Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife; a biography

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PS 1881.H39N2 1893

V.1

Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wlfe:a biogr

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NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

AND HIS WIFE

a iSiograpi)^

BY

JULIAN HAWTHORNE

Vol. I.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

1893

P3
K I

Copyright, 1884,
By James R. Osgood and Company

All rights reserved.

/\^k^oi-'=(

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., {/ s A
Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. ' '

TO

MINNE HAWTHORNE

THESE RECORDS OF A HAPPY MARRIAGE

ARE DEDICATED

]3g tin f^us&anO.

fj. 9r/6^9

PREFACE

TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.

This biography will not be found to err on the
side of reticence. The compiler has given everything
that the most liberal construction of his obligation
could demand. The closet, to be sure, had no skele-
ton in it ; there was nothing to be hidden. What
should be published and what withheld, became,
therefore, a matter of taste rather than of discretion ;
and though a right selection under the former con-
dition may be more difi&cult than under the latter,
its importance is less.

I have allowed the subjects of the biography, and
their friends, to speak for themselves, whenever possi-
ble ; and, fortunately, they have done so very largely.
My own share in the matter has been chiefly con-
fined to effecting a running connection between the
component parts. I have not cared to comment or
to apologize, nor have I been concerned to announce
or confirm any theory. This book is a simple record
of lives ; and whatever else the reader wishes to find
in it must be contributed by himself. I will only
remark that if true love and married happiness

VI PREFACE.

should ever be in need of vindication, ample mate-
rial for that purpose may he found in these volumes.

Of Hawthorne as an author I have had little or
nothing to say: literary criticism had no place in
my present design. His writings are a subject by
themselves; they are open to the world, and the
world during the past thirty or forty years has been
discussing them, — not to much purpose as a rule.
Originality remains a mystery for generations.

I have received assistance, in the shape of letters
and other material, from various friends, to whom I
gratefuUy acknowledge my indebtedness. Mr. Henry
Bright (whose death occurred as the last pages of the
book were writing) sent me valuable notes of Haw-
thorne's English experiences; and Miss E. P. Peabody
has afforded me help which could scarcely have been
dispensed with. Mr. Kichard Manning, of Salem, in
addition to other courtesies, has allowed the portrait
of Hawthorne, in his possession, to be etched by Mr.
Schoff. And in this connection I cannot refrain
from saying that Mr. Schoffs success in all the six
likenesses which illustrate these volumes has been
quite exceptional. As likenesses they could not be
better; and they are their own evidence of their
artistic merit.

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
New Yokk, Jtily, 1884.

CONTENTS.

» ■

Chatter Paob

I. Ancestral Mattgbs 1

II. Sophia Amelia Peabody 39

III. Boyhood and Bacheloehood 83

IV. BoTHOOD AND Bachklokhood {Continued) . . 131
V. COTTKTSHIP 177

VI. The Old Manse 243

VII. Salem 304

VIII. Lenox 357

IX. CoNcoBD 436

LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS.

Daniel Hathohne. Etched by S. A. Schopp. From a

miniature in possession of tlie author . . . Frontispiece

Salem Custom House. Etched by E. H. Gabeett litlepage

Capt. Nathaniel Hathobne. Etched by S. A. Schopp.

Erom a immature in possession of the author ... 36

Sophia Amelia Hawthobne at the Ase op THiaTT-srs.
Etched by S. A. Schopp. Erom a painting in pos-
session of Mrs. N. Peabody, of Boston 242

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
AND HIS WIFE.

CHAPTER I.

ANCESTRAL MATTERS.

The forefathers of a distinguished man (especially
in this country) are not of much practical use to
him. What he is, outweighs what they can con-
tribute. Instead of their augmenting his dignity,
his own proper lustre is reflected back on them ; and
such interest as we take in them is for his sake. Por
his distinction — so far as it may have any relation
to them at all — seems to be the culmination or
flower of their prevailing traits and tendencies, added
to that personal and forming quality in him, without
which no mere accumulation even of the best mate-
rial would be of avail. How much the material in
question may amount to, and of how great importance
it may be as a factor in the individual's character,
is, indeed, still undetermined. It is. not necessary,
here, to enter upon a discussion of the merits of the
theory of Heredity; but we may, perhaps, assume
that faults and frailties are more readily and persis-

TOL. I. 1

2 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

tently reproduced than virtues, — since the former
belong to a man's nature, as distinguished from that
self-effected modification of his nature, which we call
character. A tendency to drunkenness, for example,
or to pocket-picking, is more easily traced in a man's
ancestry than a tendency to love one's neighbor as
one's self, or to feel as charitably disposed towards
those who injure us as towards those who injure our
enemies. In other words, nature is passive, and
character is active ; and activity is more apt than
passivity to be original, or peculiar.

It might seem an ungracious task, however, to
analyze this great reservoir of ancestry with a view
to reveal the imperfections of an individual. If a
man contrives to get through life respectably and
honorably, why ferret out the weaknesses which he
strove to conceal? Would not vice be encouraged
by the knowledge that even the greatest figures of
history partook of its infirmity ? The present writer,
for his own part, confesses to feeling no sympathy
with those who answer these questions in the affirma-
tive. If it be true that human nature is evil, we
shall gain nothing by blinking the fact. If the truth
be humiliating, so much the wholesomer for us who
are humiliated; the complacency born of ignorance
of — and still more of ignoring — that which exists,
can have in it no health or permanence. Sooner or
later it will be overthrown, and then, the greater the
security has been, the more disastrous will be the
catastrophe. We are too apt to forget that intellec-

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 3

tual eminence can exist side by side with moral
frailty or depravity ; and we are prone to infer that
because a man does right, he has felt no tepptation
to do wrong. But, in reality, the beauty, the pathos,
and the power of the spectacle of humanity lies in
the fact that it is a spectacle of a mortal struggle
between two eternal forces, — a struggle more or less
stubbornly and conspicuously maintained, but com-
mon and inevitable to every one of us. The greatest
men, so far as we know anything about them, have
not been those who were virtuous without effort.
Ever since Christ was tempted in the wilderness, and
prayed that the cup might pass from him, and ac-
cused God of forsaking him, character has been, not
innate, but the issue of this endless conflict between
the desire of good and the tendency to evil ; and its
strength has been in proportion to the weight of the
tendency as well as to the intensity of the desire.
Indeed, the desire can be intense only in so far as
the tendency is weighty. The imminence of peril
creates the faculty to analyze and overcome it. If
Christ was greater than other men, it was not because
he did right more easify than they, but, on the con-
trary, because he resisted in his own person the
tendencies to evil of the whole human race. Good
men are not monsters : they know, better tlian others,
what it means to be human. No doubt, we seldom
have an opportunity to perceive the painful and
laboring steps by which goodness or greatness is
achieved ; only the result comes into our range of

4 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

vision. The reason is, that strength is silent and
calm, and has the reserve and humility of a conqueror
who knows the cost of victory, and how precarious and
incomplete all victory is. It cannot talk about itself;
it cannot iind anything in itself worth talking about.
Looking at itself from within, as it were, it sees only
its negative aspect. None the less it is well for out-
siders to investigate the processes of the growth and
development of heroes, not in order to console our-
selves for our shortcomings, but to gain encourage-
ment from the discovery that human weakness is the
very essence and occasion of human strength.

Now, as regards the subject of this biography, —
a man whose personal weight and influence was
strongly impressed upon all who knew him, and
whose private moral life was as free from degrada-
tion as his writings are, — there is no reason to doubt
that he inherited, or at all events possessed in him-
self, a full share of the faults and foibles of mankind
in general. He was, moreover, hampered by certain
inconveniences or misfortunes incident to the period
and society in which he was placed, — such as Puri-
tanism, Calvinism, narrow social and moral prejudices,
the tyranny of local traditions and precedents, and
very limited pecuniary resources. Furthermore, he
was brought up . (as will appear later on) under
what might be considered special disadvantages. His
mother, a woman of fine gifts but of extreme sensi-
bility, lost her husband in her twenty -eighth year;
and, from an exaggerated, almost Hindoo-like con-

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 5

struction of the law of seclusion which the public
taste of that day imposed upon widows, she withdrew
entirely from society, and permitted the habit of soli-
tude to grow upon her to such a degree that she ac-
tually remained a strict hermit to the end of her long
life, or for more than forty years after Captain Haw-
thorne's death. Such behavior on the mother's part
could not fail to have its effect on the children.
They had no opportunity to know what social inter-
course meant; their peculiarities and eccentricities
were at least negatively encouraged; they grew to
regard themselves as something apart from the gen-
eral world. It is saying much for the sanity and
healthfulness of the minds of these three children,
that their loneliness distorted their judgment, their
perception of the relations of things, so little as it
did. Elizabeth, the eldest, had, indeed, an under-
standing in many respects as commanding and pene-
trating as that of her famous brother ; a cold, clear,
dispassionate common-sense, softened by a touch
of humor such as few women possess. " The only
thing I fear," her brother said once, " is the ridicule
of Elizabeth." As for Louisa, the youngest of the
three, she was more commonplace than any of them;
a pleasant, refined, sensible, feminine personage, with
considerable innate sociability of temperament.

Nathaniel, two years younger than Elizabeth and
four years older than Louisa, had the advantage, in
the first place, of being a boy. He could go out in
the streets, play with other boys, fight with them.

6 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

make friends with them. He was distinguished
by a cool and discriminating judgment, with a
perception of the ludicrous which, especially in
his earlier years, manifested itself in a disposition
to satire. Being more than a match, intellectually,
for the boys of his own age with whom he came in
contact, he had a certain ascendency over them,
which could be enforced, at need, by his personal
strength and pugnacity. He was daring, but never
reckless ; he did not confound courage with foolhar-
diness. These characteristics could hardly have faUed
to inspire in him a fair degree of self-complacency,
which would probably continue until the deeper
thoughts which succeed those of boyhood made him
look more broadly, and therefore more humbly, upon
the relations of things and men. But, at all events,
he had a better chance than "his sisters to escape from
the pensive gloom of his mother's mode of existence
into the daylight and breeze of common life. Her
solitary habits, however, affected and stimulated his
imagination, which was further nourished by the tales
of the War of 1812 and of the Eevolution related to
him by his elders, and by the traditions of the witch-
craft period, — in all of which episodes his own fore-
fathers had borne a part ; and his mother, who, in spite
of her unworldliness, had some wise views as to edu-
cation, gave him books to read of romance, poetry,
and allegory, which largely aided to develop the ideal
side of his mind. Too much weight can hardly be
given to the value of this imaginative training in a

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 7

boy who united a high and sensitive organization to
robust bodily powers. It provided him with a world
apart from the material world, in which he could find
employment and exercise for all those vague energies
and speculations of an active and investigating tem-
perament, which has not yet acquired the knowledge
and experience necessary to a discrimination between
the sound and the unsound. If all imaginative re-
sources had been closed to him, the impulse to live
throughout the range of his capacities would doubt-
less have led him into mischief which could not
afterwards have been repaired.

Such, slightly indicated, were some of the condi-
tions under which Nathaniel Hawthorne began to
live. But before proceeding further with his personal
history, it may be useful to take a glance at the
leading facts of his family annals, from the time of
the landing in New England of the first etnigrant,
onwards. In so doing, the reader will be Jeft to draw
his own conclusions as to how much light, if any, the
deeds and characters of his ancestors cast upon their
descendant. The writer's province will be simply to
present, without garbling or reservation, whatever
may seem likely to illustrate the matter. In such
an investigation nothing beyond plausible inference
is possible ; and of inferences, however plausible, it is
my purpose, in this work, uniformly to decline the
responsibility.

The family seat of the Hawthornes, at the time of
the first emigration, is supposed to have been in

8 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

Wiltshire. The father of the first emigrant was born
about 1570, and was married near the beginning of
the seventeenth century. The issue of this marriage
was four children, — Eobert, the eldest, who remained
in England; William, the second son, born in 1607,
who was the emigrant ; a daughter, Elizabeth ; and
John, the youngest, who followed William to New
England after an interval of some years, and died
there in 1676, leaving behind him four sons and four
daughters, from whom are probably descended the
Hathornes and Hathorns whose names occasionally
appear in newspapers and elsewhere, but concerning
whom I am able to give no further information. I
append, however, an extract from a letter written to
Una Hawthorne by her aunt, the Miss Elizabeth
Hawthorne already mentioned, which touches the
subject. The suggestion as to the Welsh origin of
the fantily is a novel one. The coat-of-arms, and
Nathaniel Hawthorne's impression that the name
" Hawthorne " was a translation of " de I'Aub^pine,"
indicate a French descent.

" Mrs. Forrester was a Storey, and her husband,
John Forrester, was a son of Eachel Hathorne, my
father's sister. ■ Mrs. Forrester likes to talk of the
ancestral glories of the Hawthorne family. Several
years ago she brought a copy of our coat-of-arms,
drawn by one of her daughters. She had made re-
searches in heraldry, but she could not tell what
some figures upon it were. Nobody could, from that
drawing. But our coat is the one attributed in the

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 9

'White Old Maid' to some great family: 'Azure,
a lion's head erased, between three fleurs-de-lis.'

" I never heard of the English ' Admiral Haw-
thorne' you mention, living at Boulogne. In the
Court-guide I find a Mr. George Hawthorne, wine-
merchant, Bristol, — perhaps this gentleman's father.
There are not a few who write themselves 'Hathorn,'
but none of them, so far as I know, are in positions
that make it desirable to claim kinship with them.
They may be of the same blue blood, but we have a
right to ignore them. That, I suppose, is the way
every family, however lofty, maintains its superiority.
Your father told me that he believed there were not
many of the English nobility better born than our-
selves. Mrs. Anne Savage told me that her mother,
who was a Hawthorne, was convinced that we were
of Welsh origin. She also said that she believed that
Upham, in his ' History of Witchcraft,' had purposely
and maliciously belittled John Hathorne, the witch
judge. It is very possible ; for Dr. Wheatland, who
has investigated ouv history, thinks him 'an eminent
man, in talent and weight of character not inferior
to his father, William. William Hathorne came over
with Winthrop, and first settled in Dorchester. I
never heard of any insanity in the family. We are
a remarkably ' hard-headed ' race, not easily excited,
not apt to be carried away by any impulse. The
witch's curse is not our only inheritance from' our
ancestors ; we have also an unblemished name, and
the best brains in the world."

10 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

William Hawthorne, or Hathorne (the spelling was
either way, but the pronunciation the same in both),
was a passenger on board the " Arbella," and disem-
barked in Boston, in 1630, when he was twenty-three
years of age. While still a resident of Dorchester,
and before he had entered upon his thirtieth year, he
twice acted as Eepresentative ; and after his removal
to Salem, in 1637, he filled the position of Speaker
during seven or eight years. His parliamentary ac-
tivity seems to have been suspended for one year, —
1643, — but in 1644 he was again Speaker and
Deputy, and remained so until 1661, when he was
fifty-four years old. Some echoes of his eloquence
have come down to posterity ; and it must have been
of a sturdy and trenchant sort, to hold the ears of
Puritan law-givejs so long. Unquestionably, this
William Hawthorne was a man of restless energy, as
well as unusual powers of mind. He put his vigor-
ous hand to every improvement and enterprise that
was going forward in the new settlement; he cleared
the woods, he fought the Indians and treated with
them, he laid plans for the creation of a great Fur
Company, he led adventurous expeditions into the
untrodden wilderness, — the latest being made in his
seventieth year, along with Captains Sill and Wal-
dron ; and in the same year, in his capacity as Magis-
trate, he caused the execution of one John Flint, for the
crime of shooting an Indian. Justice, with him, does
not seem to have been tempered with mercy. Quak-
ers received the lash at his command, qnd itinerant

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 11

preachers and vagabonds were happy if they escaped
with the stocks or the pillory. He was Commissioner
of Marriages in 1657; in 1681, a gray-headed old
man, he led the opposition against Eandolph. It was
in this year, moreover, that he died, full of years and
honors ; for his life had been as successful as it was
vigorous and versatile. There was scarcely any field
of activity open to him, in which he had not exerted
himself Even religion received the beneiit of his
zeal and eloquence, as may appear from this passage
in a letter written by Miss Elizabeth Hawthorne to her
brother : " Perhaps you never heard that our earliest
peculiar ancestor, whose remembrance you have made
permanent in the Introduction to the ' Scarlet Letter,'
preached, besides all his other great doings. Mr.
Taylor, the minister at Manchester, a man addicted
to antiquarian pursuits, called to ask me if I knew
anything about it. He said he thought it possible
I might have paid some attention to my ancestry,
and told me that this old Major, with about a dozen
others, whose names he mentioned, used to go by
turns to Manchester to preach. He had the informa-
tion from Mr. Felt,'' — who, it may be observed, was
the author of " The Annals of Salem," a painstaking
work containing much curious information about the
respectable old town and its inhabitants.

But the chief testimony in support of Major Haw-
thorne's claims to statesmanship and a prominent posi-
tion among his fellow-colonists, is the document which
he wrote, under an, assumed name, to Mr. Secretary

12 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Morrice, in the year 1666, at the age of fifty-nine. One
cannot read it, and note the turns of argument and
expression, without feeling that he has gained some
insight into the character of its author. It is subtle,
ingenious, politic, and audacious ; indicating a keen un-
derstanding of human nature on the writer's part, as
well as a wise and comprehensive grasp of the whole
situation "as between the Colonists and the King. The
occasional ambiguity of the language calls to mind
the speech which Scott puts into the mouth of Oliver
Cromwell, in one of his romances ; it seems to be an
intentional ambiguity, as of an intrepid and resolute
man, who yet prefers to resort to cunning, and policy
rather than to open defiance, when the former may
gain his end. What Secretary Morrice thought of
this communication is not known ; but, at all events.
Governor Bellingham and Major Hawthorne did not
go to London at the King's command. Miss Haw-
thorne, in writing of this document, says : —

" Mr. Palfrey told Mr. Hawthorne that he felt cer-
tain the memorable letter referring to the order from
England for Governor Bellingham and Major William
Hathorne to repair thither, ' was written by our
aforesaid ancestor.' ' The letter,' he adds, ' was a very
bold and able one, controverting the propriety of the
measure above indicated.' It was a greater honor to
defy a king than to receive from him such nobility
as so many great families owed to Charles Second. I
cannot remember the time when I had not heard that
the King sent for our forefather, William Hathorne,

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 13

to come to England, and that he refused to go. And
I have always been pleased when monarchs have
met with opposition."

