts, both JLva evidence of ethereal or spiritual beauty. In
this rrorld, howovor, nan is liniited to imperfect and corruptad
representations of the ideal. Ilonce, raoarfcal life is a dlaappointi.'jarjt--'
a depressant— in that \*at is atanda as a i^laring contract to wliat
our] it to be.
Again cmd again, IfeTthome ixjtvrng to his cliaractoristic
concerrtion of hivmri natiire. Ikm is bom vdth a stignia trhich lie is
povrcrless to rectify. IHs pritial naiTiro is not onl^- deficisait in
goodness and nobility ^ it is active .In its appetite- for evil.
Althouch the bimta in nmi m^ be consftrained h^ g^sitle forces, it
reinains latontlj' preeeftt. V/hat |>asses for sin isjay be little more than
aji obandoniacnt of kk^ji to his primitive nature*
llhile raan's mind ja-ovidSiS a dlatingui^i^llng Riark froia the lower
anlTnal.s, it Is the heart rather than the mind vvhidi wekes of Kan an
litffnortal being. Unfortxinately, hutasn nature operates too often on
tho prejJiise that nian's intellect Ifias a divinity all its cmx^ Despite
the nature of huraanityj Flasfthorna cher3.shed a faint hop© for an
eventual brotherhood of the heart. He did not proffer brotherhood In
the raanner of an svangellst offering salvation to sinners* Indeed,
there is no panacea for iuortal ills. Religion, oven though it is a
ccnsolinc medium, doojs not niitlgato the jAysical hardness of life.
Art and Tromen, though they are definite forces for good, are at best
partially effective in providing moments of release from the
ever-present pattern. A state of brotherhood is now, and probably
263
always '.fill be, a dreara of tlie future j for nan's very natui^c forbids
its coj:ainG, A aan uay find ccafort oalj' by contsntiDg Idnrelf -.rLth
lire's liiiiitatioruj.
iljwthome's inconaisteaciec, tliough extraaely rare, are
uaderstandable, Tor U-uth i'-self is ixu^-sided. He soecs to have seen
life in ama^^in-li' clear outlines. He is pessiiaistic, alaost ciid-cal,
izi rogai'd to ivum's eiJorts to altcar the course irfiich life has folloired
since tii;© bo^an, let :Iai!fthonie iTas conlldout that aan irould eiovg
into a better roala upon death, 'Lis jjattei-n for mortal life, hcxrever,
is invariably interlaced w-.th evil,
Kanthome's pliilosopljtr of life Jias no axe to grind. It
crusades neither for nor a{jainst specific theories, fihen the novelist
critf.cizos vanity, hypocrisy, a::d artificiality, ho does so in terns
of a "reality" r;in.ch Us had couw to knovr tiu-ough a long and inBt,lnativ«
study of the life scene. IIo nearoly states his pilvate interpretation
of life. If anyone had referred to Kmrthome as a pliilosophor, no
doubt ho would have siiuddered. .Vhilc Haarthome's personal philosophy
Wi' not bo great thought in and of itself, while KaBrthoine is little
rencvmed for Ids ideas, still that ph-ilosophy has a lasting
significance in that it presents clearly :xid con5>letel^' tliat
orientation to life w=:iich found itself no richlly manifest in his
fiction.
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Quarterl;- , IV (April 1931), 238-330.
Cordey, Malcolra, ed. The Portable llasthorne. Seer York* The Viking
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270
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. llmthome as gdltor: Selecticms from His ^>^ritinp:s in The
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272
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APPBSffiK
cif ATioH OF mBSAm soxmim
The quotations used as the prbaaiy source for ttls bodkr are
id«ntifi©d here, tlrat is given the standard footnote entry j second,
the title of the novel or short stoiy if the quotation is takmi frcm
Hawthorne's fiction? thirds the date of first publication. Yearly
dates are given for stateiaents quoted from the letters and the
notebooks. The abbreviation ibid, is u^d with the T/orks onlj when
tiie stoxy or novel is the same as the one given in the preceding
footaotej ibid, is used with the notebooka and letters, btit the date
is given if it is not the same as in the preceding footnote*
273
27U
K-IAPTCR I
SIN
The Mature of 3in
(1) Nathaniel fia-rthorne. The Goaplete -orks of Hathaniel '^;>wtborne
(Boston, lb82;, I, 3k5 v"'rae Haunted i.nd," l33^), ;q2.
references are to the 1882 edition, tho ItLversido edition,
wiiich will hereafter be cited as Vcrks.
(2) Works . IX, 13 (The American >Jote-Books, I836),
(3) >/orks . I, 250 ("Fancy's Shojr Box," I837),
ih) -Vorka, III, ^90 ("John Inglefield's Thanksgiving," I8I1O).
(5) Randall Stervfart, ed.. The .^erican Note-Bookg l?y Natha niel
.Hanthome (New flaven, 193?.i» p. l^<i (l5i,3;. 'I'his volume will
hereafter be cited as Stewart, Aaerican Motebooka. The 1382
edition of The /unerican Note-Books ig cited only i^.en it
contains passages wiiicii Stewart waa forced to omit for lack
of an original nianuBcript,
(6) Works . II, 286 ("The New Adam and Evq,« 181,3).
(7) V'orka . V, 21a ( THie Scarlet Letter . 1850).
(8) Ihidj., 7, 253.
(9) Horks, III, 276 ( The Houae of the Seven Gables . 18^1).
(10) -orka, X, USl ( The French and Italian liote-Books . 1858).
Brotherhood in Gin
(11) V/orks . I, 257 ("Fancy's Show Hox," I837).
(12) Randall Stewart, "flawbhome and Politics » Dhpubllshed Letters to
williani ti. Pike," New airland :^iarterly . V (April 1932), 25U
(from a letter, I853).
(13) Vorks . VI, 208 ( The ?iarble Faun , i860).
(Hi) Ibid.. VI, 2it7.
275
Concealed Sin
(15) Works. II, 2hh ("The l^ocassion of Iife,« 18^3)*
(16) Works J II, 377 ("Feathertop: A Ibrali-sed Legend," I81tit)<
(17) I'/orks, V, 177 ( The Scarlet Letter « l8SD),
(18) Ibid. , V, 258.
(19) jToite, VI, 210 ( The Marble Fam> i860).
The Devil and EyJX
(20) Works, II, 100 ("Young Goodmn BroRn," 1835).
^21) Ibid. , II, 102.
(22) -aorks , V, 500 ( The BUthedale Rcgaance , 1852).
The 'iPransEassdon of Sin
(23) Wcarka. Ill, 11*7 ( The House of the Sevtaa Gables, 1851) #
(2ii) Ibid., in, 36.
Sin and Parity
^25) Workg , I, 3h ("Stmd^r at Home," 1837).
(26) Works, VI, Ula ( Tlie i^ble Faun , i860).
(27) Ibid., VI, li39.
(28) Ibid. , VI, 375.
(25?) Ibid, , TI, 239.
(30) Ibid. , VI, 375.
(31) Ibid. , VI, 238.
(32) ^.'orka. XI, 33 ( Kie Dolliver Bomance, 186W.
The Ijffects of Sin
(33) -^orka , I, 52ii («iSdward Fane's Rosebud," I837).
276
(3l) ^orks. V, 180 ( The Scarlet letter . 1850),
(35) Ibid,. V, 103.
(36) -'orks, TIT, 20h ( The Houae of the Seven C-ablefl ).
(37) Dorics . VI, 207 (TheJ^rblejETm ) •
(38) Ibid., VI, 201.
(39) Ibid. . VI, 211.
iho) Ibid. . VI, 111;.
Ifepardonable Sin
(la) Works . IX, 2hh ( The /aierican Note-Pooks ).
CSAPTER II
THE DANCE OF UPB
1
THE TEXTURE OF IIFSj MAP3LE A1?D JiOD
The Approach
(12) Nathaniel Hawthorne, Tlie Love Inters of Nathaniel I bartMnr^^.
preface hy Koswell b.eid (Chicag o, 1^7), I, M il%6).
iU3) \iorks, n, 2la ("The iVocession of Ufe,» I81i3),
ihh) is:ks, III, 177 ( The Ho-jse of the Seven Gables. I85l).
(Ii5) "'orks . VI, ]i9U ( The larble Fcun. 1360),
The ConiTx>iUTd
(li6) v7ork8 . IX, 21 ( The American liote-Bpoks. 1835).
ih7) Vorks, III, 5? ( The :-bu3e of the Seven Gables . 1851),
(as) loid. . Ill, 31.8,
{h9) H^ks, V, U19 { Tno Blithedale aoiaance . 1852).
277
(50) Randall Stewart, cd,. The i-^r:llsh Notebooks by IlathaiiJGl
Piaistaorne (New York, 19lil), p» 551 (1857/ . This volms will
hereafter be cited as Stewart, ^iglish Koteboc^s *
(51) 'iarksa VI, 21 ( rue UarbXe Fa'cu^^ 1360).
(52) Ibid. , VI, 503.
(53) Ibid., VI, 261.
The Spheaeral Qualit:/' of Life's Tegfcia^
(5U -^orks. Ill, 532 ("Old Ne»B,« 1835).
{B$} Works, I, 2liO ("The Toll-Gatherer's D^," 1337).
(56) Works, I, 503 ("Footprints on the Sea-Shore, « I838).
(57) Stev/art, American notebooks, p. Idit (18U2),
Obeervaticats on the Texture of Life
(58) Works , I, I51i ("Waicefield,** 1835) •
(59) v^orks, I, 33 ("Simday at Vioms,» 1837).
(60) Stewart, teerican Notebooks , p. 1.97 (I8I48),
(61) vrorks . III, 197 ( The House of the Seven Gables , l05l).
(62) v.orka . V, 107 ( Tlie Slithedale lioaanoe, 1852).
^^>^ SSElSI* V-> ^71 ( The Marble Faiin, 1O6O).
(6^) Ibid., VI, U67.
2
DEATH
(SB) Works , K, 36 ( The Asierican Kote-l^ooks , 1336),
(66) Ibid. , IX, 33.
(67) "Vorks , n, 17ii ("Btids and Bird Voices," I8U}).
278
(68) Works . V, 67 ( The Scarlet Letter . 1850).
(69) Stewart, American Noteboolca . p. 139 (1851),
(70) Works. Ill, 366 ( The House of the Seven Gables . l85l),
(71) Ibld> , ni, 367.
(72) Stewart, Aiiierlcan Notebooks , p. 230 (1853).
(73) jVorks, vn, 156 ( Our Old Home. 1863).
Grief and Sorroy
(7li) Works. I, li62 ("ChiiTOings with a Chisel," I838),
(75) Ibid. . I, U56.
(76) Works. II, 224I ("The Procession of life," I8h3),
(77) fortes, II, 338 ('The Christms Banquet," l8Uh)»
(78) fforka . Ill, 286 ( The Ifouae of the Seven Gables. 1851).
3
BDETtWE AllD FATE
The Nature of ?brtun«
(79) V/orks. I, 160 ("-v^afcefield," I835).
(80) ;forks . I, 211 ("David Swan," 1837).
(81) Works, II, 235 ("The Procession of Life," 181j3).
(82) Works, II, 127 ( "Rappaccini ' s Dauchter," iQhh),
(83) ctewart, American Notebooks , p. lUO (1851).
(81i) V.orks . VI, 33 ( The ;/arble Faun , i860).
(85) Ibid. . VI, 5lli.
The Governing Powei' of Fortune
(88) .^orks . I, 218 ("David Swan," 1837).
279
(89) Works , H, $i$ ("Xlae Artist of the Bea»tifta," l8ljl»)«
(90) Ibid*, n, 526.
(91) .orks > V, 188 ( The Scarlet Letter , 1850).
(92) Works , V, I43O ( The Blithedale Rcaaance, 1852)*
if^y) aorks, H, )M (The l%rble Faun , i860).
As God'g Poetry
(914) Works, II, "ih {"1?he Old Itanse," 1856).
(95) Works , X, 5ltl} ( Tlie Frenoh and Italian Mote-Booka , 1859) •
As a Goddesg
(96) Works, IX, 97 ( The American Note^Booka , 1837 )•
(97) Works , II, 50 C'Rie Birthiaark," I8li3)*
(98) Stewart, Aiaerican Notobooka , p. lOS (l8ii5).