The document is endorsed in Nathaniel Haw-
thorne's handwriting as follows: "Copy of a letter,
supposed to have been written by Major William
Hawthorne, of Massachusetts, defending that Col-
ony against the accusations of the Commission of
Charles II., and excusing the General Court for declin-
ing to send over Governor Bellingham and himself, in
compliance with the King's orders. (From the State
Paper Office, London. Eec'd July 24, 1856.) "

I give it below in full, with the alteration only of
the spelling.

Account of the Massachusetts Transaction.

From the Massachusetts Colony in New Enoland,
October 26 th, 1666.

Secretary Morrice, Eight Honorable : That good
character from sundry hands received of you, doth em-
bolden to give you the trouble of these following Hues,
although not so meetly digested and disposed of as
becomes your dignity and honor, yet hoping it may
be a service to his Majesty, I shall venture the bear-
ing of j'our just censure for my folly and ignorance,
being here resident for some years past, and diligently
observing the guise and temper of all sorts of people,
I shall briefly give you this following account. And
whereas, by a copy of a signification that came to
your liands of the Governor and Magistrates of this

14 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

place (as I am informed) referring to their actings
■with the Commissioners sent over to them by his
Majesty the last year, they are charged with denying
his Majesty's jurisdiction over them, the account of
their actings with the said Commission being by the
General Court at large sent over to England, and (as
it is here said) lies on file with my Lord Chancellor,
I shall not now insist on the particulars thereof; yet
this I assuredly know, that the Commission had more
kindness and respect shown them by the people and
Government of this place, than from any other, —
nay, I may truly say than from all the rest of his
Majesty's Colonies in New England. This Colony
being for their entertainment, and raising of soldiers
for their assistance in reducing the Manhattoes, at a
very considerable charge, and, would Colonel Cart-
wright speak his conscience, he very weU knows it
was the countenance this Colony gave them, an,d the
assistance of their messengers in treating with the
Dutth, that did greatly alleviate that undertaking.
And as to that charge of denying the King his ju-
risdiction over them, I shall briefly acquaint your
Honour with the more general answer of the people
thereto, viz. : They thus say, that they left their
native Country and dear relations there, not with any
dislike of his Majesty then reigning, or of monarchical
power, for they esteem it the best of Governments,
and the laws of the land they highly honor and
esteem ; but it was, that they might, without offence
to any, worship the Lord according to His own

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 15

institutions, not being able to bear the yoke imposed
upon them by the then" prevailing Hierarchy. For the
orderly effecting whereof, they obtained of the King's
Majesty a Eoyal Charter for this place, his Majesty
therein giving them liberty to transplant themselves,
families, and substance, and, for their encouragement
in their undertaking, gave them full power to elect
all their own officers for rule and Government, from
the least to the greatest ; to make their own laws not
repugnant to the laws of England, and absolute power
of ruling and governing all the people of this place ;
and all this, with sundry other immunities and privi-
leges to them granted, is confirmed to them and their
heirs forever, under the Broad Seal of England. In
confidence whereof, they hither came to a waste and
howling wilderness, where they have conflicted with
difficulties and sorrows of all sorts, they finding
both the French and Dutch nations possessed North
and South of their Patent bounds, and with whom
thfiy had some scuffling at their first entrance on this
place. And the wild natives, whom they found to
be very numerous, being for some time pricks in their
sides, and thorns in their eyes, and when weak, made
a prey of their lives and estates, sundry of them los-
ing their dear relations ; to this very day the salvage
tortures and cruelties that sundry of them suffered,
being cruelly murdered, not being forgotten by the
survivors. The extremity of summer heat and win-
ter cold and barrenness of the land discouraging
some others, causing them to repent their design and

16 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

desert the place. And those that remained, having,
by the Blessing of God on their indefatigable labors,
accompanied with many wants and straits, wrestled
through the difficulties of their first plantings, and
here sown the seeds of man and beast, so that now
they are grown up to a considerable body of people
and some small beginnings of a Common Weal, and
all this at their own proper charges, not one penny
being disbursed out of his Majesty's Exchequer. Now,
thus they reason with themselves, viz. : That whiles
they own his Majesty's charter which comprehends
the conditions on which they transplanted themselves,
they cannot justly be charged with denying his ju-
risdiction over them, for thereby thej' acknowledge
themselves to be his Majesty's liege subjects; their
power of Government, executive and legislative, pro-
ceeding from, and is according with, his Majesty's
appointment, and all Courts of Justice constituted by
his authority and appointment ; their writs and pro-
cesses of law going forth in his Majesty's name. Now,
while they thus act, they apprehend they cannot justly
be charged with denying his authority and jurisdic-
tion over them. And in case they may not be con-
fident in their Eoyal Grant, so orderly obtained, so
long enjoyed and often confirmed, they apprehend
they can have no certainty of their lives, estates,
houses, and lands, and much less of that liberty which
hitherto they have had in the free passage of the Gos-
pel, far dearer to them than all their other comforts,
whether natural or civil ; they well knowing that if the

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 17

wall of the civil government be pulled down, the wild
boar will soon destroy the Lord's vineyard, and that
it is impossible for them to keep the Waters of the
Sanctuary, when that Venice glass which holds them is
broken in pieces ; there not wanting many sectaries
and profane persons that are sprung up among them-
selves, who do long for such an opportunity. And
whereas they are charged with denying his Majesty's
jurisdiction, because they refuse to submit to the
mandates of his Commission, requiring the General
Court of this Colony to answer at their tribunal, —
to this they answer as foUoweth, viz. : That the
Commissioners by interpreting of and acting upon
color of their Commission contrary to the Charter
granted by his Majesty, as it was a great abuse of his
Majesty's power granted unto them, so also an injury
to his subjects, thereby violating their liberty, and
was repugnant to the instructions given them by his
Majesty, to the due observance of which the power
granted them by their Commission is expressly lim-
ited, and had the people here submitted to them
therein, they had destroyed themselves by their vol-
untary acting to the utter ruin of their Government
and liberties, so legally secured to them by Charter,
confirmed by his Majesty's letters, and indemnified
by that power of the said Commissioners by his Maj-
esty's special instructions given, as above said ; all
which will fully appear, reference to the said Com-
mission and their instructions from his Majesty being
had and perused. This people here planted, having

18 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

purchased their liberty at so dear a rate, and being
in so orderly a way removed from their native Coun-
try, thereby losing the benefit of those privileges in
the Parliament of England, and laws under which
they and their fathers were born, all that they crave
of his Majesty is, that they may stand among the rest
of his Majesty's dominions and plantations as the
shrub among the cedars, growing upon their own
root, and not be forced to be the slaves of rulers im-
posed upon them contrary to the rule of their Charter.
Honored Sir, I may not further enlarge, lest I should
too much abuse your patience, but the truth is, it is
great pity that so hopeful a plantation should be now
lost through the malice of those whose design it is
to beget a misunderstanding in his Majesty of this
people. It is in his Majesty's power easily to crush
them by the breath of his nostrils ; their best weap-
ons are prayers and tears ; they are afraid to multiply
their supplications to his Majesty, lest they should
thereby further provoke ; their hope is in God, who
hath the hearts of Kings in His hand. They have
long been laboring how they might express their duty
of good affection and loyalty to his Majesty, at last
have ordered a present of masts of large dimensions,
such as no other of his Majesty's dominions can pro-
duce, to be presented to his Majesty; they are not
without hope of a favorable acceptance, which will
be to their souls as a cloud of latter rain. This I
clearly see, that the body of the people have a higher
esteem of their liberties, sacred and civil, than of their

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 19

lives ; they will know they are such twins as God
and not nature have joined together ; and are resolved
to bury their estates and liberties in the same grave.
Should the Lord be pleased to move the heart of tlie
King (of His gracious disposition and clemency) to
smile upon them and speak comfortably to them, as
I have reason to be confident his Majesty hath no
subjects more faithful to him in all his dominions, so
he will still gain more and more of their hearts and
affections towards him. And this poor Colony, if it
may be accounted any small addition to his Majesty's
dominions, by the blessing of God upon their endeav-
ors will be daily increased, and his Majesty's inter-
est here by them maintained, to the great advance of
his Majesty's customs, which have already by that
Colony been considerably augmented; the whole
product of their manufacture by land and trading by
sea being so improved, as that it is constantly returned
to England. Whereas, on the other hand, should
the malicious accusations of their adversaries prevail
with his Majesty to impose hard measure upon them,
as their dwellings are not desirable for luxurious
minds, so they would not be* long inhabited by them,
the country being large and wide. And what great
pity is it, that a hopeful plantation, so suddenly
raised without any expense to his Majesty, should
now be made a prey to foreign enemies ; the French
waiting for such an opportunity, and are much fleshed
by their prevailing in Christopher's Island : and the
French King (as is here reported by some Kochellers)

20 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

designing to secure those parts of America for him-
self; and for that purpose, in '65, as also this last
summer, hath sent sundry ships with soldiers to a
considerahle number, that he may thereby strengthen
his interest here ; who, arriving in Canada, from thence
the last winter took the advantage of the frost, and
travelled across the great lake, quite across the Mas-
sachusetts patent, as far as Fort Albany, formerly in
the possession of the Dutch, and now under his High-
ness the Duke of York. The more particular account
whereof I doubt not but his Highness have received
from Colonel Nicols. It is credibly reported by the
Indians that about seven hundred Frenchmen are
building and fortifying on this side the lake, above
our plantations, and have already built two Forts,
intending there to settle some plantations of their
own ; their further design being to the people here
unknown. The English of this colony in their fron-
tier towns, more remote from Boston, have already
been so alarmed by reports of neighboring Indians, so
as that they were forced to stand upon their watch
this last summer, although disabled from giving them
any offence by reason of their gi'eat distance from
these parts, and the unpassableness through the coun-
try for any considerable force, as also want of powder
and ammunition; and how acceptable will it be to
French and Dutch to see this people frowned on by
their King, your Honor may easily judge. The
thoughts whereof I do undoubtedly believe would be
an utter abborrency to all, good and bad. But what

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 21

extremity may force them to, that God only knows,
who is wonderful in counsel and mighty in working,
whose thoughts are not as man's, and His counsel
only shall stand.

The present of masts above mentioned, containing
two great ones, now aboard Captain Pierce, fitting to
accommodate the building another "Prince Koyal,"
and a shipload containing twenty-eight large masts,
prepared for his Majesty's service against next year,
— may I tell you with what difficulty this small busi-
ness of masts is by the poor planters here effected ;
for (although some few merchants and traders among
them have acquired to tliemselves considerable es-
tates) yet I can assure you for the generality of the
people 't is all (if not more than all) that they can
do, by hard labor and great prudence in the improve-
ment of the summer season, to get bread and cloth-
ing for their necessary supply and relief in the winter
season. True it is, every man generally hath a lit-
tle Iiouse and small . . . parcel in dimension from
twenty-six to thirty-eight inches, which they have
now bargained for, that they may be . . . parcel of
land with some few cattle; but all will not purchase
five pounds' worth of clothing in England. And, for
sundry years past, God hath much frowned on their
crops, so that for attaining this small present for his
Majesty they are forced to take up money at interest,
and for the payment thereof particular persons stand
obliged ; yet may it find acceptance with his Majesty,
they will be more refreshed at the news thereof than

22 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

at the reaping of a plentiful harvest. Honored Sir,
my interest is only to inform, assuring you these
foregoing lines are words of truth, and such as I shall
not be ashamed of, when I shall stand before the Judg-
ment seat of Him who judgeth not by the seeing of
the eye (as to the verity thereof, I mean).

There came to the hands of the Governor and Gen-
eral Court here assembled this winter, a writing,
being a copy of a signification from his Majesty re-
quiring the Governor and some others to appear in
England. But the very truth is, the Governor is an
ancient gentleman near eighty years old, and is at-
tended with many infirmities of age, as stone-colic,
deafness, etc., so that to have exposed him to such an
undertaking had been extreme cruelty. And for the
further alleviating, please to be informed that the
writing which came to their hands was neither origi-
nal nor duplicate, but only a copy without any seal
or notification that his Majesty had appointed the
exhibition thereof to the Colony. Also the answer
of the General Court to the mandates of the Commis-
sioner by them denied to be observed, being fully
and at large sent over last year, and is on file as they
are informed, and no particulars nominated to which
they are to answer. All these aforesaid considera-
tions put together, the General Court and people here
do generally hope that the King's Majesty will favor-
ably interpret them herein.

Honored Sir, how can your unfeigned loyalty to
his Majesty better appear than by your love to the

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 2S

peace of his subjects wherever scattered, although iu
the remotest of his dominions ? I need not tell your
Honor the meaning of these lines ; what you do for
the interest of God's people, God Himself will own,
and Jesus Christ His Son will own you for it, when
He shall appear in all His glory with his saints and
holy angels to judge the world. If in your wisdom
you shall perceive it wiU do no good to this people
your declaring the contents hereof, I do humbly for
Christ's sake beg that favor of your Honor that it
may not be improved to any provocation ; this being
privately done by my own hand, without the privity
of the authority or advice of any other person what-
soever ; against whom, whiles I have been here resi-
dent, I see no just grounds of complaint.

The truth is, the acting of the late Commissioner in
this place, putting the spurs too hard to the horses"
sides, before they were got into the saddle ; and there
being added thereto the vigorous dealing of Lord
Wnioughby on Barbadoes Island, so uncivilly and
inhumanely carrying it towards sundry gentlemen of
his Council, and cruelly towards all sorts, have greatly
alarmed the people here, making the name of a Com-
mission odious to them. And whereas the Commis-
sioners have informed his Majesty that the obstruction
given them here was by the Magistrates and leading
. men and not by the people, your Honor may easily
take a demonstration of the falseness thereof The
Government being popular, and election of all public
officers. Governor and Magistrates, being annually

24 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

made by the people, were they divertly minded from
their rulers, they have advantage enough to attain
their desires.

And had the Governor and all the leading men of
the Colony adhered to the Commissioners' mandates,
the people were so resolved, that they would, for the
generality of them (some discontents, Quakers, and
others excepted), have utterly protested against their
concession.

Honored Sir, I take leave, and am

Your humble servant,

Samuel Nadhoeth.

This must suffice for this notable old statesman,
warrior, and priest, whose steel head-piece, bluff
uncompromising visage, and resolute figure seem to
stand forth quite distinctly through the mists of two
hundred and fifty years. His successor was his son
John, the fifth of eight children, who lived to enjoy
the sinister renown of having, in his capacity of
Judge, examined and condemned to death ceitain
persons accused of witchcraft, — one of whom, ac-
cording to tradition, invoked a heavy curse upon
him and upon his children's children. In the book
of Court records of that period, under date of the
24th of March, 1691, there is entered a transcript
of the examination of " Eebekah Nurse, at Salem
village," from which I extract the following dialogue
between John Hathorne, Eebekah, and others : —

" Mr. Hathorne. — ' What do you say ? ' (speaking

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 25

to one afflicted.) ' Have you seen this woman huit
you?"

" ' Yes, she heat me this morning.'

" ' Abigail, have you been hurt by this woman ? '

"'Yes.'

" Ann Putnam in a grievous fit cried out that she
Kurt her.

'' Mr. H. — ' Goody Nurse, here are now Ann Put-
nam, the child, and Abigail Williams complains of
your hurting them. What do you say to it ? '

" Nurse. — ' I can say before my Eternal Father I
am innocent, and God will clear my innocency.'

" Mr. H. — ' You do know whether you are guilty,
and have familiarity with the Devil ; and now when
you are here present to see such a thing as these
testify, — a black man whispering in your ear, and
devils about you, — what do you say to it ? '

" N. — ' It is all false. I am clear.'

" Mr. H. — 'Is it not an unaccountable thing, that
when you are examined, these persons are afSicted ? '

" N. — 'I have got nobody to look to but God.' "

This passage in the Judge's career has thrown the
rest of his life into the shade ; but he was almost as
able a man as his father, if less active and versatile.
He began with being Eepresentative ; during the
witchcraft cases he was " Assistant Judge," Jonathan
Curwin being with him on the bench ; ten years later,
he was made Judge of the Supreme Court, and held
that position until within two years of his death,
which happened in 1717, in his seventy-seventh year.

26 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

He also bore the title of Colonel, which was not, per-
haps, a dignity so easily won then as now. In his
will he describes himself as simply a "merchant."
His brother William was a sea-captain, and the Judge
probably invested a large part of his capital in com-
mercial enterprises. He seems to have been an aus-
tere, painstaking, conscientious man, liable to become
the victim of lamentable prejudices and delusions, but
capable, also, of bitterly repenting his errors. He
was a narrower man than his father, but probably a
more punctiliously righteous person, according to the
Puritan code of morality. He ended a poorer man
than he began, — the witch's curse having taken
effect on the worldly prosperity of the family. The
site of the present town of Eaymond, in Maine, once
belonged to the Hathornes ; but the title-deeds were
in some unaccountable way lost, and were not re-
covered until the lapse of time had rendered the
claim obsolete. Something similar to this is related
of the Pyncheon family, in the " House of the Seven
Gables." The Judge married Euth, the daughter of
Lieutenant George Gardner, and had by her six
children, the eldest of whom seems to have died
abroad, as may be gathered, along with other details
of the testator's history, from his will, which is here
subjoined : —

In the name of God Amen. I, John Hathorne of
Salem in the County of Essex in New England, Mer-
chant, being weak and infirm of Body but of perfect

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 27

mind and Memory, do' make and ordain this my last
Will and Testament, hereby revoking all former Wills
by me at any time heretofore made.

Imp*' : I Eesign my Soul to God that gave it, and
my Body to the Earth to be decently buried at the
Discretion of my Executors hereafter named : and for
my Worldly Estate that God hath given me, I Dis-
pose thereof as foUoweth.

Item. I will that all my just Debts and funeral
charges be paid and discharged by my Executors, and
particularly that they pay to the Orders of Mr. Na-
thaniel Higginson late of London, Merchant, deceased,
the sum of Fifty-three pounds Seventeen shillings,
which the said Higginson furnished my Son John
Hathorne with and paid for his Sickness and Funeral ;
and that my son Ebenezer be paid for Money he lent
me and that I had out of his Estate in my hands,
about four hundred pounds (viz.) so much as may be
due to him as pr. account. And that my son Joseph
be paid the sum of twenty-five pounds which I had
of him towards repairing the house, and twenty-four
pounds more which I had of him.