(99) Ibid., p. 118 (I8I46).
(100) Works , V, 595 ( The Blithedale lloaance, 1852).
(101) Works , XI, 252 ( Septifflius Felton. 1863 ).
Nature as Rgfuge
(102) Jaraes T. Fields, Yesterday with Authors (Boston, 1900), p, 62
(from a letter, iS5l)V
(103) Works, II, 36 ("The Old Mans©,« 1856).
(lOU) Stevjart, Axaerican Notebooks , p. 517 (1857).
Mature a^ Sr/abol
(105) Works, II, 180 ("Buds and Bird Voices," 1810).
20O
(106) ITorkat, X, 21^6 ( The French and Italian Note-Books. 1358),
(107) 'Vorka , XII, 320 ("Chiefly about '.ar iiatters," 1862).
CKAPTEK III
SENSITIVITY Mm SOLTfUDE
The S^tsitive Soul
(108) Worica. I, 150 ("little Annie's Rani)le," 1835).
(109) Workg , I, 231 ("The ToU-Gatherer's Day," 1837).
(no) :vorka. I, 1^78 ("Kigjrt Sketches," I838),
(111) Love Letters. I, 216 (181^0).
(112) Stewart, Anorican Notebooks , p. 102 (181^2).
(113) iiorks, ni, 297 ( The Mouse of the Seven Gables. l35l),
(llU) Ibid. , in, 102.
(115) ••'orks, X, 311 ( The French and ItaUan I>'ote«J>ook3 . 1358).
The Solitary Soul
(116) ..orka, I, 220 ("Sights fi-on a Steeple," I831).
(117) yorka . IX, ^Q ( The .\merican Note-Books. 1836).
(118) yrorka. I, 250 ("Fancy's Show Box," I837).
(119) ■Vorka , I, 207 ("The IVophetic Pictures," 1837).
(120) .Vorka. II, 282 ("The N«r Adam and I>e," iSij),
(121) Works . II, 250 ("The I^ocession of Ufe," lBh3),
(122) Vorics , II, 518 ("The Artist of tlie Beautiful," iBlOi).
(123) V-orks . Ill, 170 ( The House of the Seven Gables . 1851).
(I2ij) Horks, V, hiSh ( The Bllthedale tonance. 1852).
(125) V/orka . XI, ii98 ( The Ancestral Footstep . 1858).
281
(126) Works, VI, 365 ( The Itoble Fam , 1B60)*
CHAFPISa IV
REALITY AND i?ELIQIOM
1
RS&LITr
(127) V'Orks , IX, 109 ( Tne American Hote-Books , 1837 )♦
(128) Love I.etters , I, 122 (l8iiO)»
(129) Ibid. , I, 225.
(130) Works, XII, 68 ("Graves and Goblins," I8h0),
(131) ^^rka, xn, 88 ("The Book of Autographs," l8l^),
(132) Works, II, 173 ("Buds and Bird foices," I8li3).
(133) Works, n, 311t ("EgotisEij or, the Bosoa S«rp^t,« I81i3),
(13lt) Work? , II, tt9 (""Kxe Hot Ada© and lve,« I3ii3).
(135) ^^'orks, II, 139 ("Rappaccini's Daughter," 1810}).
(136) Works , V, W9 ( The Flithedale Roaance , 1852).
(137) Works , II, 277 ("Feathortop: A Ibralized Legend," l852)«
(138) ^/orks, V, 332 ( The Blithedale Roinanee , 1852) »
(139) Stewart, Ehglisli Motebooks, p. 6l7 (1852).
(lljO) Works, II, 271 ("Feathertopj A IJoraUzad Legend," 1852).
(Ha) y/orks , Xin, I5li i ^r, Grirtalmwe's Secret, 1863).
(Iii2) Works, Vll, 165 ( GUI' Old Home, 1863),
2
RELIGION
Soul
282
(lij) Arlin Turner, Hawthoime as ixiitort Sclectiooa rrora iiis -/ritinfrs
l£ The Amwrican Vias&zine of Useful and Qiterbaining fiiowledge.
TUniversiby, Louisiana, 19hX), p. 100 (1336).
(llJi) Love Letters. I, 169 (iSliO).
(ll<5) Ibid. , I, 1^3.
(1146) .^orks , 7, ^h ( The Blithedalc Romance . 1852).
(11^7) Ibid. , V, ShO.
(US) Ibid. , V, 596.
Lnraortality
(lli9) 'Tl/.abeth Chandler, "Hawthorne's Soectator," The Kear aTg:land
Quarterly , IV (April 1931) 313 (1820).
(150) T^imer, riawthome as I^iltor . p. I69 (I836).
(151) Works , IX, 107 ( The /aaerican Note-Books. I837).
(152) -'-orks , I, 513 ("Footprints on the Sea-Shore," IO38).
(153) '<orks, I, Wh ("Kig^t Sketches," I838).
(I51i) Stev^art, Ainerican Notebooks , p. 92 (l8i(2).
(155) V<orkB , II, 69 ("The Birtiiiaark, " I81j3).
(156) Works, II, 526 ("The /j-tict of tlie Beautiful," l8Ui).
(157) Cte\-;art, -\aerican .'iotebooks, p. 210 (181^9) ,
(158) Ibid. , p. 133 (1850).
(159) ttewsrt, £hglish L'otebooks. p. 101 (1855).
(160) ^.orks, II, 38 ("The Old 'ianse," 1856).
(161) A arks , X, li31 ( The French and Italian Note-Books. 1853).
(162) >.orks. XI, 2liO ( Scptialus Felton . I863).
283
God
(163) Works > xn, 188 Cmographical Stories," 1838).
(161») Vtorks , XI2, 107 (»A Book of Autographs," iSIjO),
(165) Stewart, Ataerican Notebooks > p» lltO (I8li2).
(166) Ibid, , p. 97.
(167) ^orkB. II, 252 ("The I¥ocession of Ufe," l8it3).
(168) ?;orks , in, 201 ( The House of the Seven Gables, 1851) •
(169) Stewart, Engtllsh Notebooks, p. 606 (1857).