Item,. I give to my Grandson John Hathorne, the
Son of my Son NatW Hathorne Dec?, if he live to
the age of twenty-one years, the sum of twenty-five
pounds to be paid by my Executors in passable money
of New England or Province Bills of Credit.

I give to my Daughter Euth, the Wife of James
Ticknam {sic), the sum of ten pounds besides what I
have already given her.

28 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

I give to Anne Foster, that lived with me many
years and was a faithful servant, the sum of five
pounds in passable Money or Bills of Credit; and
also I give her the great Rugg she made for me.

Item. I give to the poor of this [Parish] the sum
of five pounds to be distributed by my executors.

I give to my three sons, Ebenezer, Joseph, and
Benjamin, aU the Eemainder of my Estate both Eeal
and Personal, whatsoever and wheresoever it may be,
to be equally divided betwixt them, to be to them
and their Heirs forever.

Lastly I appoint and Constitute my Sons Ebenezer
and Joseph Hathorne Executors of this my last will
and Testament. But in case I should die when they
are both at Sea, then I Desire and appoint Captain
William Bowditch Executor in trust, and Direct about
my funeral, and to take care of the Improvement of
my Estate until one of my forenamed Executors shall
return home.

In Testimony and Confirmation of what is above
written I have hereunto set my Hand and Seal this
second day of February, anno Domini 1716.

Signed, Sealed, published and declared in presence of
Stephen Sew all, ^

AN. )

"Walter Price, J- John Hathorne.
Benja. Pickman.

Executed before Judge John Appleton Esc[. June 27: 1717.

It was the Judge's third son, Joseph, born in 1691j
who was destined to carry on the family name. John

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 29

had died early, as aforesaid, and Ebenezer appears to
have fallen a victim to the small-pox in 1717 ; at all
events, he has the credit of having brought the dis-
ease into Salem in that year. Of the other children,
nothing important is known. Joseph was a quiet,
home-keeping personage ; he did not share the gen-
eral family craving for a seafaring life, but established
himself upon a farm in Salem township, and, having
taken to wife a daughter of Captain William Bow-
ditch, he passed the better part of his threescore years
and twelve in agricultural pursuits, and acquired the
nickname of "Farmer Joseph." His ambition was
towards crops and cattle, instead of towards war,
statesmanship, and adventure ; and inasmuch as less
is known of him than of any of his predecessors or
descendants, it is fair to assume that his existence
was peaceful and happy. He was blessed with five
sons and two daughters, all of whom, save one, —
Joseph, — lived to be married. The fifth son, born
in 1731, was named Daniel ; and he, in addition to
the distinction of being the great-grandfather of Na-
thaniel Hawthorne, made a figure in the war of the
Eevolution. He had been bred to the sea, and his
operations against the British were conducted upon
that element; at one time he was commander of a pri-
vateer, the " Fair America," which was the occasion of
more or less inconvenience to English vessels, and the
exploits of which were celebrated in a quaint ballad,
written, apparently, by some poet who had found
his way into the crew. " Bold Daniel," as he was

30 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

called, was probably rather a wild fellow in his youth.
A miniature of him, preserved in the family (and of
which an engraving is here given), shows him to have
been a robust man, of fair, sanguine complexion, with
strong, sharply cut features, and large blue eyes. The
expression of his ruddy countenance is open and
pleasant; but one sees that he was of a temperament
easily moved to wrath or passion. A romantic and
rather strange story is connected with his younger
days, which, although the denouement of it occurred
more than sixty years after his death, may be in-
serted here. In the year 1858 N^athaniel Hawthorne
was living with his family in the Villa Montauto,
just outside the walls of Florence. Among his near
neighbors during that summer — the summer of Do-
nati's comet — were Mr. and Mrs. Eobert Browning ;
and they were often visitors at Montauto. Mrs.
Browning was at that time deeply interested in spirit-
ualism ; and in the course of some discussions on the
subject, it was accidentally discovered that the gov-
erness in Mr. Hawthorne's family, a young American
lady of great attainments and lovely character, was a
medium, — the manifestation of her capacities in this
direction being by writing. If she held a pencil over
a sheet of paper for a minute or so, her hand would
seem to be seized, or inspired with motion, and words,
sentences, or pages would be written down, sometimes
rapidly, sometimes slowly, and in various totally dis-
similar styles of handwriting, none of which bore any
resemblance to the lady's own. She herself had no

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 31

belief in the spiritual source of the phenomenon ; she
ascribed it to some obscure and morbid action of the
minds of the spectators upon her own mind ; and the
process was so distasteful to her, that, after experi-
menting a week or two, the matter was finally aban-
doned, with the cordial concurrence of Mr. Hawthorne
and Mr. Browning, who had both abominated it from
the beginning. The medium used to say that she
never knew beforehand what the communication was
going to be, but that, if she fixed her attention upon
what was going forward, she could generally tell each
word just before it was written down. The names
which were signed to the communications were lim-
ited in number, and almost all of them belonged to
deceased friends of one or other of the persons present.
It was soon possible to distinguish each of the vis-
itants, the moment he or she began to write (through
the medium), by the character of the chirography, the
style of thought and expression, and even the pe-
culiar physical movement by which the writing was
effected.

One day, in the midst of some heavenly-minded
disquisition from the dead mother of one of the on-
lookers, the medium's hand seemed to be suddenly
arrested, as by a violent though invisible grasp, and,
after a few vague dashes of the pencil, the name of
" Mary Eondel " was written across the paper in large,
bold characters. Nothing followed the name, which
was unknown to every one present ; and at last some-
body put the question, who Mary Eondel was ? Here-

32 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

upon the medium's hand was again seized as before,
and some sentences were rapidly dashed off, to the
effect that Mary Rondel had no rest, and demanded
the sympathy of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Subsequent
inquiries elicited from Mary Rondel the information
that she had been, in her lifetime, connected in some
way with the Hawthorne family ; that she had died
in Boston about a hundred years previous, and that
nothing could give her any relief but Nathaniel Haw-
thorne's sympathy. Mr. Hawthorne was amused, and
perhaps somewhat impressed, by this reiterated and
vehement appeal, and assured Mary Rondel that
although, so far as he could remember, he had never
heard of her before, she was welcome to as much of
his sympathy as she could avail herself of.

From this time forth, Mary Rondel, violent, head-
strong, often ungrammatical, and uniformly eccentric
in her spelling, was the chief figure among the com-
municants from the other world. She would descend
upon the circle like a whirlwind, at the most unex-
pected moments, put all the other spirits unceremo-
niously to flight, and insist upon regaling her audience
with a greater or less number of her hurried, confused,
and often obscure utterances. But the burden of them
all was, that at last, after her long century of weary
wandering, she was to find some relief and consolation
in the sympathy of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The other
spirits resented Mary's intrusion, and would denounce
her as a disorderly, mischievous person, in whom it
was impossible to place confidence, inasmuch as she

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 33

was an inveterate liar, and, in general, no better than
she should be. Nevertheless, and whatever the frailty
of her moral character, — which, indeed, she never
attempted to defend, — there was something so gen-
uine, so human, and so pathetically forlorn about poor
Mary Rondel, that nobody could help regarding her
with a certain compassionate kindliness. Liar though
she doubtless was, she produced a more real and
consistent impression upon her mortal audience than
did any of her disembodied associates; and though
she was often unruly and troublesome, and occasion-
ally even deficient in propriety, we forgave her for
the sake of the strong infusion of human nature which
characterized her even in her spiritual state.

Before long, however, the seances were discontinued,
as above stated. Mr. Hawthorne moved his family
to Rome, where other interests soon put Mary Ron-
del and the rest of her tribe out of their heads. In
1859 Hawthorne returned to England, whence, after
a year's sojourn, he sailed for America ; and there, in
1864, he died. The governess (whose acquaintance,
by the way, we had made for the first time in 1857)
had left us while we were still in England, to marry
the man to whom she had been for several years
betrothed. All this while, Mary Rondel's name had
not been mentioned, and she was practically for-
gotten. But after Nathaniel Hawthorne's death his
son came into possession of a number of letters,
documents, manuscripts, books, and other remains,
some of which had all along been in possession

VOL. I. 3

34 EAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of the family, while others were forwarded to him
by near relatives in Salem and elsewhere. Among
these was a large, old-fashioned folio volume, bound
in brown leather, and much defaced in binding and
paper by the assiduous perusal of half a dozen gen-
erations. It was a copy of an early edition of Sir
Philip Sidney's " Arcadia," and had been. brought to
New England for Major William Hathorne, whose
autograph appeared upon the margin of one or two
pages. In turning over these venerable leaves, brown
with age and immemorial thumb-marks, there ap-
peared, written in faded ink, the name of Mary
Rondel ; and opposite to it, in the same chirography,
that of Daniel Hathorne. This unexpected dis-
covery interested the finder not a little ; and his
interest was increased when, on coming to the latter
part of the volume, which is mainly taken up with
love-sonnets and other amatory versification, he found
certain verses underlined, or surrounded by a wavy
mark in ink, together with such inscriptions (also in
bold Daniel's handwriting) as " Lucke upon this as if
I my on self spacke it," " Pray mistris read this," and
so forth. Two of the verses thus indicated contained
fond allusions to fair hair and blue eyes ; the tenor
of the lines was warm, though not unduly so ; and in
one instance, where the poem comprises the appeal
of the lover to his beloved, and her answer to him,
certain passages of the latter were also marked out,
as if the lady upon whom Daniel had centred his
affections had taken this method of replying to his

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 35

solicitations. Upon the whole, it seemed reasonable
to infer that two young people, who had conceived
a fancy for each other, had been in a position to
peruse Sir Philip's romance at or about the same
time, and that they had adopted this rather shy and
retiring device to make each other aware of their
sentiments. Conceiving that some information on
the subject might be forthcoming from certain elder
connections of the family, resident in Salem, applica-
tion was made to them, but without saying anything
about the spiritualistic communications in Florence.
The following facts were elicited: that, in 1755 or
thereabouts, when Daniel was over twenty-one years
old, he fell in love with a young woman named Mary
Eondel, who lived in Boston. She returned his love ;
but, somehow or other, the affair ended unhappily,
and Mary soon after died. No more than this was
known ; but this was enough to complete a singular
and unaccountable story. Mr. Hawthorne may have
been acquainted with it when he was a young man ;
but he could not have read the " Arcadia " for twenty
years previous to the Florentine episode, and it is
impossible to suppose that there was any collusion
between him and the medium on that occasion. The
name of Mary Eondel is not a common one; the
present writer does not recollect ever to have met
with it, except in this instance. But, at all events,
these are the facts, and the reader is free to deal
with them according to the best of his belief or
incredulity.

36 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Bold Daniel, in due course of time, wedded Eachel
Phelps, and they had seven children; the witch's
curse seeming to take no effect upon the prosperity
of the Hawthorne marriages as regarded offspring.
The first son, Daniel, died in infancy ; the first daugh-
ter, Sarah, was married to John Crowninshield ; the
fourth daughter, Euth, died an old maid in 1847;
Eachel, the fifth daughter, became the wife of Simon
Forrester ; and Nathaniel, the third son, who was born
in 1775, married, about the beginning of this century,
Elizabeth Clarke Manning, a beautiful and highly
gifted young lady, five years his junior. Nathaniel
was a silent, reserved, severe man, of an athletic and
rather slender build, and habitually of a rather mel-
ancholy cast of thought ; but the marriage was a very
happy one. It did not last long ; he was a captain in
the merchant marine, and in 1808, while at Suri-
nam, he died of yellow fever, at the age of thirty-
three. His wife had previously given birth to the
three children already mentioned-, one of whom was
Nathaniel Hawthorne the romancer.

Madame Hawthorne came of a family who seem to
have been as reserved and peculiar in their own way
as the Hawthornes were in theirs; they possessed
more than the Hawthorne sensibility, without shar-
ing the latter's Puritan sternness and bodily strength.
They were descendants of the stout-hearted widow
of Eichard Manning, of St. Petrox Parish, Dartmouth,
England, who sailed for the New "World with her
seven children — four sons and three daughters

ANCESTRAL MATTERS. 37

in the ship "Hannah and Elizabeth," in 1679. Her
son Thomas married a Miss Mary Giddings, and had
six children; of whom the fifth, John (whose twin
brother Joseph died a bachelor at the age of eighty-
one), more than maintained the matrimonial average
of the family, by becoming the husband of three wives
in succession : Jane Bradstreet being the first, Eliza-
beth Wallis the second, and Euth Potter the third.
Only the last marriage, however, was fruitful ; it pro-
duced six children. The youngest son, Eichard, born
in 1775, married, at the age of tVenty-one, Miss
Miriam Lord, of Salem, and had by her nine children,
of whom Elizabeth Clarke was the third. Eobert,
born in 1784, was the uncle who paid Hawthorne's
way through college; and it was he who built the
house in Eaymond, which afterwards passed into the
hands of his brother Eichard. William Manning,
born in 1778, employed Hawthorne as his private
secretaiy, in the latter's boyhood ; and this good gen-
tleman continued to be alive down to 1864, when he
expired at the age of eighty-six. A similar, or even
greater, age was attained by Mr. John Dike, who
married the fourth daughter, Priscilla Miriam; and
the younger generation of the family are at this day
respected citizens of the town in which they and
their forefathers have lived for more than two hun-
dred years.

This much must suffice concerning the ancestry of
Nathaniel Hawthorne ; and certainly it amounts to
little more than an outline. But, for manifest reasons,

38 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

it is difficult to obtain vivid and lifelike portraits of
persons who have so seldom been in contact with the
historical events of their time, and whose characters,
therefore, have not developed in the daylight of pub-
lic recognition. JChey kept their own counsel, and it
is now too late to question them. Miss Elizabeth P.
Peabody, the sister-in-law of Nathaniel Hawthorne,
writes of them that they " were unsocial in their tem-
per, and the family ran down in the course of the
two centuries, in fortune and manners and culture.
But Mr. Hathorne of Herbert Street was a gentle- .
man whom I knew, and who was an exception. He
was a neighbor of ours in 1819, and I have dined at
his table. He died without children, before I knew
your father, who told me he never knew personally
any of the name. You alone bear up the name, I
think."

This Hathorne of Herbert Street was probably
Nathaniel Hawthorne's uncle Daniel, — the second
son of that name born to Daniel the Privateersman.
His birth took place in 1768, and he lived to be
about sixty years old. Another relative, Ebenezer
Hathorne, mentioned in the " American Note-Books,"
must have belonged to a collateral branch of the fam-
ily, since there is no Ebenezer in the direct line of
descent later than 1725.

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 39

CHAPTER IL

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY.

The life of a man happily married cannot fail to be
influenced by the character and conduct of his wife.
Especially will this be the case when the man is of a
highly organized and sensitive temperament, and most
of all, perhaps, when his professional pursuits are
sedentary and imaginative rather than active and
practical. Nathaniel Hawthorne was particularly
susceptible to influences of this kind ; and all the
available evidence goes to show that the most fortu-
nate event of his life was, probably, his marriage with
Sophia Peabody. To attempt to explain and describe
his career without taking this event into considera^
tion would, therefore, be like trying to imagine a sun
without heat, or a day without a sun. Nothing
seems less likely than that he would have accom-
plished his work in literature independently of her
sympathy and companionship. Not that she afforded
him any direct and literal assistance in the composition
of his books and stories ; her gifts were wholly un-
suited to such employment, and no one apprehended
more keenly than she the solitariness and uniqueness
of his genius, insomuch that she would have deemed

40 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

it something not far removed from profanation to
have offered to advise or sway him in regard to his
literary productions. She believed in his inspiration ;
and her office was to promote, so far as in her lay, the
favorableness of the conditions under -which it should
manifest itself. As food and repose nourish and
refresh the body, so did she refresh and nourish her
husband's mind and heart. Her feminine intuition
corresponded to his masculine insight; she felt the
truth that he saw ; and his recognition of this pure
faculty in her, and his reverence for it, endowed his
perception with that tender humanity in which other-
wise it might have been deficient. Her lofty and
assured ideals kept him to a belief in the reality and
veracity of his own. In the warmth and light of
such companionship as hers, he could not fall into the
coldness and gloom of a selfish intellectual habit.
She revived his confidence and courage by the touch
of her gentle humor and cheerfulness ; before her
unshakable hopefulness and serenity, his constitu-
tional tendency to ill-foreboding and discouragement
vanished away. Wor was she of less value to him on
the merely intellectual side. Her mental faculties
were finely balanced and of great capacity ; her taste
was by nature highly refined, and was rendered ex-
quisitely so by cultivation. Her learning and ac-
complishments were rare and varied, and yet she was
always childlike in her modesty and simplicity. She
read Latin, Greek, and Hebrew: she was familiar with
history ; and in drawing, painting, and sculpture she

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 41

showed a loving talent not far removed from original
genius. Thus she was able to meet at all points
her husband's meditative and theoretic needs with
substantial and practical gratification. Awaking to
her, he found in her the softened and humanized
realization of his dreams. ',-In all this she acted less
of defined purpose than unconsciously and instinc-
tively, following the natural promptings of her heart
as moulded and enlightened by her love. What she
did was done so well, because she could not do other-
wise. Her husband appreciated her, but she had no
appreciation of herself. She only felt what a privi-
lege it was to love and minister to such a man, and
to be loved by him. For he was not_, as so many
men are, a merely passive and, complacent absorber
of all this devotion. What she gave, he returned ;
she never touched him without a response ; she never
called to him without an echo. He never became
so familiar with her ministrations, unceasing though
these were, as to accept them as a matter of course.
The springs of gratitude and recognition could not
run dry in him; his wife always remained to him a
sort of mystery of goodness and helpfulness. He
protected her, championed her, and cherished her in
all ways that a man may a woman ; but,, half play-
fully and all earnestly, he avouched her superiority
over himself, and, in a certain class of questions re-
lating to practical morality and domestic expediency,
he always deferred to and availed himself of her
judgment and counsel. This was no make-believe

42 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

or hollow humility on his part ; he believed, and wa8
delighted to believe, in the higher purity and (as
it were) angelic wisdom of her feminine nature ; and
if he ever ascribed wisdom to himself, it was on the
ground that he accepted her views upon all matters
as to which mere worldly experience and sagacity
were uncertain guides. In comparing himself with
her (supposing him to have done such a thing), he
would leave entirely out of account his vast intel-
lectual power and capacity. Intellect, in his opinion,
was but an accident of organization or inheritance,
and could be almost entirely divorced from purity
and elevation of character, — upon the basis of which
only could a man's value as a creature of God be
finally estimated. He deemed the cultivation and
improvement of the intellect to be mainly selfish and
instinctive; whereas goodness of character was the
result of a purely Christian and regenerated effort.
From this point of view, Hawthorne's attitude towards
his wife becomes natural and comprehensible enough ;
and no doubt, as some writer has suggested, no one
but he knew how great was his debt to her.

When I said that the life of Hawthorne could not
be understood apart from that of his wife, I might
have added that without her assistance it could not
have been written. In fact, the almost continuous
story of their married life is contained in her letters
and journals. "While she was still a child, she ac-
quired the habit of keeping a journal of her daily ex-
istence,— her doings, her seeings, and her thoughts;

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 4»

and during her visits of a week or a month at a time
to friends in the vicinity of Salem, she wrote long
letters home to her mother. After her marriage,
these letters to her mother constitute a nearly un-
interrupted narrative of the quiet but beautiful and
profound experiences of her domestic career. No
part of this narrative is without a value, literary as
well as human, — for Mrs. Hawthorne had an un-
usual gift of expression, in writing as well as in con-
versation,— but only a small part of it can be
brought within the limits of this volume. Enough,
however, will be shown to furnish an adequate im-
pression both of the writer and of what she wrote
about. Her mother's share in the correspondence is
also full of temptations to the biographer; but the
extracts from it have been made mainly with an eye
to the outward events which they help to explain,
and only incidentally to the traits of character and
morality which they illustrate. Taken altogether,
the letters contain, in addition to their private
interest, the revelation of a remarkable and perhaps
unique state of society. Plain living and high
thinking can seldom have been more fully united and
exemplified than in certain circles of Boston and
Salem during the first thirty or forty years of this
century. The seed of democracy was bearing its
first and (so far) its sweetest and most delicate fruit
Men and women of high refinement, education, and
sensibilities thought it no derogation, not only to
work for their living, but to tend a counter, sweep a

44 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

room, or labor in the field. Eeligious feeling was
deep and earnest, owing in part to the recent schism
between the severe and the liberal interpretations of
Christian destiny and obligations ; and the develop-
ment of commerce and other material interests had
not more than foreshadowed its present proportions,
nor distracted people's attention from less practical
matters. Such a state of things can hardly be re-
produced, and, in our brief annals, possesses some
historic value.

Sophia Peabody was descended from an ancient
and honorable stock. The American Peabodies are
the posterity of a certain Francis Peabody, who came
to this country in 1640. He was a North-of-England
man, — a Yorkshireman. Whether he was married
in England or in New England, and whether his
children were all born before his emigration or oth-
erwise, we are not informed. But we know that he
became the father of ten children, born somewhere;
and the stock flourished exceedingly. For nearly a
hundred years there were ten children in each
generation in the line of direct descent, not to men-
tion the offspring of the collateral sons and daugh-
ters, which accounts for the large number of persons
now bearing the name of Peabody in New England.
Dr. Andrew Peabody, who has for so many years
preached to the students of Harvard College, and
Mr. George Peabody, the millionnaire and philanthro-
pist, sprung from this root. Dr. Nathaniel Peabody,
the father of Sophia, practised dentistry in Salem

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 45

and Boston, and was a man of much activity of na-
ture, and versatility. He married Elizabeth Palmer,
a granddaughter of General Palmer of the Eevolu-
tionary Army, who had married Miss Elizabeth Hunt
of Watertown, Massachusetts.

Tradition relates that the Peabody clan were
descendants of no less a personage than Boadicea,
■ Queen of the Britons. After her death, her son fled
to the Welsh mountains, where he and his posterity
for many hundred years bore the title of Pe-boadie,
which, being interpreted, means Men of the Peak
{Pe, peak, or hill ; Boadie, man). Among the dis-
tinguished offshoots of this race was Owen Glen-
dower, who was wont, according to Shakspeare, to call
spirits from the vasty deep. After Sophia Peabody
was married and had children of her own, she often
used to amuse them with these and similar won-
drous tales of their maternal lineage, which had just
sufBeient possibility of truth in them to render them
captivating to a child's imagination. There was no
definite reason why Boadicea should not have been
their indefinitely great-grandmother ; and therefore it
was their pleasure to regard her in that pious light,
and somewhat to resent Hotspur's unsympathetic atti-
tude towards Mr. Glendower's supernatural feats.

Mrs. Hawthorne was connected with the Hunts of
Watertown through her mother, in the manner fol-
lowing : John Hunt, of Watertown, was the only son
of Samuel Hunt, of Boston, and Mary Langdon. He
graduated from Harvard College in 1734, and four

46 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

years later married Euth Fessenden. He had been
designed for the ministry ; but inherited property and
left the pulpit. He was a very popular man, and his
wife was a beauty ; they kept open house for the
American officers during the Eevolution. The mar-
riage was blessed by many children. One of the sons
(Samuel) was master of the Boston Latin School for
thirty^ix years. The youngest, Thomas, left college
and joined the army at the time of the battle of
Bunker Hill. One of the daughters, named Elizabeth,
married Joseph B. Palmer, whose father was General
Palmer of the Revolutionary army. Their daughter,
also named Elizabeth, a gentle, ladylike person,
highly cultivated, a student, and a most estimable
character, married Dr. Nathaniel Peabody, of Salem,
and thus became the mother of Sophia Amelia Pea-
body, the wife of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Hunts
were Tory cavaliers in England, and the first emigrant
was a refugee from Marston Moor. Leigh Hunt is
said to have been of this same stock ; but I do not
know that there is any confirmation of the saying.

Dr. Peabody had three daughters and three sons ;
of the latter, only one lived to maturity. The eldest
daughter, Miss Elizabeth Palmer Peabody, is still
in the vigor of an honored and useful old age, as
is, likewise, the second daughter, Mary, who became
the wife of Horace Mann. Sophia, the youngest,
born in 1811, on the 21st of September, died at the
age of sixty years. She inherited, however, the full
strength of the family constitution. She is said to

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 47

have been a fine and healthy baby ; but her teething
was difficult, and, by way of relieving her, she was
incontinently dosed with drugs, from the harmful
effects of which she never recovered, and which sub-
jected her, among other things, to an acute nervous
headache, which lasted uninterruptedly from her
twelfth to her thirty-first year, and, of course, short-
ened her life by an unknown quantity. It is very
possible, on the other hand, that both her character
and her mind may have been materially uphfted, en-
lightened, and enlarged by this long and fierce disci-
pline of her youth. There is no doubt that such was
her own view of the matter. The pain was of such a
nature as to sharpen rather than obscure her mental
faculties ; and in process of time she was enabled in
a manner to stand apart from it (as to her spiritual
part) and study its significance and effect upon her-
self. The wisdom and resignation she drew from it
were worth many years of ordinary experience to her,
and the lesson was probably of a kind peculiarly
adapted to her temperament. For she was a child of
frolicsome spirits, inclined to playful mischief, high-
strung, quick-witted, and quick-tempered. She was
enthusiastic, prone to extremes, and to make sweep-
ing judgments of people and things, founded upon
intuitive impressions. Her mind was independent
and intrepid ; she was high-spirited, generous without
limit, and, above all, profound and vital in her affec-
tions. For a nature like this, what better training
and restraining power could be devised than pain?

48 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

It controlled her without making her feel that her
liberty was invaded ; it withdrew her into a region
apart, where much that would have grieved and shocked
her was necessarily unknown. Constantly reminding
her of the sensitiveness of her own feelings, it made
her tender and thoughtful of the feelings of others ;
and it stimulated the tenderness and love of all with
whom she came in contact. In proportion as it made
her physical world a torture and a weariness, it illu-
minated and beautified the world of her spirit. It
taught her endurance, charity, self-restraint, and
brought her acquainted with the extent and wealth
of her internal resources. In respect of innocence,
simplicity, and ideal beliefs, it kept her a child all her
life long ; it drew around her, as it were, an enchanted
circle, across which no evil thing could come. She
was disciplined and instructed by pain, as others are
by sin and its consequences; and thus she could
become strong and yet remain without stain. What
seems more remarkable is, that all her suffering never
tempted her, even for a moment, into a self-pitying
or morbid frame of mind. She was always happy,
and fertile in strength and encouragement for others ;
her voice was joyful music, and her smile a delicate
sunshine. Natures apparently far sturdier and ruder
than hers depended upon her, almost abjectly, for
support. She was a blessing and an illumination
wherever she went ; and no one ever knew her with-
out receiving from her far more than could be given
in return. Her pure confidence created what it

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 49

trusted in. He who writes this' is not well disposed
to eulogy ; but he asserts less than he knows. In
person she was small, graceful, active, and beautifully
formed. Her face was so alive and translucent with
lovely expressions that it was hard to determine
whether or not it were physically lovely ; but I in-
cline to think that a mathematical survey would
have pronounced her features plain ; only, no mathe-
matical survey could have taken cognizance of her
smile. Her head was nobly shaped ; her forehead
high and symmetrically arched ; her eyebrows strongly
marked ; her eyes, gray, soft, and full of gentle light ;
her mouth and chin at once tender, winning, and res-
olute. Beautiful or not, I have never seen a woman
whose countenance better rewarded contemplation.

Sometimes, at her children's solicitation, she would
tell them anecdotes of " when I was a little girl ; "
and many of these are remembered. One dream she
was fond of relating was of a dark cloud, which sud-
denly arose in the west and obscured the celestial
tints of a splendid sunset. But while she was de-
ploring this eclipse, and the cloud spread wider and
gloomier, all at once it underwent a glorious trans-
formation; for it consisted of countless myriads of
birds, which by one movement turned their rainbow-
colored breasts to the sun, and burst into a rejoicing
chorus of heavenly song. This dream was doubtless
interpreted symbolically by the dreamer ; and the
truth which it symbolized was always among the
firmest articles of her faith. Illustrative of her mis-

VOL. I. 4

50 UA WTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

chievous tendency was the story of how she cured
her sister Lizzie of biting her finger tips while read-
ing or studying. It seems that various expedients
had been tried to break the young student of this
habit; among others, that of obliging her to wear
gloves : but her preoccupation was so great that noth-
ing availed with her ; and when she could do nothing
else, she would roll up bits of paper, or anything else
that happened to be within reach, and put them in
her mouth. Noticing this, Sophia one day went out
in the garden and gathered a quantity of the herb
known as bitter-sweet, which has a most dishearten-
ing flavor. This she rolled up in a number of little
bunches, and quietly substituted them for the scraps
of paper upon which her sister was feeding. The
result appears to have fulfilled her most sanguine
expectations ; Lizzie remembered the bitter-sweet, and
never again was guilty of the objectionable practice.

But instead of multiplying these anecdotes, there
shall here be inserted some reminiscences of her
earliest years, expressed in her own language. They
were written in 1859, shortly before leaving England
for America, and were designed, of course, solely to
afford entertainment to her children. Only a be-
ginning was made ; after a few pages the narrative
breaks off, and was never resumed. Enough is given,
however, to justify a regret that there is no more ;
for, as the writer warmed to her work, it would evi-
dently have increased in minuteness and suggestive-
ness. The full names of the dramatis personce are

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 51

not given, nor are they important to the matter in
hand.

" When I was four or five years old, I was sent away,
/or the first time, from home and from my mother,
to visit my grandmamma. My mother was the ten-
derest and loveliest mother in the world, and I do
not understand how I could have borne to be sepa-
rated from her for a day. The journey I entirely
forget, and also my arrival ; but after I was there, I
remember a scene in the sunny courtyard as plainly
as if it were yesterday. I was playing with two
tiny puppies, belonging to my aunt Alice, and I was
endeavoring to take up one of them in my small, in-
adequate hands. It struggled vigorously and squealed,
and was so hard and fat, I could not get a firm hold
of it ; so I dropped it on the pavement, which caused
it to squeal louder than before. Hereupon, out rushed
my aunt, and violently shook me by the arm, uttering
some severe words, that have entirely gone out of my
mind. She was tall, stately, and handsome, and very
terrible in her wrath. I felt like a criminal ; and as
it had never yet occurred to me that a grown person
could do wrong, but that only children were naughty,
I took the scolding, and the earthquake my aunt
made of my little body, as a proper penalty for
some fault which she saw, though I did not. I only
intended to caress her unmanageable pet, not to hurt
it ; but innocence is unconscious, and not quick to
defend itself. I was forbidden ever to touch the dogs
again, and was sent into the house out of the bright

52 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

sunshine. I can see now, as then, that bright sun-
shine, as it flooded the grass and shrubbery; the clear,
fresh appearance of every object, as if lately washed
and then arrayed in gold ; the great trees, spreading
forth innumerable branches, with leaves glistening
and fluttering in the wind. I forget how I found my
way to my grandmother's room upstairs ; but I was
soon looking out of her window into a street. I saw,
sitting on a doorstep directly opposite, a beggar-girl ;
and when she caught sight of me, she clenched her
iist and uttered a sentence which I never forgot,
though I did not in the least comprehend it. ' I '11
maul you ! ' said the beggar-girl, with a scowling,
spiteful face. I gazed at her in terror, feeling scarcely
safe, though within four walls and half-way to the
sky — as it seemed to me. I was convinced that she
would have me at last, and that no power could pre-
vent it ; but I did not appeal to grandmamma for
aid, nor utter a word of my awful fate to any one.
Children seldom communicate their deepest feelings
or greatest troubles to those around them. What
tragedies are often enacted in their poor little hearts,
without even the mother's suspecting it ! It may,
perhaps, partly be caused by their small vocabulary ;
and, besides, they are seldom individually conscious,
but take it for granted that their own experience is
that of all other children. How can a child of three
years old find language to express its inward emo-
tions ? A child's dim sense of almightiuess in events
that happen, overpowers its faculty of representation.

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 53

My aunt Alice's anger was, to my mind, a very in-
significant matter beside this peril ; and as I fixed
my eyes intently upon the girl, I recognized with
dismay the fearful creature who had once met me
when I had escaped out of the garden-gate at home,
and was taking my first independent stroll. No
nurse nor servant was near me on that happy day.
It was glorious. My steps were winged, and there
seemed more space on every side than I had here-
tofore supposed the world contained. The sense of
freedom from all shackles was intoxicating. I had
on no hat, no out-door dress, no gloves. What ex-
quisite fun ! I really think every child that is born
ought to have the happiness of running away once
in their lives at least. I went up a street that grad-
ually ascended, till, at the summit, I believed I stood
at the top of the earth. But, alas ! at that acme
of success my joy ended ; for there I was suddenly
confronted by this beggar-girl, — the first ragged,
begrimed human being I had ever seen. She seized
my wrist and said, ' Make me a curtsy ! ' All the
blood in my veins tingled with indignation : ' No, 1
will not ! ' I said. How I got away, and home again,
I cannot tell ; but as I did not obey the insolent
command, I constantly expected revenge in some
form, and yet never told my mother anything about
it. A short time after the grievous encounter, my
hobgoblin passed along when I was standing at the
door, and muttered threats, and frowned ; and now
here she was again, so far from where I first met her,

54 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

evidently come for me, and I should fall into her
hands and be mauled ! What was that ? Something,
doubtless, unspeakably dreadful. The new, strange
word cast an indefinite horror over the process to
which I was to be subjected. Where could the crea-
ture have got the expression ? I have never heard
it since, I believe. Neither did I ever see or hear
the beggar-girl again in all my life.

" Other memories of that visit to my grandmamma
are neither rich nor sweet, but so indelibly engraven
on my memory that I can discern them well. My
aunt Alice had two sisters, who were unkind and
tyrannical to such a degree that she seemed quite
angelic in comparison with them. My uncle George
was my mamma's beloved brother, and radiant with
benevolence and all the gracious amenities. I did
not think, however, of taking refuge in him, or even
of speaking to him. He came into view, sometimes,
like a gleam of sunshine, and passed away I knew
not whither, — a kind of inaccessible blessing, or,
rather, an unavailable one to me. I perceive now
that he was the only amiable individual in the house.
The favorite pastime of my aunts Emily and Matilda
was to torment me ; and whenever they could take
me captive, I was led off for cruel sport. The mis-
chievous gleani of their dark eyes, and the wonderful
rivulets of dark curls flowing over their crimson
cheeks, are painted on my inner tablets in fixed colors.
Sometimes they opened a great book (which I now
fear was the Bible) and commanded me to read a

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 55

lesson. If I miscalled the letters in trying to spell
the words, they shouted in derision. My sensitive-
ness doubtless incited them to ingenious devices to
mortify and frighten me. One day they asked me if
I would like to see the most beautiful of gardens,
blooming with the sweetest, gayest flowers ; and when
I gratefully and joyfully assented, trusting them with-
out misgiving, they opened a door and gave me a
sudden push, which sent me falling down several
steps into utter darkness. Another time they took
me into a courtyard fuU of.turkeys, and drove the
creatures, gobbling like so many fiends, towards me.
I expected to be devoured at once, and my distress
was immeasurable ; and the enjoyment of the young
ladies was complete. Their mocking laughter made
me feel ashamed of being miserable. My loving
mamma, in the unknown distance, seemed a Heaven
to which I should return at last ; but there was
nothing like her here, except perhaps the visionary
uncle George.

" Grandmamma was a severe disciplinarian. I was
always sent to bed at six o'clock, without liberty of
appeal in any case; and this was right and proper
enough. But I was put into an upper room, alone in
the dark, and left out of reach of help, as I supposed,
from any human being. It was my first trial of
darkness and loneliness; for my blessed mother never
inflicted needless misery on her children. Every
night I lay in terror at street noises as long as I was
awake. I am not aware of having derived any benefit

56 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

from that Spartan severity, and I have always been
careful that my children should have the light and
society they desired in their tender age. At table,
food was sometimes given me which I did not fancy ;
and I was sternly told that I must eat and drink
whatever was placed before me, or go without any
food at all. In consequence of this absurd decree, I
hate even now some of those things that were forced
upon me then. A sense of injustice turned my stom-
ach. On one memorable occasion I utterly refused
a saucer of chocolate prepared for me, and so stoutly
vset my will against it, that in aU the rest of my
life I have not been able to tolerate the taste of
chocolate.

" I was subjected to grandmamma's unenlightened
religious zeal, and taken to church elaborately dressed
in very tight frocks, and made to sit stiU ; and after
infinite weariness in the long church service, I was
led into the sacristy, and, with other unfortunate
babies, tortured with catechism, of which I understood
not a word. I see myself sitting on a high bench,
my feet dangling uncomfortably in the air, while I
was put to the question ; and I pity me very much.
Grown people forget that the Lord has said, ' I will
have mercy and not sacrifice.'