(170) Works , X, 193 ( Tl:ie French and Italian ffote-^ooks , 1858)*
Aspects of Religion
(171) Works , IX, 37 ( The /inierican Note»Books , 1836).
(172) ^^orks , II, 285 ("The Hew Adas and ^re,« I8I43).
(173) Norman Ifelaes Peas<sj, "A Sketch l^ rJasfthome," MB5 , VI {Uarch
1933), 139 ("A Good Msaa's mrsel*," I8li3)*
(I7ij) Stewart, Anterican Hotebooks , p. 108 (18Ij5).
(175) Works. X, li53 ( The Prenoh and Italian Hote«.Booka , 1858).
(176) Ibid.. X, 205.
(177) fforks , VI, 3li3 ( The l^arble Faim , i860).
Formal Relif^lon
(178) Works , I, iiO ("Sunday at Home," 1837).
(179) SteTjait, American Notebooks , p. 165 (l8ii2).
(180) ?/orks . II, 2l;6 ("The Procession of Ufe," I8ii3).
(181) >Vbrk8 . II, 29 ("The Old Manse," 1856).
(182) .Vorks. X, l81t (The tYench and Italian Note-Books. 1858).
28it
(183) »^orka. VI, 183 ( The l^arble Faun, i860).
(I81i) Ibid., VI, 3IJ.
CHAPTER y
SOCIETY
Traditlcai
(185) V/orks , V, 27 CThe Scarlet Letter « I850).
(186) Ibid. . V, p. 26.
(187) ?/orka . III, 110 ( The :;ou3e of the Seven Gables. 1851),
(188) Ibid.. Ill, p. 18.
(1S9) Ibid. , in, p. Hi.
(190) Ibid., Ill, p. 31.
(191) Stewart, Snglish Notebooks, p. 127 (1855).
(192) r.-id., p. 2ii2.
(193) Ibid. , p. 29li (1356).
(19U) Ibid. , p. $B9 (1857).
(195) Works , VI, 3I16 ( The llarble Faun, i860).
(196) VJorlcs , XII, 317 ("Chiefly about l.ar ?.'atters,» 1862).
Society at Larne
(197) Chandler, "ilairthome's Spectator," Ng^, IV, 293 (1820),
(198) Idem.
(199) ^Yorks , XI, 202 (J^nshawe, 1828).
(200) 7/ork8 , I, I6ii ("Wakefield," 1835).
(201) VJorks, III, 562 ("Old News," 1835).
(202) works, I, iJ7 ("Peter Goldwaite's Treasure," 1333),
285
(203) Workga 11, 279 ("fh© Hew Adaia and Sv©,* I8li3).
(20li) Stewart, American Motebooks^ p. 218 (l350),
(205) ITosrfcS s III, 55 ( The House of tlm Seven Gablos, l85l).
(206) Ibid. , in, p. 209.
(207) forks, V, 583 ( Yhe Bllthedale Roiaanoe^ 1852).
(208) Works , VI, 275 ( The liarble Faun , i860).
(209) liorks, VII, lit? ( Our Old Home, 1863 ).
(210) Works , XI, 299 ( Septimius Felton , I863).
(211) Works, VII, 2ii2 ( Our Old Home, 1863).
Political Society
(212) Ijyve Letters, I, lij? (XSIiO)*
(213) ^Vorks , V, 52 ( The ^^oarlet Lett&r » l850)*
(21ii) Ibid., V, 53.
(215) Ibid., ?, 59.
(216) Works, III, 32li ( Tne liom& of the Seven Gables , I851),
(217) Works , VII, 53 ( Cur Old Hoae, I863).
CHAPTER VI
mvm
The Function of Women
(218) Works'. XII, 217 C^s. Ilutchinaon," I830).
(219) Works , XH, 53 ("'J^be Antique Ring," I8UO).
(220) Y/carks , V, 311 ( The Scarlet Letter , 1850).
(221) Boid. . V, 105.
286
(222) Ibid. . V, 107.
(223) orka, HI, 178 ( The Houae of the f>evcn Gables. 1851),
(22li) •■7or?c9 , 71, 55 ( The Marble Faun, i860).
(225) Ibid.. VI, liliO.
Young "iiaai&a
(226) .orks . I, 2U9 ("The Vision of the Fountain," 1835).
(227) "orkB, V, 1^02 ( The Bljthedale Ronance , 1852).
(^25) Ibid., V, li03.
Mother
(229) ^carka . III, 395 ("A Childish I^iraole," 1850).
(230) ^Vorka . XIII, 115 ( Dr. Griin8ha?/e ' s Secret. 1863).
Old v;,
(231) Vcrks, I, 517 ("Edsrard Fane's Rosebud," 1837).
(232) rtevrart, "Hawthorne and Politics," NE^, V, 258. (Fron a letter,
l851t)»
Public
(233) "orks , Xil, 217 ("ilrs. Hutchinson," 1830 ).
(23U) Ibid. . XII, 218.
(235) works, V, 200 ( The Ccarlet Letter. 1850),
(236) ..orks. V, 1:57 ( rae Blithodale i^^raanoe . 1850).
(237) Caroline Ticknor, llatvthome .irA His Publisher (Boston, 1913),
p. 119 (froia a letter, I051i).
(238) Ibid. , p. li|2 (ft-on a letter, 1055).
(239) Love Inters , II, 2kS (1356).
287
(210) Worka , ?I, 72 ( Hie ?%rble Faun , i860).
Women in General
(2la) Turner, Hgvvthorae as mitor , p. 2lih (1836).
(2U2) iiarka, I, 36 ("Sund«er at Home," 1837).
(2I43) Works , V, 70 ( The Scarlet Letter. 1850).
(2Ui) ^Vorks . V, 339 ( The 31ithedale Romance . 18^2).
(2li5) Ibld« . ?, 356.
(2i{6) Ibid., V, 55^3.
(2ii7) Stev/art, aiglish Notebooks , p. 52 (l851i).
(2U8) -orics. VII, 68 ( Otir Old Home, I863).
Mar-riage and the llom
i2h9) Turner, Hgwthome as Editor, p. 252 (I836).