"I remember one more circumstance of this un-
happy visit. My aunt Alice had a large party, — an
afternoon party, — and I was arrayed carefully for the
occasion. Oh, shall I ever forget the torture of the
little satin boots and of the pantalets, to which I was

aOPniA AMELIA PEABODY. 57

doomed, besides the utter general sense of discomfort
and bondage ! I was fetched into the salon, where
the bevy of fine ladies were sitting, in clouds of white
muslin and bright sUks, — to be passed round like a
toy, as one of the entertainments, I suppose. But
being in great bodily pain from my dress, as soon ais
I was released from their caresses, I escaped, and
darted up the staircase, and fled into a room where I
thought I should be undisturbed. There I untied
the cruel strings that fastened the pantalets round
my ankles, and somehow managed to pull them
wholly off, though I could do nothing with the
dainty little boots. However, glad to be released so
far, I gayly returned to the drawing-room. Alas for
it ! My aunt Alice was immediately down upon me,
like a broad-winged vulture on an innocent dove. I
see her white robe swirling about her as she swooped
me up, and consigned me to a servant, to be put to
bed in the middle of the afternoon. I dare say there
was a bright scarlet line round my wretched little
ankles, where the strings had cut into the tender
flesh. I wonder I do not remember the relief of
being freed from boots and frock ; but that solace has
passed into oblivion, and the memory of the pain
alone survives.

" The time at last arrived for me to go home. I can
recall no joy at the announcement or at the prepara-
tions for the return, and probably I was told nothing
about it. The idea of giving me pleasure seemed to
enter none of their heads or hearts. But I found

58 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

myself in a carriage, on a wide seat, — so wide that
my two feet were in plain sight, horizontally stuck
out before me, at the edge of the cushion. By my
side sat a stately gentleman, who was very gi'ave and
silent ; and I looked up at him with awe. It was my
uncle Edward ; and, with the enthusiastic delight in
perfect form that was born in me, I gazed at the noble
outline of his face, the finely chiselled profile, so
haughty and so delicate. I adored him because he
was handsome, though he did not speak to me or
seem aware of my presence. When the carriage
stopped at a hotel for refreshment and rest, I was
lifted out by a servant as black as ebony, and de-
posited on a sofa in the parlor, where cake and wine
were placed on the table. I was well content with
the golden cake so politely offered me by my uncle,
as if I were a grown-up lady ; but when he put a glass
of wine into my hand, I did not drink, and was in-
clined to rebel. His commanding eye was upon me,
however, so that I tried to taste it ; but, choking and
shuddering being the only consequence of my efforts,
he kindly smiled and took it away, saying, ' You do
not like wine, then?' These were the only words
spoken during the whole journey ; and I had no more
voice to answer him than if I had been dumb. I
wonder where children's voices go to, when reverence
and love fill their hearts ? They are often scolded
for not speaking, when it is physically and morally
impossible for them to do so. I had worshipped my
uncle for his beauty, and now his gentleness made me

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 59

love him with all the ardor of my nature. A smile
and a kind word cause little loss to the giver, but
what riches they often are to the recipient! My
uncle's smile was pleasanter to me than the sunshine ;
and the next thing I remember is being perfectly
happy with my mother."

The relations of Sophia Peabody and her mother
were always of the tenderest and most intimate
description ; and one of the former's letters, written
towards the close of the latter's life, bears eloquent
and moving testimony to this fact. The two were in
all respects worthy of each other. The three sons of
the family — Wellington, George,*and Nathaniel —
were, like other boys, the occasion sometimes of
anxiety and sometimes of pride to their parents
and sisters. Wellington was a high-spirited youth,
impulsive, a favorite among his fellows, at once
generous and selfish, with a warm and affectionate
heart. He was difficult to manage and control ; and
the severe, old-fashioned discipline to which his
father subjected him seems to have done him little
good. He and his brothers attended the Salem Latin
School, and Wellington somewhat forfeited his fa-
ther's confidence by his escapades. He was after-
wards sent to college; bu^ in spite of his fine
abilities, he was unable to complete his course there.
It then became a problem what to do for him. He
went to sea for a time ; but in a few years he re-
pented of his boyish follies, and went to the South to
pursue a business career. Here, however, just as his

60 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

promise was becoming performance, he was attacked
hj yellow fever, and died. George, of a more sedate
and solid character, had ineanwhile been serving his
apprenticeship at business, and was following it up
with every prospect of success. He was an athletic
and handsome youth, with a fine aquiline profile, and
great charm of character and manner. About 1836
or 1837 he took part in a foot-race from Boston to
Roxbury, in which he came in first, but at the cost
of a strain which, though it was thought little of at
first, ultimately cost him his life, by consumption of
the spinal marrow ; he died, after a long and weary-
ing illness, patiently and heroically borne, in 1839.
Nathaniel, the third son, with many fine gifts and
an almost excessive conscientiousness, had not the
qualities which command success. He married com-
paratively young, and adopted the calling of a ho-
mcEopathic pharmacist, and enjoyed the reputation
of making the purest medicines in Boston. He died
but a year or two since, leaving a widow and two
daughters.

The foregoing information will put the reader in a
position to understand what follows. Miss E. P. Pea-
body has kindly contributed the ensuing riswuni of
the family annals up tt^about 1835 : —

" The religious controversies that ended in changing
all the old Puritan churches of Boston and Salem
from Calvinism to Liberal and Unitarian Christianity,
were raging in 1818, and divided all families. Some
of our relatives became Calvinists ; our own family.

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 61

and especially our mother, who was very devout,
remained Liberal. Sophia was an instance, if ever
there was one in the world, of a child growing up
full of the idea of God and the perfect man Jesus,
and of the possibility as well as duty (but rather
privilege than duty) of growing up innocent and
forever improving, with the simple creed that every-
thing that can happen to a human being is either
for enjoyment in the present or instruction for the
future ; and that even our faults, and all our suffer-
ings from others' faults, are means of development
into new forms of good and beauty.

" When I was sixteen and Sophia eleven, I took
my school in Lancaster in the house ; and Mary and
Sophia were among my scholars. They never went
to any other school. I taught history as a chief
study, — the History of the United States, — not in
text-books, but Miss Hannah Adams's History of
New England, and EoUins's Ancient History, and
Plutarch's Lives. Sophia was intensely interested,
and liked to have in the recitations the part of com-
paring the heroes, that occurs in Plutarch, and
summing up their heroic deeds, as occurs constantly
in EoUins ; and I remember with what enthusiasm
she would do this. I remember she would give me
accounts of a volume of Fawcett's sermons, which she
read with great delight, 'not because it was Sun-
day,' I remember her saying, ' but because they were
beautiful and sublime.'

" When the family went to Salem in 1828, they

62 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

lived in a house near the water at the end of Court
Street, and had to suffer many hardships. We had
formerly, in 1812 and thereafter, lived in Union
Street, very near Herbert Street. Sophia had been
a very sick child on account of teething, and was
made a life-long invalid by the heroic system of
medicine which was then in vogue. After moving
into this Court Street house, her headaches increased,
and she became unable to bear the noise of knives and
forks, and was obliged to take her food upstairs,
and also often had to retreat in the evening when her
three brothers were at home. They went to the
Salem Latin School, and had terrible lessons under
old Eames, who was a most severe master, flogging
for mistakes in recitation ; so that Mary, and Sophia
when she could, would have them learn all their
lessons perfectly and say them in the evening, so
as to prevent those cruel punishments. M. Lou-
voisier, a Frenchman, taught Sophia French ; he was
a wonderful teacher, and required enormous study and
writing of French, and carried her all through the
classic facts of France, and much of the literature
besides. In addition to this, and in spite of her
suffering, she studied Italian, and, for the sake of
learning to draw, she undertook to teach a little class
of children in Miss Davis's school. Her drawing
was so perfect that it looked like a model. But the
exertion was too much for her, and she was thrown
into a sickness from which she never rose into the
possibility of so much exertion again ; and a slight

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 63

accident disabled her hand, so that she could not
draw. Shortly afterwards, she was invited down to
HalloweU, to the Gardiners', whom she interested
immensely. It was her first visit into the world, and
her last for a long time ; for she went home and grew
worse.

" We afterwards moved to Boston ; and the Boston
physicians, one after another, tried their hands at
curing her, and she went through courses of their
poisons, each one bringing her to death's door, and
leaving her less able to cope with the pain they did
not reach. But the endurance of her physical con-
stitution defied all the poisons of the materia medica,
— mercury, arsenic, opium, hyoscyamus, and all.
Her last allopathic physician was Dr. Walter Chan-
ning, who limited himself to fighting the pain with-
out attempting a radical cure. He was a delightful
friend; and during the four years she remained in
Boston she enjoyed the ^lite of Boston society, who
admired and loved her for the exquisite character she
showed, and her unvarying sweetness. All these
years her mother was her devoted nurse, — watching
in the entries that no door should be shut hard, and
so forth. Sophia was never without pain ; but there
were times when it was not so extreme but that she
could read. She read Degerando, and translated it
for me to read to my pupils ; and Plato. Sometimes
my scholars (I kept my school in the house) would
go up to see her in her room ; and the necessity of
their keeping still so as not to disturb her was my

64 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

means of governing my school, for they all spon-
taneously governed themselves for Sophia's sake. I
never knew any human creature who had such sov-
ereign power over everybody — grown or child — that
came into her sweet and gracious presence. Her
brothers reverenced and idolized her. She was for
some years the single influence that tamed EUery
Channing.

" In 1830, when she was living on hyoscyamus,
which did her less harm than any other drug, she was
able to come downstairs occasionally and into the
schoolroom on drawing-days ; and one day — it was
four years after the practice in drawing above-men-
tioned, during which time she had not touched a pen-
cil— she undertook to copy a little pastoral landscape.
After this she did a good deal of drawing. Then the
painter Doughty came to Boston, and opened a school
of painting. He gave the lessons by making his pupils
look on while he was painting ; and then they would
take canvases and, in his absence, imitate what they
had seen him do ; and then he would come and paint
some more on his picture: but he never explained
anything, or answered questions. It occurred to me
that Doughty might come and paint a picture in her
sight, and I brought this about. She would lie on the
bed, and he had his easel close by. Every day, in
the interval of his lessons, she would imitate on an-
other canvas what he had done. And her copy of his
landscape was even better than the original, so that
when they were displayed side by side, everybody

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 65

guessed her copy to be the one that Doughty painted.
She then, by herself, copied one of Salmon's sea-pieces
perfectly, and did two or three pieces by coloring
copies which she made from uneolored engra,vings.
Then I succeeded in borrowing a highly finished land-
scape of Allston's, which she copied so perfectly that,
being framed alike, when the two pictures were seen
together, even Franklin Dexter did not at once know
which was which. She sold aU her pictures at good
prices.

" At the end of our Boston residence, Sophia went
to Lowell on a visit to her friends, Mr. and Mrs. Sam.
Haven. She had been very much cast down at the
idea of leaving Boston and all her interesting life
there ; but it was a transient mood : she always met
every event with victorious faith. After the Havens
she visited Mrs. Eice's, where she painted a number
of other pictures. While there, Mr. Allston, who had
heard of her successful copy of his picture, went to
see her, and began to speak of her going to Europe
and devoting herself to art. She told him she was
an invalid; and he then said that she ought to
copy only masterpieces, — nothing second-rate. She
said she had tried to get his Spanish Maiden to copy;
but Mr. Clarke, its owner, had told her that Allston
exacted a promise from those who purchased his pic-
tures, never to permit them to be copied. At this
Allston flushed with indignation, and said gentlemen
had no right to make him partner of their meanness.
He should be proud to have her copy everything he

66 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

had painted, and he claimed no right over his pic-
tures after he had sold them.

" Eeturning to Salem, Sophia was the sunshine in
our house. Our mother was likewise in much better
health than she had heretofore been, and this made
Sophia very happy. In 1832 she and Mary went to
Cuba; but it was not until the following August
that the heat even of the tropics gave Sophia her
first relief from the pain that, during twelve years,
had never remitted entirely for one hour. They re-
turned in the spring of 1835, but had a long, ter-
rible voyage of storms and cold, which undid the
good she had obtained and brought back her head-
aches."

In order that the reader may realize a little more
clearly the nature of the family relations, and the
manner in which the members of it regarded one
another, I append passages from three letters wiitten
to Sophia by her mother during the year 1827-28.

My dear Sophia, — "We think that your stay at
your aunt Tyler's must not exceed six weeks. She
is kind, hospitable, and likes to see you enjoy your-
self; but you have not health enough to make your-
self useful in the family or in the school ; and, besides,
I must acknowledge that the kind and cheering tones
of your voice and your mirth-inspiring laugh and
affectionate smile would be cordials to me. As Nat
expressively has it, "We feel desolate." You will
have many delightful scenes to reflect upon, and

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 67

many pleasant events to amuse and instruct your
brothers with. You may make a visit of a week in
Lancaster, if you leave Brattleborough seasonably;
and that will lessen the fatigue of your journey home.
The high state of excitement you are in is not ex-
actly the thing for your head. I am delighted to see
you alive to the simple pleasures of nature. That
heart must be the least corrupt that can enjoy them
most ; but you enjoy too fervently for your strength.
Come home now, and live awhile upon the past.
Something, ere many months, must be planned out
for your future support. To be independent, so far
as money is concerned, of every one, is very desir-
able ; of love and kind oiiices you may receive and
give as liberally as you please. Do not let any con-
siderations induce you to exceed much the time
mentioned. . . .

Well, darling of my heart, how are you ? Well
enough to enjoy the delightful friends who have
called you to their fireside ? I want you to be happy,
but I want you to find happiness a sober certainty ;
that is, I want you to remember that the millennium
is not yet, — that the very best among us are fallible,
very fallible beings. Admire and love with the
whole warmth of your nature, but let the eye of
prudence keep strict watch ; hide it in the depths of
your heart, lest the evil-minded call it suspicion, but
never let it go from you. It will preserve you from
bitter heartaches, for it will tell you tliat you must

68 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

be prepared to meet, to guard against, and to forgive
errors, nay, even faults, in the highest and noblest
characters. It will tell you that the most disinter-
ested are sometimes selfish, and suffer themselves to
enjoy the present without reflecting whether or not
evil may result to those they most value, from this
seliish indulgence. It will tell you that the love
which settles down on the household circle, though
more quiet, is deeper, steadier, more efficient, than
any other love. Sickness never wearies it ; it for-
gives waywardness ; it hopes all things ; — I had
almost said that crime, even, only draws the wan-
derer closer to hearts that watched over the days of
innocence, — and I may say it, for so it would be
with me. But to preach a sermon was not my inten-
tion ; though when I think of your vivid imagination,
your confiding affection, your admiration of excel-
lence, and your instinctive shrinking from the idea
that those j'ou love, and who really have such claims
upon your love, can err in judgment, can misin-
terpret your high-minded and pure actions, looks, and
words, — when I think of your sensitive nature,
your shattered nerves, your precarious health, — can
I do less than long, by precept upon precept, by cau-
tion upon caution, to try to induce you to arm your-
self at all points against disappointment, or, rather,
to prevent disappointment by thinking more soberly
1 of the good among us, by remembering that as yet
there are no unmixed characters on earth ? I never
shall forget the heartache I one day had, when Eliza-

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 69

betli came from Squire Savage's, whither she had
gone with a heart glowing, to seek sympathy on some
subject, and met a cold reception, that sent her home
bathed in tears. I would shield you from this by
telling, you that every individual has absorbing in-
terests known to no other mind, and, without the
least abatement of affection, may be unprepared to
meet your affectionate greetings with sympathy. You
have experienced this, for I have seen your lip quivei
at this apparent coldness in not very intimate friends
(Mr. Gardner, for instance). Since you are thus con-
stituted, and since you have no physical strength,
gird up the loins of your mind, — be strong in faith,
— be candid, — anchor your soul on domestic love,
at the same time that you open your warm, affection-
ate heart to receive the kindness and love of the
excellent of the earth, to whom your kindred nature
attaches you ; never forgetting that they may speak
harshly, look coldly, censure what you do with the
purest intentions, and yet have a deep and strong
affection for you, and even admiration. Such is man,
and must be, while we all do and say wrong and ill-
judged things. . . .

My Daeling, — How can I, how can any of us, be
grateful enough for the peace of mind, the just views,
the exalted feelings, with which you are blessed ! If
anything could be added to the high and holy motives
fur perseverance in duty, it would be the power given
to you thus to support years of pain. My beloved

70 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

child, your mother feels it all deeply; and, as the
still more aMcted Mrs. Prescott said to me a few
days since, " we live for our dear invalids ; out
happiness is to devote time and talents for their
comfort."

Dear Wellington, my heart aches for him. But
God is his Father too ; and it may be, indeed it must
be, that all will tend to his perfection at last. If
he were callous, if he cared not for the good or ill
opinion of his friends, I should despair. But while
I see him so sensitive, while I see the tears flow at
the idea that his father and sisters have no confidence
in him, I hope all things. Cannot you write to your
father, and state the expediency of expressing more
hope of Wellington's future conduct? His last in-
terview with him was painful, — he again told him
that he expected he would be expelled from college.
The poor boy felt heart-stricken. I doubt not your
father's motives, but I know he has no knowledge
of human nature; and if Wellington is not better
managed, he will be driven from society, or, what is
still worse, seek happiness away from home, in reck-
less dissipation. It is almost cruel to trouble your
poor head by such a request; but really, dear, I
believe you may be an instrument of much good, and
that will reward you. Wellington was nurtured in
the most agonized period of my life ; and I solemnly
believe that the state of the mother's mind, while
nursing, has an essential effect on the character of
the child. Elizabeth has the firmest constitution;

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 71

and she was born and nursed while my heart was at
rest, and my hopes al^ of happiness.

Your Mother.