<2^0) Ibid., p. 116.
(251) ..orks , 11, lii9 ("Mrs. Bullfrog," 1837).
(252) Ste'^yart, American Notebook, p. U5 (I838).
(253) Ibid. , p. 179 (18I43).
(251i) Stewart, laiglish Notebooks , p. 557 (1857).
Ghildb^'en
(255) Works . I, 152 ("Wakefield," 1835).
(256) '^;orkB , I, hS ("T}ie Wedding Knell," IO36).
(257) -.orks . V, 31 ( The Scarlet Letter . l850).
(258) Ibid. . V, 272.
(259) ■■'orkg. r/, 2h ( A Wonder Book for Girls and Boys . 1851).
(260) .vorks. Ill, 350 ( Tlie House of the Seven Gables . I85l).
288
(261) Y/orks. IV, 53 ( A Wonder Book for Glrlg and Boya. 1851),
Love
(262) Morks, U, 133 ("Rappaccini's Daughter," l3hh),
(263) '^^'orka. V, 2li3 ( The Scarlet I<3tter. 1850).
(26!i) Ibid.. V, 212.
(265) Ibid.. 7, l$lt,
(266) Ibid. , V, 30? .
(267) '^orks, V, 561 ( The Jlithedale Icooance . 1852).
(268) Stewart, /irnerlcan rjotebooks . p. 280 (1853),
(269) Stewart, Ihgllsh Hotebocks . p. 112 (1355).
(270) -orks , XI, 3Bh ( SerAindus Felton > 1863).
CHAPTER VU
ART AND THE ARTIST
Archltectrire
(271) Gtewart, English Noteboolcs . p. i;i3 (1056).
(272) VjOTka, X, 31j3 ( The Ireiich and Italian Note-iiooka. 1853).
(273) Ibid. . X, IfOO.
(27^) £oric8, VII, 153 ( Our Old Home . 1863).
Sculpture
(275) Stewart, English Kotebooka . p. 223 (l855).
(276) Hud., p. 393 (1356).
(277) Ibid. , p. 609 (1857).
(278) wortcs, X, 171 (The P^ench and Italian Note-Books. 1053).
m
(279) Ibid., X, 399.
(280) Ibid.. X, 111.
(281) VYorks. VI, 163 ( The ?larble Faun, i860).
(282) Ibid. , VI, 159.
Piainting
(283) Stewart, ^^lish Notebo<^a . p. 392 (1856),
(28ii) Ibid. , p. 517 (1857).
(285) Ibid., p. 5^.
(286) Ibid. , p. 6lii.
(287) Worfca, X, 122 ( The French and Italian Note~Booka . 1858).
(288) Ibid. , X, 111.
(289) Ibid. . X, 300.
(290) Ibid., X, 181,
(291) Ibid.. X, 123.
(292) Ibid.. X, 331.
(293) Worka . VI, 389 ( The l%irble Faun , i860).
(29U Ibid., VI, 382.
Poetry
(295) Works , III, h33 ("The Great Stone Face," IO50),
(296) V/orfc8. Ill, 171 ( The House of the Sev^ Gables. l85l).
(297) £«rtc8, IV, 107 ( A V/onder riood for Girls and ^oya , IS 51).
(298) Ste-.^^art, ii^RHsh Notebooks , p, 62 (l85U).
(299) ^orks . VII, 223 ( Our Old noae. I863).
(300) Ibid. . VII, 315.
290
(301) Ibid. , ?n, 235.
(302) IMd.. VII, 318,
Fiction
(303) V.orics, xn, 69 ("C3raves and Goblins," I81j0),
(30li) Stewart, /\iaerican Notebooks , p. 105 (181»2),
(3O5J) Ibid. , p. 93.
(306) Harold aodgett, "Hawthorne as Poetry Critic: Sl:c Unpublished
i.«tters to Louis I.iansfield, " Amsrican Uterature. XII (May
19U0}, 177 (from a letter, IQ'BT.
(307) ^Vorks . V, 17 ( The Scarlet Letter. 1850).
(308) Ibid. , y, 5it.
(309) IVorkB. Ill, 15 ( Tho House of the Seven Gabli^r.. I85l).
(310) V'orks , III, 388 (ii-eface to The Sno^-Iaage and oth er Tuice-Told
Tales , 1851). — ■
(311) £orks, VI, 15 ( The ?iarble Faun , i860).
Hawthorne and fiction
(312) Saiapjel Longfellow, Life of Henry ifadsworth Lon.^f ello7r {Key York.
1887), I, 265 (from a letter, 1(337).
(313) Fields, Yesterday with Authors, p. 56 (fron a letter, 1850).
(31i4) Horatio Bridge, Personal Recollections of iiatlianiel Hairthome
(iJeAT York, 1693), p. Ill (from a letter, 1850).
(315) Ibid., p. 125 (1351).
(316) Ticknor, .iavfthome and lis Publisher , p. 116 (fi-om a letter,
1853).
(317) vorks . II, hh ("The Old ifeaise," 1856).
(313) rielda, Yesterda;:,'- vdth Authors, p. 87 (froa a letter, 1360).
(319) Ibid. , p. 88.
291
(320) Ibid, , p. 109 (1863).
on) Ibid. , p. 116 (I86]i).
taste
(322) Stewart, English Kotebooks . p. 'j^ (1857).
(323) Ibid., p. 558.
(32if) Horfra, XI, 5D7 ( The Ancestral Footstep , 1858).
(325) Works , X, 317 ( Tlie Fraich and Italian Note-Bookg , 1853).
falent and Gaiiu^
(326) Stewart, itaegrican Notebooks, p. 156 (I8I42).
(327) Works , II, 2U0 ("The i^ocession of Idfe," 18^).
(328) fitowart, aiRlish Hotebooba , p. 2la (1855).
(329) Ibid. , p. 235.
(330) l?rorks , II, 31 ("The Old Lfanse," 1856>»
The Audience
(331) Worlcs, X, 307 ( The French md Italian Note-Books, 1858),
(332) Ibid., X, 332.
(333) Ibid., X, IjOlj.
(33h) •Mra, 71, lU ( The Ito-ble Faun , i860),
(335) Ibid., VI, 382.