The visit to Cuba, referred to in Miss E. P. Pea-
body's communication, was the occasion of a series
of letters which were afterwards bound together in a
manuscript volume, and which give a vivid and delight-
ful picture of life on a plantation there fifty years ago.
Justice could hardly be done to these letters by quo-
tations, however, and they are too voluminous to be
printed here entire. The Cuban experiences, as re-
lated by Mrs. Hawthorne, were of inexhaustible inter-
est to her children ; she had the faculty of seizing
upon the picturesque or humorous side of an occur-
rence, and bringing it memorably before the mind.
The voyage was made in a small sailing-vessel, and
lasted some weeks. Miss Sophia was at first a victim
to seasickness, but felt better as long as she could
remain in sight of the horizon line ; and she was
therefore furnished with a sort of bed on the deck,
where she lay whenever the weather permitted. One
day, when she was feeling very badly, she told the
captain that she thought, if a rope could be made
fast to the mainmast, and the other end placed in her
hands, so that she could raise herself up by it, she
would be cured. The captain laughed at this novel
prescription; but, being an amiable gentleman, and
very courteous to ladies, he consented to let the ex-
periment be tried. It was done accordingly ; Miss

72 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Sophia raised herself from her sick-bed, and, to every
one's surprise, never afterwards suffered from the
malady. The captain declared that he would hence-
forth recommend the rope's end to all his patients ;
but whether its exhibition was attended with the
same good results in other cases, I know not.

There was a sow on board the vessel, and during
the voyage she gave birth to a litter. Amoiig the
passengers was a stout French lady, much addicted
to gormandizing ; and she pursued the captain with
persistent entreaties to have " von leetle pig " for din-
ner. At length he consented, and, much to her de-
light, one of the infant swine was killed and roasted.
She appeared at the dinner-table attired in a rich
silk dress, in honor of the occasion ; the captain sat
at the head of the table, and her place was at his right
hand. It happened that a stiff breeze had arisen, and
the ship was pitching very heavily. As the captain
raised the carving-knife to begin upon the pig, the
latter, impelled by a sudden lurch of the vessel, rose
lightly from its dish, and, all streaming with gravy
as it was, alighted plump in the French lady's silken
lap. She screamed ; and the captain, laying down
his knife, said gravely, with a courteous wave of the
hand, " Madame, you have your leetle pig ! " And
it is on record that she devoured the whole of it, but
never asked for another.

Arrived at the plantatioti. Miss Sophia was able to
indulge to her heart's content in her favorite exercise
of horseback-riding. The time for her excursiona

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 73

was in the early dawii, while the sun was still below,
or only just above, the cloudless tropical horizon.
She rode down long avenues of orange-trees, pluck-
ing and eating the fruit as she passed beneath. In
Cuba, only the sunny side of the orange is eaten, the
rest is thrown away ; and even the negroes will not
deign to pick up the fruit that has fallen from the
branches. Ladies in Cuba ride — or, at that epoch,
they rode — in a saddle something like a basket; it
was very easy, and admitted of their standing up in
it, if necessary, but, on the other hand, it allowed
them comparatively little firmness of seat. One
morning Miss Sophia had sallied forth as usual, on a
horse which she especially affected, — a noble and
beautiful animal, but extremely sensitive. At length
she came to an orange-tree where there was a par-
ticularly fine orange, hanging from a lofty bough.
She reined in her horse, and, finding it impossible
to reach the orange as she sat, she stood up in the
basket and grasped the bough. At that m'oment the
horse, whether startled at something or unmindful
of the situation, moved gently forward, leaving his
rider, like some strange fruit, suspended in the air.
Having placed her in this predicament, he turned his
head and contemplated her with a most sympathetic
and compassionate expression, as if he would have
given worlds to relieve her from her embarrassment,
but was at a loss how to do so. After hanging as
long as was reasonable, she was forced to drop a con-
siderable distance to the ground ; and I forget how

74 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the adventure ended, but I think a servant came
up and reinstated her in the saddle.

One evening, when a number of ladies and gentle-
men were assembled in the drawing-room of the
planter (Mr. Morrell), one ■ of the ladies expressed a
desire to see a scorpion. Mr. Morrell sent one of his
slaves to bring one in a bucket. The slave in
question had been chastised, by his master's orders,
some time before, and seems to have harbored resent-
ment. At all events, he came back with his bucket
brimming full of live scorpions, and turned them
out upon the polished floor. Hereupon ensued much
outcry and consternation, and climbing upon chairs
and sofas ; and luckily no one was hurt, — except the
slave, who caught another whipping. But he prob-
ably laid it to the account of profit and loss, and was
sullenly content.

This, however, must be the limit of the Cuban
reminiscences, which would make a delightful little
volume by themselves. The concluding pages of this
chapter shall be devoted to extracts from a journal
written in the autumn of 1830 (two years previous
to the above tropical experiences), at a country re-
treat near Salem. It is good reading in itself, and
exhibits much of the writer's character and mental
habits, though out of the sixty or more pages only
some half-dozen are given. The Havens referred to,
were a Mr. Samuel Haven, a Salem lawyer and his
young wife, — intimate and dear friends of Miss
Sophia and her family.

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 75

"The Lord is in His holy temple :
Let the earth keep silence before Him."

Habakkok.

Dedham, August to October, 1830. — Here I am
ia the holy country, alone with the trees and birds,
— my first retreat into solitude. The day has been
perfectly beautiful ; and my ride out was delightful,
save and except the grasp of the iron hand upon
my poor brain, which was more excruciating than
almost ever. It is not any better yet, but I hope
to-morrow for relief in a degree. I have been read-
ing a part of Addison's critique upon Milton to-day,
and since have endeavored to master two or three
of Degerando's first chapters. I feel quite inde-
pendent of all things when I am reading this book.
The Havens drove over to see me, and to make sure
that I was comfortable in my new abode ; and while
they were here, I made a discovery that turned my
heart quite over. It was, of the Eiver ! — the merest
glimpse, but still a glimpse; and now I am satisfied
with my view. I have hill, vale, forest, plain, almost
mountain, and Eiver, — a sweep of sky and earth.
. . . My landlady came up after tea, and indulged
her Yankee curiosity by finding out where I lived, how
many sisters I had, etc. I cannot sympathize with
such idle curiosity, but I answered her questions.
Then there was an amusing little incident under my
window. I heard a boy's voice saying, " Give me
every one of those peaches, or go into the house, —
one or t' other, come I " The other boy began to cry.

76 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

" Cry yourself to death, if you 're mind to ; but give
me those peaches, or go into the house." "I don't
want to go into the house," stammered the other ; " I
got some on t' other side, — all them in my hat, I
got t' other side." " Come," replied the first, " you
need n't lie so, — you must give me the peaches, and
mind and not steal." The other cried the more vio-
lently. " Cry away, — but be quiet : I must have
them." Here the little thief proceeded to empty his
pockets of dozens of stolen peaches, crying, and in-
sisting all the while that he got those in his hat " on
t'other side." The first boy begged him not to lie so,
and kept his hand extended for the fruit. He emp-
tied his pockets, and then began upon his hat very
reluctantly. The first boy softened as he came to the
last, and told him he might " keep those." Another
little urchin was present at the scene, and every time
the culprit said he got those in his hat " on t' other
side," he exclaimed, "Well, that's all the same, — it's
stealing just as much, ain't it, Joe ? "

Last night I jumped up once or twice to see how
the moonlight went on, for it looked too spiritually
fair to leave. I dreamed that George Villiers, Duke
of Buckingham, stabbed me in the bosom; and I
awoke with a tremendous start, and trembled for
an hour. It was because I had been reading Shak-
speare, I suppose. The moon rose, and conquered
the clouds, and became again enveloped, but tingeing
them so magically that you could hardly wish her
free. Once the queen became embedded in a mass

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 77

of fleecy clouds, and around her spread the brightest
halo of a pale crimson, softened gradually into white ;
and the heavens seemed wrinkled, — furrowed. In
the east rose fiery Mars, uncommonly red and large,
because, I suppose, France is going to declare war; and
a snowy wreath of mist told where Wiggam Pond
wound itself among the meadows. This morning the
world is full of wind ; and I have been reading the
Bible and Fenelon. I cannot understand the Lesser
Prophets, and do believe they are translated very
unintelligibly. . . .

Eain and clouds. I read Degerando, Fenelon, St.
Luke and Isaiah, Young, the Spectator, and Shak-
speare's "Comedy of Errors," " Taming of the Shrew,"
" All 's "Well that Ends Well," and " Love's Labor 's
Lost," besides doing some sewing, to-day. No Ha-
vens came. . . .

" Clouds, and ever-during dark." Last night, mid-
night, I was wakened by a tremendous crash of
thunder ; and I went to sleep again to dream of all
kinds of horrors. But at two o'clock this afternoon,
ye Powers, what did I see ? A blue space in the
heavens ! Even so. My heart gave such a bound
towards it, that I verily thought it had forever left
my body desolate. About five came Samuel Haven;
and while he was here, the Sun's most excellent Maj-
esty actually threw out a glance of fire over the hills
and vales, and the clouds began to wear marvellous
beauty. And how nature did rejoice from the past
deluge ! One cannot but sympathize with such

78 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

visible delight, — audible, too. Oh, how much I do
enjoy here ! . . .

A day without a cloud ! The dewy freshness and
life of this sweet prospect were reviving. My whole
inward being was in a wilderness of melody as I
gazed. I fed upon the air. But let me tell of the
sun-rising. When I first opened my eyes, I found
the eastern and northern horizon blushing deeply at
the coming glory. Just above the soft orange and
celestial green lay a long, heavy cloud, which I knew
would become illuminated very soon. I had a short
nap between, and dreamed of watching a sunrise, and
that the sky was covered with cloiids shaped like
coffins ! When I awoke, I could not help shouting.
That dun mass was a magnificent pile of wrought
gold and amethyst, fretted, quivering, gorgeous. The
east looked like a wreck of precious stones, only the
dyes were not of earth. Below, deep orange and
that tender green melted into one another ; just above,
rolled out this dazzling fold of unimaginable glory,
and, higher still, floated soft fleecy clouds in the pale,
infinite azure. Not the slightest shroud of mist lay
upon anything. As soon as the Sun's crowned head
rose up (and I watched it rise), it seemed as if myr-
iads of diamonds were at that moment flung upon the
earth, for the dew-drops each reflected the smile of the
mighty Alchemist. Truly he turns everything into
gold!

My pain clung to me like a faithful friend ; but
I made up my mind to walk to Havenwood and

SOPHIA AMELIA PKABODY. 79

surprise them all. So, at one, I began my journey.
I felt so grand and elated, as I found myself actually
on the way, that I could not help laughing to myself.
I went quite fast, because it was cool, and, slyly enter-
ing the avenue gate, burst upon the family, all unfore-
seen. They were duly astonished, and seemed glad
to see me. ... I have been reading Combe ; I admire
the book exceedingly, and feel very much inclined to
believe in Phrenology. Just before five, the beauty
of the scene outdoors so worked upon me that, un-
willing as my body was. Ideality led nie out. I went
to my noble wood, where the shadows were over-
whelmingly beautiful. At a corner of the road I
found a cedar that had been felled, and I stopped
and sung a requiem over it after this fashion, " It is a
shame — abominable — wicked ! " I came home and
read Combe, and manufactured a terrific headache ;
and just then Lydia came in, and her hurried manner
so completed the discumgarigumfrigation of my wits
that she said I looked perfectly crazy, and so I felt.
She wanted me to come the next day and see old
Mr. and Mrs. Howes ; and at the appointed time we
walked to their most picturesque and convenient cot-
tage. They are two patriarchs, of unsullied simplicity
and purity. We found them in the midst of exqui-
site neatness. The old man, originally tall, was now
bowed and thin, obliged to walk with crutches, his
venerable head nearly bald, only a few gray locks
lying on his shoulders; his face was placid as an
infant's. He was dressed in primitive style, — small-

80 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

clothes and buckled shoes, — with perfect nicety. But
the old lady called upon my admiration, as well as
respect and love. There was an ease, dignity, and
graciousness in her air and manner that might become
a queen. The majesty of spotless virtue gave it to
her. Her large eyes were fuU and tender and bright,
and her whole countenance had an open, beaming ex-
pression of benevolence and sweetness which melted
my whole heart. They both — and she especially —
were once remarkable for personal beauty. Hers
must have been captivating, since age and the small-
pox have not obliterated it ; but nothing could oblit-
erate such a divine expression, — for what is it but
the soul looking out of its prison-house ? How my
heart bows down before the virtuous old and the
innocent young! There is a sympathy in the emo-
tions. She is very lame, but there is nothing infirm
or feeble in her appearance. Her strong and sweet
spirit sits enthroned above decay. When we left
them, I instinctively went to the old man and took
his hand, feeling as if I had always known him ; and
he gently pressed it with a smile and a broken " Good-
by, — I hope ye '11 get better." "God bless you!"
was on my lips, but unuttered. I took her hand, and
she cordially shook mine, and said with such grace
and so affectionately that she hoped I should be bene-
fited by the country, that I was in a confusion of the
purest pleasure. I left them with a lesson learned
that I shall not soon forget, — a good lesson to be
learned on my birthday. . . .

SOPHIA AMELIA PEABODY. 81

In the evening we all went over to see the new
Court House by moonlight. Just as we were near it,
I called to Kate to tell her of a little circumstance
about Dr. Boyle, when Sam said he was immediately
behind us ! My very heart stopped beating ; and I
felt at once all my wrongfulness, my want of thought
and delicacy and consideration. All my happiness
faded, and tears thronged to my eyes, remorse to my
heart. But I believe Sam was mistaken, and that it
was Judge Ware instead of Dr. Boyle. This com-
forted me only as it spared him. My trouble was
the same. 0 Heaven ! how hard it is to follow the
straight and narrow way that leads to Life Eternal !
I never can forget this warning.

. . . Sam Haven told us to-day about a Mr. Lev-
ering, a most singular being. He thought it was of
great importance to EEFLECT, and so set about
systematically to cultivate his reflection ; and when-
ever the simplest question was proffered to him, he
would immediately wrinkle his brow . and screw up
his eyes and shake his head, in the agony of exercis-
ing his whole powers of reflection.

I have written a long letter to Miss Loring this
evening, with the moon all the while in my face.
This is revelry!

82 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

CHAPTEE III.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD.

A CERTAIN mystery invests the early life of Na-
thaniel Hawthorne. There is a difficulty in recon-
ciling the outward calm and uneventfulness of his
young manhood with the presence of those qualities
which are known to have been in him. It is not his
literary or imaginative qualities that are now referred
to ; he found sufficient outlet for them. But here
was a young man, brimming over with physical
health and strength; endowed (by nature, at all events)
with a strong social instinct; with a mind daring,
penetrating, and independent ; possessing a face and
figure of striking beauty and manly grace ; gifted
with a stubborn will, and prone, upon occasion, to
outbursts of appalling wrath ; — in a word, a man
fitted in every way to win and use the world, to
have his own way, to live throughout the full ex-
tent of his keen senses and great faculties ; — and
yet we find this young engine of all possibilities and
energies content (so far as appears) to sit quietly
down in a meditative solitude, and spend all those
years when a man's blood runs warmest in his veins
in musing over the theories and symbols of life, and

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 83

in writing cool and subtle little parables apposite to
his meditations. Had he been a fanatic or an enthu-
siast ; had he been snatched into the current of some
narrow and overpowering preoccupation, whose in-
terests filled each day, to the exclusion of all other
thoughts and interests; had he been a meagre and
pallid anatomy of overwrought brain and nerves, —
such behavior would have been more intelligible.
But he was many-sided, linimpulsive, clear-headed;
he had the deliberation and leisureliness of a well-
balanced intellect ; he was the slave of no theory and
of no emotion ; he always knew, so to speak, where he
was and what he was about. His forefathers, what-
ever their less obvious qualities may have been, were
at all events enterprising, active, practical men, stern
and courageous, accustomed to deal with and control
lawless and rugged characters ; they were sea-captains,
farmers, soldiers, magistrates ; and, in whatever ca-
pacity, they were used to see their own will prevail,
and to be answerable to no man. True, they were
Puritans, and doubtless were more or less under
dominion to the terrible Puritan conscience ; but it
is hardly reasonable to suppose that this was the only
one of their traits which they bequeathed to their
successor. On the contrary, one would incline to
think that this legacy, in its transmission to a legatee
of such enlightened and unprejudiced understanding,
would have been relieved of its peculiarly virulent
and tyrannical character, and become an object rather
of intellectual or imaginative curiosity than of moral

84 HAWTHOBNE AND HIS WIFE.

awe. The fact that it figures largely in Hawthorne's
stories certainly can scarcely be said to weaken this
hypothesis ; the pleasurable exercise of the imagina-
tion lies in its relieving us from the pressure of our
realities, not in repeating and dallying with them.
Upon the whole, therefore, there is no ground for
assuming that, leaving out of the question the per-
sonal or original genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne, he
was not in all other respects quite as much of a
human being, in the widest sense of the term, as old
Major William himself, or Bold Daniel either. How,
then, is his extraordinary undemonstrativeness to be
accounted for ?

This problem has perplexed all who have had any-
thing to say about the great New England .romancer.
The most common escape has lain in the direction of
constructing an imaginary Hawthorne from what was
assumed to be the internal evidence of his writ-
ings,— a sort of morbid, timid, milk-and-water Frank-
enstein, who was drawn on by a grisly fascination to
discuss fearful conceptions, and was in a chronic
state of being frightened almost into hysterics by the
chimeras of his own fancy. His aversion from bores
and ignorant or uncongenial intrusion was magnified
into a superhuman and monstrous shyness ; in the ear-
lier part of his literary career, opinion was divided as
to whether he were a young lady of a sentimental and
moralizing turn of mind, or a venerable and bloodless
sage, with dim eyes, thin white hair, and an excess of
spirituality. Some of these sagacious guesses came to

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 85

the ears of the broad-shouldered and ruddy- cheeked
young man, and he smiles over them in the preface to the
"Twice-Told Tales," and was tempted, as he intimates,
to " fill up so amiable an outline, and to act in con-
sonance with the character assigned to him ; nor, even
now, could he forfeit it without a few tears of tender
sensibility." Later, he was suspected of being identi-
cal with the ineffective, inquisitive, and cynical poet,
Miles Coverdale, in " The Rlithedale Eomance ; " and,
for aught I know, of being Arthur Dimmesdale, or
Eoger Chillingworth, or Clifford, or the Spectre of the
Catacombs itself. But this is not the way to get at
the individuality o£ a truly imaginative writer ; and,
latterly, the concoctions of the deductive philoso-
phers have begun to have less weight.

Meanwhile, however, another school of Hawthorne
analysts has sprung up, with great hopes of success.
These are persons, some of whom were acquaintances
of Hawthorne during his bachelor days and for a
time afterwards, and who maintain that he not only
possessed broad and even low human sympathies
and tendencies, but that he was by no means proof
against temptation, and that it was only by the kind
precaution and charitable silence of his friends that
his dissolute excesses have remained so long con-
cealed. Singularly enough, it is as a tippler that
the author of " The Scarlet Letter " most frequently
makes his appearance in the narratives of these ex-
positors ; he was the victim of an insatiable appetite
fot gin, brandy, and rum, and if a bottle of wine

86 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

were put on the table, he could hardly maintain a
decent self-restraint. So probable in themselves and
so industriously circulated were these stories, that,
when the present writer was in London, three or four
years ago, Mr. Francis Bennoch, the gentleman to
whom the " English Note-Books " were dedicated by
Mrs. Hawthorne, related to him the following anec-
dote : At a dinner at which Mr. Bennoch had been
present, some time before, a gentleman had got up
to make some remarks, in the course of which he
referred to Nathaniel Hawthorne. He spoke of him
as having been, during his residence in England, a
confirmed inebriate, mentioned a special occasion
on which he had publicly disgraced himself at an
English table, and wound up with the information
that his death had been brought about by a drunken
spree on which he and Franklin Pierce had gone off
together. When this historian had resumed his seat,
Mr. Bennoch rose and spoke nearly as follows : " I
was the friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne during many
years ; I knew him intimately : no man knew him
better. I was his constant companion on his English
excursions and during his visits to London. I have
seen him in all kinds of circumstances, in all sorts
of moods, in all sorts of company ; and I wish to say,
to the gentleman who has just sat down, and to you
all, that, often as I have seen Nathaniel Hawthorne
drink wine, and though he had a head of iron, I have
never known him to take more than the two or three
glasses which every Englishman drinks with his

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORBOOD. 87

dinner. I have never known him to be, and I know
I am saying the truth when I say that he never
was, under the influence of liquor. I myself was
present on the occasion to which the gentleman has
alluded, and I sat beside Nathaniel Hawthorne ; and
I am happy to tell you that then, as at all other
times, where all were sober, he was the soberest of
all. And in conclusion I will say, that the statement
which the gentleman has just made to you, and
which I am willing to believe he merely repeated
upon hearsay, is a lie from beginning to end. Who-
ever repeats it, tells a lie ; and whoever repeats it
after hearing what I have said, tells a lie knowing
it to be such."

This terse little speech embodies nearly all there
is to be said on this subject. Mr. Hawthorne never
was a teetotaler, any more than he was an aboli-
tionist or a thug ; but he was invariably temperate.
During his lifetime he smoked something like half
a dozen boxes of cigars, and drank as much wine and
spirits as would naturally accompany that amount
of tobacco. Months and sometimes years would pass
without his either drinking or smoking at all; but
when he would resume those practices, it was not to
" make up for lost time," — his moderation was not
influenced by his abstention. Though very tolerant
of excesses in others, he never permitted them in him-
self ; and his conduct in this respect was the result
not more of moral prejudice than of temperamental
aversion. He would have been sober if he had had

88 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

no morality. At one time, ia his younger days, he
■was accustomed to sup frequently at a friend's table,
where the lady of the house made very excellent tea„
which the guest was very- fond of One evening, in
sending down to replenish his cup, she remarked,
" Now, Mr. Hawthorne, I am going to play Mrs. Thrale
to your Johnson. I know you are a slave to my tea."
Mr. Hawthorne made no reply, but contented him-
self with mentally noting that he had been guilty of
a personal indulgence ; and daring five years, dating
from that evening, he never touched another cup of
tea. Every aspect of his life reflects the same prin-
ciple ; he could not endure the thought of being in
the thraldom of any selfish or sensuous habit. Never-
theless, there is one other remark to make before
this matter is laid aside.

I have just said that he was very tolerant of ex-
cesses in others ; and herein, if anywhere, he would
be open to blame. The commandment, " Judge not,"
cannot be held to excuse a man for toleration which
amounts to passive encouragement of vice. Now
Hawthorne, both by nature and by training, was of
a disposition to throw himself imaginatively into
the shoes (as the phrase is) of whatever person hap-
pened to be his companion. For the time being, he
would seem to take their point of view and to speak
their language ; it was the result partly of a subtle
sympathy and partly of a cold intellectual insight,
which led him half conscibusly to reflect what he
so clearly perceived. Thus, if he chatted with a

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 89

group of rude sea-captains in the smoking-room of
Mrs. Blodgett's boarding-house, or joined a knot of
boon companions in a Boston bar-room, or talkeil
metaphysics with Herman Melville on the hills of
Berkshire, he would aim to appear in each instance
a man like as they were ; he would have the air of
being interested in their interests and viewing life by
their standards. Of course, this was only apparent ;
the real man stood aloof and observant, and only
showed himself as he was, in case of his prerogatives
being invaded, or his actual liberty of thought and
action being in any way infringed upon. But the
consequence may sometimes have been that people
were misled as to his absolute attitude. Seeing his
congenial aspect towards their little round of habits
and beliefs, they would leap to the conclusion that he
was no more and no less than one of themselves;
whereas they formed but a tiny arc in the great circle
of his comprehension. This does not seem quite fair ;
there is a cold touch in it ; it has a look of amusing
one's self at others' expense or profiting by their fol-
lies. The drunkard who complains that his compan-
ion allows him to get drunk, but empties his own
glass over his shoulder, generally finds some sympathy
for his complaint. Literally, as well as figuratively,
it might have been said that Hawthorne should " drink
square," or keep out of the way. There is nothing,
however, to prevent the most contracted mind from
perceiving that to be a student of human nature is
not the same as to be a spy upon it. Nor can Haw-

90 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

thorne be charged with deception, — with pretending
to be that which he was not. " I have no love of
secrecy," he has written in his journal (1843). " I am
glad to think that God sees through ray heart ; and if
any angel has power to penetrate into it, he is wel-
come to know everything that is there. Yes, and so
may any mortal who is capable of fuU sympathy, and
therefore worthy to come into my depths. But he
must find his own way there. I can neither guide
nor enlighten him. ... I sympathize with them,
not they with me." Here lies the gist of the matter.
Hawthorne always gave as much as he could to liis
companions ; but it was not within the possibilities
of his temperament for him to give them much more
than they gave him. He could not force his depths
to be visible to them ; and if they could not see into
them, they must perforce limit themselves to the
outward aspect. But because they could not sympa-
thize with him, he was not to preclude himself from
sympathizing with them. He was powerless to re-
veal himself fully, save in fit company; and such
company, for him, was very rare. There were not
more than two or three persons in the world to whom
he could disclose himself freely ; though there may
have been scarcely any to whom he could not have
made a partial (and therefore, doubtless, misleading)
disclosure. It only remains to add that what was
true of his personal conversation was also true of his
letters. He involuntarily addressed each one of his
companions in a different vein and style. If a man

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 91

was pinnacled high in the intense inane, and could
not extricate himself from that position, then Haw-
thorne would gravely descant to him upon his intense
inanities ; or if a poor creature were unable to com-
prehend anything higher than gin and politics, then
would gin and politics constitute the argument of
Hawthorne's epistles to him. All this, it must be un-
derstood, was apart from the demands and obligations
of personal friendship, as to which no one was ever
more stanch and trustworthy than Hawthorne. But
he had his own views regarding the manner in which
people should be interfered with, even for their own
salvation, and regarding the extent to which such
interference was justifiable.

But if the Hawthorne problem can be solved
neither by rarefying him into a metaphysical abstrac-
tion nor by condensing him into a gross sensualist,
what is to be done with him ? By what -means,
through what experience, did he acquire that air and
manner of a man of the world, which so early in-
vested both his writings and his personality, and
which to the world always remained so impene-
trable ? In what struggle, catastrophe, or abyss did
those powerful energies which his nature contained
achieve quiescence and composure ? What victory
or what loss endowed him with that even mood of
humorous gravity, that low, melodious, masculine
speech, that calm and commanding bearing ? Whence
came that veiled strength of character that so im-
pressed and magnetized all with whom he came in.

92 nAWTUORNE AND HIS WIFE.

contact ? Was all this the mere consequence of a
day-to-day growth and development, and was his
profound insight into the structure and frailties of
the human heart purchased at no more poignant cost
than that of a succession of meditative and secluded
years ? " I used to think," he verites, " that I could
imagine all feelings, all passions, and states of the
heart and mind," which is as much as to say that
he thought he could make imagination do the work
of experience. Again : " Living in solitude till the
fulness of time was come, I still kept the dew of my
youth and the freshness of my heart," which indi-
cates that his experience, if he had any, was not of
a kind to destroy his self-respect or discourage his
faith in virtue. " Had I sooner made my escape into
the world, I should have grown hard and rough, and
been covered with earthly dust, and my heart might
have become callous by rude encounters with the
multitude." These, certainly, are the words of a
man who had no stain, at any rate, upon his con-
science. But there are other channels, besides that
of the personal conscience, through which a shock or
an impression may be conveyed which shall color
and mould the whole after-existence.

The truth is, that hunters on this sort of trails are
apt to miss their way by being too violent and, so to
say, palpable in their expectations. A profound and
exceptional nature does not meet with vulgar mis-
haps ; and, on the other hand, it may be reached by
influences that would be scarcely noticed by persons

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 93

of a coarser texture. Tn Nathaniel Hawthorne the
sentiment of reverence was very highly developed,
and I do not know that too much weight can be
given to this fact. It is the mark of a fine and lofty
organization, and enables its possessor to apprehend,
to suffer, and to enjoy things which are above the
sphere of other people. It exalts and refines his
power of discrimination between right and wrong.
It lays him open to mortal injuries, and, in compen-
sation, it enriches him with exquisite benefits. It
opens his eyes to what is above him, and thereby
deepens his comprehension of what is around him
and at his feet. Reverence, combined with imagina-
tion, and vivified by that faculty of divining God's
meaning, which belongs to genius, — this equipment
is, of itself, enough to educate a man iu all the wis-
dom of the world, as well as in much that appertains
to a higher region. And it is evident that, with a
character thus equipped, a relatively small shock to
tlie sensibilities may produce a remarkably strong
effect.

Before entering more minutely into this matter,
let us review the available facts concerning Nathaniel
Hawthorne's boyhood, — which cannot be said to
amount to much. A composition, in the form of a
diary, has indeed been brought to light, which pur-
ports to have been written by him while living in
Eaymond, Maine. But, with deference to the con-
trary opinion of those who are worth listening to
on the subject, the present writer has been unable

94 ffA W THORNS AND HIS WIFE.

to find in this " diary " any trustworthy evidence,
either external or internal, of its being anything
else than a .rather clumsy and leaky fabrication.
Assuming it to be genuine, however, it seems sin-
gularly destitute of biographical value; and, at all
events, it shall not here be inflicted upon the reader.
It may be doubted whether Shakspeare, or even
Solomon, at twelve years of age, could have been a
seriously interesting subject of study. Babies are
interesting and instructive in a high degree, because
they are as yet impersonal or uii-self-conscious ; but a
half-grown boy is a morally amphibious creature, who,
so far as he has attained individuality, is disagreeable,
and, so far as he has not attained it, is superfluous.
The boy Hawthorne's achievements as a newspaper
editor are also of slight significance, despite the fact
that he afterwards grew to be an author. Many
boys who grew up to be horse-car conductors or
members of the Legislature have edited better news-
papers at the same age. What is most noticeable
in his juvenile days is, one would say, the whole-
some absence of any premonitions of what he was
afterwards to become. He was, so far as any one
could see, nothing more than a healthy, handsome,
intelligent, mischievous boy, who deserved some
credit for not letting himself be seriously spoilt by the
admiration of his mother and sisters. The only trust-
worthy autobiographical fragment of his, known to be
extant, is comprised in the following few paragraphs
which he wrote out for his friend Stoddard, who was

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 95

compiling an " article " on him for the " National Re-
view," 1853. It contains little that is new; but it
is always worth while to listen to Hawthorne's own
words on even the most familiar subject.

" I was born in the town of Salem, Massachusetts,
in a house built by my grandfather, who was a
maritime personage. The old household estate was
in another part of the town, and had descended in
the family ever since the settlement of the country ;
but this old man of the sea exchanged it for a lot of
land situated near the wharves, and convenient to
his business, where he built the house (which is still
standing), and laid out a garden, where I rolled on a
grass-plot under an apple-tree, and picked abundant
currants. This grandfather (about whom there is a
■ ballad in Griswold's ' Curiosities of American Liter-
ature ') died long before I was born. One of the
peculiarities of my boyhood was a grievous disincli-
nation to go to school, and (Providence favoring me
in this natural repugnance) I never did go half as
much as other boys, partly owing to delicate health
(which I made the most of for the purpose), and
partly because, much of the time, there were no
schools within reach.

" When I was eight or nine years old, my mother,
with her three children, took up her residence on the
banks of the Sebago Lake, in Maine, where the
family owned a large tract of land ; and here I ran
quite wild, and would, I doubt not, have willingly
run wild till this time, fishing all day long, or

96 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

shooting with an old fowling-piece ; but reading a
good deal, too, on the rainy days, especially in
Shakspeare and 'The Pilgrim's Progress/ and any
poetry or light books within my reach. Those were
delightful days; for that part of the country was wild
then, with only scattered clearings, and nine tenths
of it primeval woods. But by and by my good
mother began to think it was necessary for her boy to
do something else ; so I was sent back to Salem,
where a private instructor fitted me for college. I was
educated (as the phrase is) at Bowdoin College. I
was an idle' student, negligent of college rules and
the Procrustean details of academic life, rather choos-
ing to nurse my own fancies than to dig into Greek
roots and be numbered among the learned Thebans.

" It was my fortune or misfortune, just as you
please, to have some slender means of supporting my-
self; and so, on leaving college, in 1825, instead of
immediately studying a profession, I sat myself down
to consider what pursuit in life I was best fit for.
My mother had now returned, and taken up her
abode in her deceased father's house, a tall, ugly, old,
grayish building (it is now the residence of half a
dozen Irish families), in which I had a room. And
year after year I kept on considering what I was fit
for, and time and my destiny decided that I was to
be the writer that I am. I had always a natural
tendency (it appears to have been on the paternal
side) toward seclusion ; and this I now indulged to
the utmost, so, that, for months together, I scarcely

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 97

held human intercourse outside of my own family ;
seldom going out except at twilight, or only to take
the nearest way to the most convenient solitude,
which was oftenest the seashore, — the rocks and
beaches in that vicinity being as fine as any in New
England. Once a year, or thereabouts, I used to
make an excursion of a few weeks, in which I
enjoyed as much of life as other people do in the
whole year's round. Having spcJit so much of my
boyhood and youth away from my native place, I
had very few acquaintances in Salem, and during the
nine or ten years that I spent there, in this solitary
way, I doubt whether so much as twenty people in
the town were aware of my existence.

" Meanwhile, strange as it may seem, I had lived a
very tolerable life, always seemed cheerful, and en-
joyed the very best bodily health. I had read endlessly
all sorts of good and good-for-nothing books, and, in
the dearth of other employment, had early begun to
scribble sketches and stories, most of which I burned.
Some, however, got into the magazines and annuals ;
but, being anonymous or under different signatures,
they did not soon have the effect of concentrating
any attention upon the author. Still, they did bring
me into contact with certain individuals. Mr. S. C.
Goodrich (a gentleman of many excellent qualities,
although a publisher) took a very kindly interest in
me, and employed my pen for ' Tiie Token,' an
annual Old copies of 'The Token' may still be
found in antique boudoirs and on the dusty shelves

VOL. I. 7

98 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of street bookstalls. It was the first and probably
the best — it could not possibly be the worst —
annual ever issued in this country. It was a sort of
hot-house, where native flowers were made to bloom
like exotics.

"From the press of Munroe & Co., Boston, in the
year 1837, appeared ' Twice-Told Tales.' Though
not widely successful in their day and generation,
they had the effect of making me known in my own
immediate vicinity ; insomuch that, however reluc-
tantly, I was compelled to come out of my owl's nest
and lionize in a small way. Thus T was gradually
drawn somewhat into the world, and became pretty
much like other people. My long seclusion had not
made me melancholy or misanthropic, nor wholly
unfitted me for the bustle of life ; and perhaps it was
the kind of discipline which my idiosyncrasy de-
manded, and chance and my own instincts, operating
together, had caused me to do what was fittest."

Mr. Hawthorne's sister Elizabeth, who has been
already quoted, gives other details in letters written
to her niece in the year after Hawthorne's death
(1865 or thereabouts). Extracts from these letters
are appended.

"Your father was born in 1804, on the 4th of
July, in the chamber over the little parlor in the
house in Union Street, which then belonged to my
grandmother Hathorne, who lived in one part of it.
There we lived until 1808, when my father died, at
Surinam. I remember that one morning my niothet

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 99

called my brother into her room, next to the one
where we slept, and told him that his father was dead.
He left very little property, and my grandfather Man-
ning took us home. All through our childhood we
were indulged in all convenient ways, and were un-
der very little control except that of circumstances.
There were aunts and uncles, and they were all as
fond of your father and as careful of his welfare as if
he had been their own child. He was both beautiful
and bright, and perhaps his training was as good as
any other could have been. We were the victims of
no educational pedantry. We always had plenty of
books, and our minds and sensibilities were not un-
duly stimulated. If he had been educated for a
genius, it would have injured him excessively. He
developed himself. I think mental superiority in par-
ents is seldom beneficial to children. Shrewdness
and good-nature are all that is requisite. The Maker
of the child will train it better than human wisdom
could do. Your father was very fond of animals,
especially kittens; yet he sometimes teased them, as
boys will. He once seized a kitten and tossed it over
a fence ; and when he was told that she would never
like him again, he said, ' Oh, she '11 think it was Wil-
liam ! ' William was a little boy who played with
him. He never wanted money, except to spend ; and
once, in the country, where there were no shops, he
refused to take some that was offered to him, because
he could not spend it immediately. Another time,
old Mr. Forrester offered him a five-dollar bill, which

lOa HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

he also refused ; which was uncivil, for Mr. Forrester
always noticed him very kindly when he met him.
At Eaymond, in Maine, my grandfather owned a great
deal of wild land. Part of the time we were at a
farmhouse belonging to the family, as boarders, for
there was a tenant on the farm ; at other times we
stayed at our uncle's. It was close to the great Se-
bago Lake, now a well-known place. We enjoyed it
exceedingly, especially your father and I. At the
time our father died. Uncle Manning had assumed
the entire charge of my brother's education, sending
him to the best schools and to college. It was much
more expensive than it would be to do the same
things now, because the public schools were not good
then, and of course he never went to them. Your
father was lame a long time from an injury received
while playing bat-and-ball. His foot pined away, and
was considerably smaller than the other. He had
every doctor that could be heard of; among the rest,
your grandfather Peabody. But it was 'Dr. Time'
who at last cured him. I remember he used to lie
upon the floor and read, and that he went upon two
crutches. Everybody thought that, if he lived, he
would be always lame. Mr. Joseph E. Worcester, the
author of the Dictionary, who at one time taught a
school in Salem, to which your father went, was very
kind to him ; he came every evening to hear him
repeat his lessons. It was during this long lame-
ness that he acquired his habit of constant reading.
Undoubtedly he would have wanted many of the

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 101

qualities which distinguished him iu after life, if his
genius had not been thus shielded in childhood.