Fam e
(336) Works , IV, h^ ( The Whole Histoid/ of Grandfatl->or's Chair . 181^1).
(337) ^orks, XII, 151 ("Biographical Stories," 131)2).
(338) ^<orkg, V, J.i09 ( The Blithedale Rontance, 1852).
292
(339) Stewart, Ihgllsh Notebooks , p. laS (1856).
(3ljO) Fields, Yeaterda;^ ^th Authors , p. lOlj (from a letter, I863).
The iirtist's Ideal
(3la) V>^orks. II, 535 ("The Artist of the Beautiful," l8Ui).
(312) Ibid. . II, 512.
(3)43) Ibid. . II, 5t>7.
i3hh) Stewart, ai^lish Notebooks , p. 352 (1856).
(3li5) Ibid. . p. 570 (1857).
(3l<6) Ibid., p. 6ll4.
(3h7) ■orks, VI, laU ( The Marble Faun, i860),
(3h^) Ibid., VI, 158.
{3h9) Ibid. , VI, 2h9,
lArbhods and Probleaa of Art
(350) >/orka. XII, 227 ("t:ir V/iiiiam Phlps," I830).
(351) Stewart, American Notebooks, p. 168 (131^2).
(352) Ibid. , p. 130 (1850;.
(353) "orks . III, 58 ( The House of the Seven Gables. l85l).
(351i) 'orks . III, 386 (Preface to The Snovr-IoaHe an d other Twice-Told
Tales , 1851), —
(355) Stewart, uiprlish Notebooks , p. 212 (1855).
(356) jiorks, VII, 306 ( Our Old Home . I863).
(357) roid. , VII, 310.
293
GHAPTSR Vm
HU^IAN NATURE
Idmltationg on ^lankind
(3^8) Works > in, 371 ( TI>e kmse of the Seven Gables . 1851).
i3B9) works , IV, S3 ( A Zander Dook for .-rirls and loya. 13 5l).
(360; Stewart, iJigHsh Notebooks , p, hBk (l857).
(361) vorks. vn, ]i6 ( Qitr Old Hoiae. 1863)»
(362) Works . XI, 281 ( Septi^isLus Felton. 1863 )•
Man's Nature
(363) ^otks, XI, 201 ( Fanshaffe. 1828).
(361)) Works, IX, 3lj (The American Note-Sooks, 1836) •
(36$) Works , I, 251 ("Floy's Show Box," 1837).
(366) Works, IS, 107 ( The Aaorlcan Hote-Books. 1837).
(367) orks . I, 257 ("Fancj-'s Show Box," 1837).
(368) Works. XII, lh3 ("Biographical £tories,« iSiiO),
(369) Works , IV, 525 Cfhe ^Jhole .^listory of Grandfather's Chair . l8Ul).
(370) Works, II, 171 ("Buds and Bird Voices," I8ij3).
(371) Stewart, American Notebooks, p. 118 (I61j6).
(372) vVorks . V, 231. ( The Scarlet Letter . 1850).
(373) Ibid. . V, 61.
(37 Ij) Works . Ill, 273 ( Tiie House of the Seven Gables. 1851).
(375) Ibid. . Ill, 215.
(376) Ibid. . Ill, 38.
(377) Ibid. , Ill, 150,
(373) Works. XII, 365 (Life of Franklin Pierce. 1852).
291
(279) 'Vorka. V, 190 ( The Bljthedale Romance . 1852),
(380) Ibid.. V, U9^,
(331) Ibid. , V, 37li.
(382) Stewart, American Notebooks , p. 2h7 (1855).
(383) Ibid. , p. 190.
(381) Ibid., p. 275 (1856).
(385) ^Vorks . VII, 12I4 ( Our Old Home. 1363).
(386) Ibid. . VII, 386.
(387) orks. XIII, 20li ( Dr. Griroshgro'B Secret . I863).
(388) ->ork8. XI, 31 ( The Dolliver Hoaance. I86I4),
Individual Natures
(389) tforka . I, 199 ("Kie Prophetic flcturos," I837).
(390) £orks, II, 367 ("The Intellieonce Office," iGlh),
(391) Idem.
(392) Stewart, /jnerican Notebooks , p. 106 (iSljlj),
(393) liorks, V, 199 ( The Scarlet Letter . 1850).
{39h) ''orks. III, 218 ( Tiie Ilouse of the Seven Gables. I85l).
(395) Ibid. , ni, 85.
(396) ..orks, IV, 118 ( A V/onder Book for Girls and i^oys . l85l),
(397) ;^prks, XIII, h6 J Dr, Grinshage's oecrot . I863).
Interactiqns
(398) .^orks . I, 157 ("Vvakefield," 1335).
(399) "orks. III, 62 ( The iouse of the Seven Gables . 1051).
(IjOO) .7ork3 . V, 398 ( The Blithedale Itoraance . 1352),
Z9S
(iiOl) -<kaks^ VI, U83 ( The F^bXe Farm, i860),
(li02) joricg, VII, 3it3 ( Our Old Home, 1863)*
(]i03) orks. XIII, yik ( Dr. Grimshgire's Secret, 1863).
(IjOli) ^Vorks, VII, 279 ( Our Old Hoiae , 1863).
(1P5) V^orks, XI, 271 ( Septimlus Felton . 1863).
The Hatiire of the Public
(lj06) V>ork9 , IX, 37 ( rhe Jm&rlcm Mote-Books, 1836).
(itO?) Turner, ?ia->'.thome as Editor , p. 75 (I836).
(I1O8) Moiics, V, 196 ( The Scarlet Letter. 1350).
(I4O9) Ibid. , V, 155.
(lao) Stewart, EngUsh Kotebooks , p. 236 (l855).
(iai) Ibid., p. 595 (1857).
(IA2) Ibid. ^ p. 601,
The Mature of the Sick
(^J '^orka, II, 309 ("Egotisinj or, the Bosom Serpent," 18^3).
(hlW aorks. V, 152 ( The Scarlet Letter, 1850).
^^^^ ^i^rks . III, 173 ( The ilouae of t^ie Seven Gables, 1851).
^^) BS& V^^* 3i{6 ( Our Old Hone . 1863 ).
(ia7) ■■^orfcs , XIII, 162 ( Dr. Grimshav^e's Secret, 1863).
The 'Twiligtht Zom
(la8) ?fork8, II, 52 ("The Birtfaaark," 18)43).
(I4I9) Ibid. , II, 51.
(Ii20) rtewart, An«rican Notebooks, p. 106 (iSljJb).
(Ii21) Worka . Ill, 88 ( The House of the Seven Gables. 1851).
296
(U22) Ibid.. Ill, 191,,
(ii23) Works, y, 372 ( The Blithedale Roaance , 1652).
Purpose and Poirer
(i»2li) :ioTkB» III, hP ( The House of the Seven Gables. lOgl),
(ii25) Ibid. . Ill, 207.
(Ij26) orka. V, 399 ( The Blithedale Romance. 1852),
(ij27) Vorks . XIII, 12 ( Dr. Griaghavfe « 3 Secret . I863).
The Nattire of a 'lero
(Ii20) Chandler, "Hawthorne's Spectator," NE^, T\l, 323 (1820),
(li29) Stewart, AniKriLcan Notebooks, p. 251 (1850).
{130) "lorka , V, 331 ( The Blithedale Rosiance. 1852),
(ii3l) Stewart, xlh?;lish Notebooks , p. 60 (l85U,
(U2) Ibid., p. $h9 (1857).
firoverfas on Human Nature
(li33) Chandler, "Hairthome's Spectator," N^, IV, 316 (1820),
(U3h) -Vorkg . IH, 603 ("The .Vives of the Dead," I832),
(lO^) '.forks . I, 367 ("The Ambitious Guest," 1835),
(1j36) Turner, Fiav.-thome as I^tor . p. 195 (I836),
(lt37) uoTka, IX, 37 ( The .^raerican Note-Books . I836).
(1i38) Turner, rIayH;horne as Editor , p. 2li5 (I836).
0i39) orks . I, 239 ("The Toll-Gatherer's Lay," I837).
(iUiO) Works, I, li33 (":.'i^t Sketches," I838).
(Ua) •Vorks , y, 13 (riae Scarlet Letter. 1850).
297
(1Uj2) Ibld, M V, 62.
ihh3) Works , III, 287 ( !ghe House of the Seven Gables, 1851) •
(.hhh) "iiorka, IV, 121 (A Wondcy Book for Girls and F^ys , 1851).
ihhS) Stewart, Ehftlish Notebooks , p. 186 (1855).
im) Ibid., p. 595 (1857).
(I4li7) Works , X, 226 ( The ^^ch and Italian IIote^Books. 1858).
ilM) Ibid.. X, 512 (1859).
(ijli9) Worka . VI, h3 ( The Iferble Faun, i860},
(150) Worka. VII, 3h ( Cur Old Home , 1863)*
(^^) M^» ^^^> 261.
CHiPf SR IX
mSlOML HATOEES
■me QaKliafa
(i;52) Stevrart, £hglish Hotebooks , p. 62 (l85!i).
(ii53) Ibid. , p, 50.
iWh) Ibid., p. 89.
^^5) Ibid. , p. 102 (1855).
(156) Ticlcnor, -Ha:i,rthome and lils Fubllshar , p. 1^ (from a letter, 1855).
(ii57) Ibid. , p. Iit3.
(Ii58) Sarauel Lcaigfellow, Life of Kenry uoAswarth Longfellour , II, 28?
(from a latter, 1855).
(Ii59) Stewart, ai^llah Notebooks , p. 353 (1356).
(h60) Ibid. , p. 385.
(ij6l) Ibid., p. la.6.
298
(162) Ibid. , p. S63 (1857).
(U63) -lOTks, X, Ia9 (The IVench and Italian riote-Dooks , 1358),
{h(>h) >.orks. VII, 372 (Our Old nome. I863).
(Ii65) Ibid.> VII, 37li.
(U66) orka , XIII, 210 ( .T, Grlmhairo's Secret. I863).
(U67) iVorks . VII, 123 ( Our Old lome. 1363).
(I46O) Ibid. . 1/11, 363.
(Ii69) Ibid.. VII, 23U.
(1^70) orka . XIH, 207 ( ])r. (^diaahawe'g Secret. I863).
(U71) Ibid. . XIII, 298.
Tbe Scota
(li72) 3te?/art, Eng;ll8h L'otebooks. p, 339 (1856).
The French
(Ii73) Turner, Hawthorne aa Editor , p. 36 (I836).
{hlh) "orks . X, 19 ( The i-lrench and Italian xiote~3oo k3, 185^3),
(U75/ Ibid.. X, 553 (1359).
The Italians
(li76) Ibid. . X, 221 (1850).
(I:i77) ■orka. VI, 21 ( The I.larble laun. i860).
(^73) Ibid. . VI, 309.
(Ii79) Ibid. . VI, h63.
The .Americana
(U80) Turner, Mawbhome aa editor , p. 63, (I836).
299
(U81) Stmart, libglish Notebooks, p, 96 (l851t)»
(ii82) Ticknor, Haaafthorne and Kls PubllgaieT. p. 125 {from a letter, iSSli),
(h83) Stewart, Sngtllsh Hotebookg , p. 82 (iSSh)*
ihBh) Works, X, US6 (The French and Italian Nots-^Books , 1858).
(1^6) Ibid. , XII, 313.
(US?) Ibid. , XII, 311i.
(ij88) ^^rks, XIII, 203 ( Or* Gritns>iaTi7e«a Secret, 1863).
(h.B9) arks , VII, 16 ( Our Old Horn, 1863).
(1-90) Ibid., ?n, 83.
<^1> Mil* ^^^> 3J46,
The Puritans
(ii92) orks , ?, 282 ( The Scarlet Letter, 1850).
ih93) Ibid. , V, 277.
(iiPii) Ibid., ?, 275.
(Ii95) Ibid.. V, 13lt.
(Ij96) Stewart, Ehglish Notebooks, p. 1;51 (1857)
Hgw lihgland
(Ij97) Works, XII, 8? ( Dr. Bttllivant , 181^0).
(1j98) Bridge, Personal Recollections, p. 155 (from a letter, 1857).
(Ii99) >^orks , X, I|20 ( The French and Italian Kote^l^ooks , 1358).
^^°°^ ^oy^» XII, 326 ("Chiefly about vfar ^.fetters," 1862).
Similarity of Natures
(501) V/orks, X, ii7 ( The I'^ench and Italian !.'ote»Book8 . 1858).
300
CHAPPBR X
raOQRESS, RESOm, BROTHERHOOD, AND WAR
1
(502) Turner, Hawthorne as Editor , p. 168 (1836).
(503) ^^orks. I, 2la ("The Toll-Gatherer's Day," 1837).
(50li) iorks . I, 336 ("Snow-Flakes," I838).
(505) Works, II, 159 ("Fire iiorship,« I8ii3).
(506) Ibid.. II, 160.
(507) '^tewart, Qiglish Notebooks, p. 82 (l8>'i).
(500) Ibid., p. 1j5.
(509) Ibid., p. 233 (1855).
(510) .orks, II, 29 ("The Old ^anse," 1856),
(511) Stewart, Bnr;li3h Notcbooka. p. ^S9 (1857),
(512) ..orka. X, 162 ( The French and Italian Hote-g^oks . 1858),
(513) ■Vorks. XI, hSS ( The Ancestral Footstep. 1053).
(51I1) 1/orks , VI, 276 ( Tlie Marble Faun . 1360).
(515) works, VII, 212 ( Our Cld Home. IO63),
(516) Ibid. . VII, 111.
(517) Ibid.. VII, k6,
(518) Ibid. . VII, lOh.
(519) Ibid.. VII, 336.
(520) Ibid.. VII, 79.
301
(521) Stevrart, Aiaerican liotebooks, p» U8 (I838).
^i^2) Works I II, 2h6 ("The IVooession of Life," l8i43).
(023) Works, II, 206 ("The Hall of Fantaey," 181)3).
(52I4) Works . V, ItSO ( The Bllthedale Eoraance , 1852).
^^25) orka. lU, kU ( Tlie lAfc of I'^anklin aercQ. 1852).
(526) Stewart, Sinlish notebooks, p. 2li3 (1855).
(527) ^orks, II, lilt ("The Old Manse," 1856).
^528) Works. VII, 328 ( Our Old Home . 1863).
(529) Ibid. . VXI, 327.
3
BWsmmmB
(530) ^orka . I, lh9 ("Idttle Anni©»s Hastole," 1835).
(531) '.Vorks . I, it83 ("Ki#it Sketches," I838).
(532) Stewart, Aroericaii Notebooks , p. 166 (l81i2).
i$33) Pearson, "A Sketch by Hcs^rtihome/ NE^, VI, lit3 ("A Good Man's
laracle," 18ij3).
(53li) Works . II, 2it7 ("Th© Procession of Life," ISB).
(535) Works . Ill, 161 ( The House of the Seven Gables . l35l).
(536) Works. ¥11, 351 ( Ctir Old Horoe . I863).
(537) Idem.
(533) Ibid.. VII. 359.
302
The Lack of Brotherhood
(539) ^<orlC3. V, 367 ( The BUtJiedale l.onance . 1352).
iShO) Stewart, English Notebooks « p. ?7? (1856).
(5iil) "orks, XIII, 56 ( Dr« Jrinshaffe's Secret . 1363).
h
(5it2) Worics . Ill, 562 ("Old News," 1835).
(51i3) Turner, Hai/thome as utltor. p. IOI4 (I836).
i^hh) Hojrtcs, xn ("Chiefly about .ar Matters," 1862),
(515) Ibid.. XII, 299,
(51i6) Ibid. . XII, 320.
(5li7; Works. VII, 30lt (Cur Old Hone, I863).
CHAPTER XI
THE SYNTHESIS
The H&otional £quatioD
(5I48) Love Letters . I, 192 (l8iiO).
(519) Ibid. . II, 25 (I31a).
(550) Stewart, Anerican Notebooks , p. 159 (I81i2),
(551) Ibid. , p. 135 (ISU).
(552) Idea.
(553) orks. V, 31 ( The carle L Letter. 1350).
(551i) i-ields, YestciHiay with Authors , p. 60 (from a letter, l85l),
(555) Stewart, lA'^lish Notebooks, p. 93 (l851i).
(556) Ibid. , p. 117 (1355).
303
(557) Ibid., p. h5l (1857).
{$SQ) Fields, Yesterday vdtli Authors , p. 83 (i^ora a letter, 1858),
(559) Ibid. , p. Bk (from a letter, 1859).
(560) Ibid. , p. 98 Urcu a letter, 1362).
(561) .orkg, Xn, 328 («Chlefl^/ about '.ar l^latters," 1862).
(562) T/ork3, m, It6 ( Otrr Old Home , I863).
VITA
The author was bom in Nashville, Tennessee, on October 11,
1926. iie received his seccmdary education in JJashville, and then
entered the Univeirsity of Alabama in 19hh under the Army Specialised
Training i'rograa. Dorinc '-orld /sar II, he enlisted in the Arncr and
served abroad for eighteen months in the IMlippLnes and in Japan*
Upon discharge from the service in 15i»6, he entered
Vanderbilt Ihiversity at liashville, Tennessee, where he received hie
B, A. i»ith a major in English in 19U9 and his M. A, in 1950.
In Septeraber of 1950, he be' an graduate Trrork in tiiglish at
the University of Florida, Gainesville, Florida. During the three
years of study at florida, he held a graduate assistantship and a
fellowship from the Lftiiversity of tl-orida for work in linglish.
B^inning in September 1953 » be ?d.ll be a laember of the
aiglish faculty at Virginia Polytechnic Institute, Blackaburg,
Virginia.
This dissertation ims prepared under the direction of the
chairnan of the candidste's supervisory eonndttee and has been
apia^jved ty all laejabors of the conadttee. It tos submitted to
the Dean of the Collese of Arts and Sciences md to the
Graduate Council and was approved as partial fulfilment of the
requirenents for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
June 8, 1553
Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
Dean, Graduate School
sum?visoRr oomsntEEt
Chairman
Open Library