" He did not, in general, profess much love for
flowers, — less than he felt, no doubt. Once, when
he expected to leave Salem soon, he told us, on his
return from a walk, that he had switched off the heads
of all the columbines he passed, as he never meant
and never wished to see their successors again. But,
as it happened, he did not go away, and visited the
same spots for several years after that.'

Mr. Hawthorne has told his son many of his boy-
ish experiences on the great Sebago Lake: how he
used to skate there in winter, and how, one day, he
followed for a great distance, armed with his fowling-
piece, the tracks of a black bear, but without being
able to overtake him. He was a good deal of a
sportsman, and had all the fishing and hunting he
wanted ; but he was more fond of the idea or senti-
ment of the thing than of the actuality of it, and often
forbore to pull the trigger, and threw back the fish
that he drew from the river or lake. Not only he,
but his mother and sisters likewise, appear to have
enjoyed this half-wild Raymond life very much ;
nevertheless, as Miss Elizabeth Hawthorne writes,
" by some fatality we all seemed to be brought back
to Salem, in spite of our intentions and even resolu-
tions." Hawthorne was in Raymond even less than
the rest of the family; in 1818 he was at school in
Salem, and only made them occasional visits. By
1820 they \yere all in Salem together; and now,

102 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

having attained his seventeenth year, he began to
make experiments in verse. "Except letters," says
his sister, " I do not remember any prose writings of
liis till a much later period. I send you one of his
poems, composed at the age of sixteen, which I found
among some old papers. These verses have not much
merit ; they were written merely for amusement, and
perhaps for the pleasure of seeing them in print, —
for some like this he sent to a Boston newspaper."
The poem, which has no title, is as follows : —

The moon is bright in that chamber fair,
And the trembling starlight enters there

With a soft and quiet gleam;
The wind sighs through the trees around,
And the leaves send forth a gentle sound.

Like the voices of a dream.

II.

He has laid his weary limbs to sleep ;
But the dead around their vigil keep,

And the living may not rest.
There is a form on that chamber floor
Of beauty which should bloom no more,^—

A fair, yet fearful guest!

The breath of mom has cooled his brow.
And that shadowy form has vanished now,

Yet he lingers round the spot ;
For the pale, cold beauty of that face.
And that form of more than earthly grace,
May be no more forgot.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 103

There 13 a grave by you aged oak,

But the raosa-grown burial-stone is broke

That told how beauty faded ;
But the sods are fresh o'er another head.
For the lover of that maiden dead

By the same tree is shaded.

There is an agreeable ghastliness in this concep-
tion of a young man dying for love of a ghost, who
had been a ghost since some generations before he
was born ; and though the form of versification and
the vein of sentiment is hackneyed enough, there is
considerable felicity and severity in the choice of
words. At the same time the composition helps us
to see that its author never could have been a genuine
poet. Had Poe, at the same age, treated such a
subject, he would have thrown his whole heart and
earnestness into it, and would have produced some-
thing, by hook or by crook, that must have held a
place in literature. Hawthorne, on the other hand,
cannot regard the matter seriously; he knows he is
only in jest, and is merely concerned not to be vapid
or verbose. He always thoroughly enjoyed and ap-
preciated good poetry ; but the idea of being a poet
himself was something he could scarcely contemplate
with a grave countenance. Possibly his insensibility
to music — he was wont to declare that he never
could distinguish between "Yankee Doodle" and
" Hail Columbia " — may have had something to do
with it; the lilt and jingle of measured feet and

104 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

rhymes were not reconcilable, to his mind, with the
sobriety of earnest utterance. If he had anything
important to say, it must be said, not sung. Yet he
read Scott's Poems to his children; and with the
keenest relish of their rhythm and melody, the beauty
of which was enhanced by his delivery.

Be that as it may, his letters of this period are
much more entertaining and characteristic than his
poetry ; there was always a touch about them that
prompts one to say, " There is the man ! " Among
the various scraps of browned and fragile paper which
have been wafted down to us from his youthful days,
is one sibylline leaf, containing scarce twoscore words,
but full of pith and inscrutable suggestiveness. Who
was the Ass? what was the Book? and did Aunt
Mary ever get possession of the Secret ? Here is
the communication, which, on the evidence of the
handwriting, may have been written about Haw-
thorne's eighteenth year.

" That Ass brought the book, and gave it directly
to your aunt Mary. I hope you were wise enough
to pretend to know nothing of the matter, if she has
said anything to you about it.

" Nath. Hawthoene."

The handwriting is particularly legible, and the
word " Ass " is engrossed with special care, significant
of cordial emphasis. Of all asses who ever put their
blundering hoofs into other people's pies, this asa

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 105

was evidently the most utterly and irritably asinine.
Impressive, likewise, is the bold and immoral exhor-
tation to hypocrisy with which the missive concludes.
Little did poor Aunt Mary suspect what a mine of
dark dissimulation was yawning beneath her virtuous
feet.

■ The six following letters belong to the period pre-
ceding and following Hawthorne's entrance into BoW-
doin College, and convey further enlightenment as to
what sort of a youth he was.

Salem, Tuesday, Sept. 28, X8l9.
Dear Sister, — We are all well, and hope you
are the same. I do not know what to do with my-
self here. I shall never be contented here, I am sure.
I now go to a five-dollar school, — 1, that have been
to a ten-dollar one. " 0 Lucifer, son of the morn-
ing, how art thou fallen ! " I wish I was but in Eay-
mond, and I should be happy. But " 't was light
that ne'er shall shine again on life's dull stream." I
have read " Waverley," " The Mysteries of Udolpho,"
" The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom,"
" Koderick Eandom," and the first volume of " The
Arabian Mghts,"

Oh, earthly pomp is but a dream,

And like a meteor's short-lived gleam ; ^

And all the sons of glory soon

Will rest heneath the mould'ring stone.

And Genius is a star whose light

la soon to sink in endless night>

And heavenly beauty's angel form

Will bend like tfower in winter's storm.

106 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Though those are my rhymes, yet they are not ex-
actly my thoughts. I am full of scraps of poetry ;
can't keep it out of my brain.

I saw where in the lowly grave
Departed Genius lay ;
And mournful yew-trees o'er it wave.
To hide it from the day.

I could vomit up a dozen pages more if I were a

mind to turn over.

Oh, do not hid me part from thee,

For I will leave thee never.

Although thou throw'st thy scorn on me.

Yet I will love forever.

There is no heart within my breast,

For it has flown away,

And till I knew it was thy guest,

I sought it night and day.

Tell Ebe she 's not the only one of the family
whose works have appeared in the papers. The
knowledge I have of your honor and good sense,
Louisa, gives me full confidence that you will not
show this letter to anybody. You may to mother,
though. My respects to Mr. and Mrs. Howe.

I remain

Your hurahle servant and affectionate brother,

N. H.

Yours to uncle received.

Salem, March 13, 1821.

Dear Mother, — Yours of the — was received.
I am much flattered by your being so solicitous for

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 107

me to write, and shall be much more so if you can
read what I write, as I have a wretched pen. Mr.
Manning is in great affliction concerning that-naughty
little watch, and Louisa and I are in like dolorous
condition. I think it would be advisable to adver-
tise him in the Portland papers. How many honors
are heaped upon Uncle Richard ! He will soon have
as many titles as a Spanish Don. I am proud of
being related to so distinguished a personage. What
has become of Elizabeth ? Does she never intend
to notice me again ? I shall begin to think she has
eloped with some of those "gay deceivers" who
abound in Eaymond, if she does not give me some
proof to the contrary. I dreamed the other night
that I was walking by the Sebago; and when I
awoke was so angry at iinding it all a delusion, that
I gave Uncle Robert (who sleeps with me) a most
horrible kick. I don't read so much now as I did,
because I am more taken up in studying. I am quite
reconciled to going to college, since I am to spend
the vacations with you. Yet four years of the best
part of my life is a great deal to throw away. I have
not yet concluded what profession I shall have. The
being a minister is of course out of the question. I
should not think that even you could desire me to
choose so dull a way of life. Oh, no, mother, I was
not born to vegetate forever in one place, and to live
and die as calm and tranquil as — a puddle of water.
As to lawyers, there arp so many of them already
that one half of them (upon a moderate calculation)

108 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

are in a state of actual starvation. A physician,
then, seems to he " Hobson's choice ; " but yet I
should not like to live by the diseases and infirmities
of my fellow-creatures. And it would weigh very
heavily on my conscience, in the course of my prac-
tice, if I should chance to send any unlucky patient
" ad inferum," which being interpreted is, " to the
realms below." Oh that I was rich enough to live
without a profession! What do you think of my
becoming an author, and relying for support upon my
pen ? Indeed, I think the illegibility of my hand-
writing is very author-like. How proud you would
feel to see my works praised by the reviewers, as
equal to the proudest productions of the scribbling
sons of John Bull. But authors are always poor
devils, and therefore Satan may take them. I am in
the same predicament as the honest gentleman in
" Espriella's Letters," —

" I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
A-musing in my mind what garment I shall wear."

But as the mail closes soon, I must stop the career
of my pen. I will only inform you that I now write
no poetry, or anything else. I hope that either Eliz-
abeth or you will write to me next week.

I remain

Your affectionate son,

Nathl. Hathorne
Do not show this letter.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 109

Brunswick, April 14, 1822.

My dear Sister, — I received your letter of April
10, and also one which was dated the 20th of March.
How it could have been so long on the road, I cannot
conceive. I hope you will excuse my neglect in
writing to mother and you so seldom ; but still I be^
lieve there is but one letter due from me to you, as
I wrote about the middle of March. My health
during this term has been as good as usual, except
that I am sometimes afflicted with the Sunday sick-
ness ; and as that happens to be the case to-day, I
employ my time in writing to you. My occupations
this term have been much the same as they were
last, except that I have, in a great measure, discon-
tinued the practice of playing cards. One of the
students has been suspended, lately, for this offence,
and two of our class have been fined. I narrowly
escaped detection myself, and mean for the future
to be more careful.

I believe our loss by the fire is or will be nearly
made up. I sustained no damage by it, except hav-
ing my coat torn ; but it luckily happened to be my
old one. The repairs on the building are begun, and
will probably be finished by next Commencement.
I suppose Uncle Eobert has arrived at Eaymond.
I think I shall not want my pantaloons this term,
the end of which is only three weeks from Wednes-
day. I look forward with great pleasure to the vaca-
tion, though it is so short that I shall scarcely have

110 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

time to get home. A great part of the students
intend to remain here.

I have some cash at present, but was much in
want of it the first part of the term. I suppose you
have heard that a letter containing money which
Uncle Eobert sent me some time ago, was lost. I
have since received some by Joseph McKean. Ex-
cuse my bad writing.

I remain

Your affectionate brother,

Nath. Hathorne.

You need not show this.

Brunswick, May 4, 1823.

My dear Sister, — I received your letter, and
was very glad of it, for they are " like angel visits,
few and far between." However, to say the truth,
I believe I have not much right to complain of the
dilatory nature of our correspondence.

I am happy to hear that Uncle Eobert has arrived
safe, and was pleased with his journey. I should
have thought a longer stay would have been neces-
sary to make observations Jsufficieut for a reasonable
book of travels, which I presume it is his intention
to publish.

The bundle of books which you mention, I saw,
with my own eyes, put into the desk where all
orders for Sawin are deposited. As it was a stormy
day, Sawin did not come himself, but sent a boy.

There is in the medical class a certain Dr. Ward,

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. Ill

of Salem, where he intends to settle, after taking his
degree of M.D., which will be given him this term.
I shall give him a letter of introduction to you when
he returns to Salem, which he intends in about a
fortnight. He is the best scholar among the medi-
cals, and T hope you will use your influence to get
him into practice.

I am invited by several of the students to pass the
vacation with them. I believe I shall go to Augusta,
if mother and Uncle E. have no objections. The
stage fare will be about five dollars, and I should
like about ten dollars as spending money, as I am
going to the house of an Honorable. As Mr. McKean
is sick, I think the money had better be directed to
me than to him. The term ends in a fortnight from
Wednesday next.

I wish to receive instructions about my thin
clothes, whether I am to get them made here or
have them sent down to me. I have but one good
pair of pantaloons, the others being in rather a
dilapidated condition.

If I had time, I would tell you a mighty story,
how some of the students hung Parson Mead in
ef&gy, and how one of them was suspended. Mother
need not be frightened, as I was not engaged in it.
Give my love to all and sundry.

Your affectionate brother,

N. Hathokne

112 BAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Bkunswick, 1823.
. I have been introduced to Gardiner Kellog.
A few weeks ago, as I was entering the door of the
college, somebody took hold of my cloak and said
that " Kellog wished the honor of Mr. Hathorne's
. acquaintance." I looked round, and beheld a great,
tall, awkward boobj% frightened to death at his own
boldness, and grinning horribly a ghastly smile. I
saw his confusion, and with that condescending affa-
bility which is one among my many excellences,
I took him by the hand, expressed my pleasure at
the meeting, and inquired after his sister and friends.
After he had replied to these queries as well as his
proper sense of my superiority would admit, I desired
to see him at my room as soon as convenient, and
left him. This interesting interview took place be-
fore numerous spectators, who were assembled round
the door of the college. He has since been at my
room several times, and is very much pleased (how
should it be otherwise ?) with my company. I am,
however, very much displeased with him for one
thing. I had comfortably composed myself to sleep
on Saturday afternoon, when I was awakened by a
tremendous knocking at the door, which continued
about ten minutes. I made no answer, but swore
internally the most horrible oaths. At last, the
gentleman's knuckles being probably worn out, he
retired ; and upon looking out of the window, I dis-
covered that my pestilent visitor was Mr, Kellog.
I could not get asleep again that afternoon.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORBOOD. 113

I made a very splendid appearance in the chapel
last Friday evening, before a crowded audience. I
would send you a printed list of the performances
if it were not for the postage. . . .

Brunswick, Aug. 11, 1824.

My dear Louisa, — I have just received your
letter, and you will no doubt wonder at my punctu-
ality in answering it. The occasion of this miracle
is, that I am in a terrible hurry to get home, and
your, assistance is necessary for that purpose. In the
first place, I will offer a few reasons why it is expe-
dient for me to return to Salem immediately, and
then proceed to show you how your little self can be
instrumental in effecting this purpose.

Firstly, I have no clothes in which I can make
a decent appearance, as the weather in this part of
the world is much too cold for me to wear my thin
clothes often, and I shall therefore be compelled to
stay at home from meeting all the rest of the term,
and perhaps to lie in bed the whole of the time. In
this case my fines would amount to an enormous
sum.

Secondly, if I remain in Brunswick much longer,
I shall spend all my money; for, though I am ex-
tremely prudent, I always feel uneasy when I have
any cash in my pocket. I do not feel at all inclined
to spend another vacation in Brunswick; but if I
stay much longer, I shall inevitably be compelled to,
for want of means to get home.

VOL. I. &

114 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Thirdly, our senior examination is now over, and
many of our class have gone home. The studies are
now of little importance, and I could obtain leave
of absence much easier than at any other time.

Fourthly, it is so long since I saw the land of
my birth that I am almost dead of homesickness, and
am apprehensive of serious injury to my health if I
am not soon removed from this place.

Fifthly, the students have now but little to do,
and mischief, you know, is the constant companion
of idleness. The latter part of the term preceding
Commencement is invariably spent in dissipation,
and I am afraid that my stay here will have an ill
effect upon my 'moral character, which would be a
cause of great grief to mother and you.

I think that by the preceding arguments I have
clearly shown that it is very improper for me to re-
main longer in Brunswick ; and we wiU now con-
sider the means of my deliverance. In order to
effect this, you must write me a letter, stating that
mother is desirous for me to return home, and assign-
ing some reason for it. The letter must be such a
one as is proper to be read by the president, to
whom it will be necessary to show it. You must
write immediately upon the receipt of this, and I
shall receive your letter on Monday; I shall start
the next morning, and be in Salem on Wednesday..
You can easily think of a good excuse. Almost any
one will do. I beseech you not to neglect it j and if
mother has any objections, your eloquence will easily

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 115

persuade her to consent. I can get no good by re-
maining here, and earnestly desire to be at home.

If you are at a loss for an excuse, say that mother
is out of health ; or that Uncle E. is going a journey
on account of his health, and wishes me to attend
him ; or that Elizabeth is on a visit at some distant
place, and wishes me to come and bring her home ;
or that George Archer has just arrived from sea, and
is to sail again immediately, and wishes to see me
before he goes ; or that some of my relations are to
die or be married, and my presence is necessary on
the occasion. And lastly, if none of these excuses
will suit you, and you can think of no other, write
and order me to come home without any. If you do
not, I shall certainlj'' forge a letter, for I will be at
home within a week. Write the very day that you
receive this. If Elizabeth were at home, she would
be at no loss for a good excuse. If you will do what
I tell you, I shall be

Your affectionate brother,

Nath. Hawthoene.

My want of decent clothes will prevent my call-
ing at Mrs. Sutton's. Write immediately, write im-
mediately, write immediately.

Haste, haste, post-haste, ride and run, until these
shall be delivered. You must and shall and will do
as I desire. If you can think of a true excuse, send
it ; if not, any other will answer the same purpose.
If I do not get a letter by Monday, or Tuesday at
farthest, I will leave Brunswick without liberty.

116 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Bkttnswick, Nov. 26, 1824.

My dear Aunt, — Elizabeth has informed me that
you wish me to write to you, and as T am always ready
to oblige, I shall endeavor to find materials for a
letter. There is so little variety at college that you
will not expect much news, or if you do, you will
be disappointed. If my letter should happen to be
very short, you will excuse it, as I attend to my
studies so diligently that I have not much time to
write.

A missionary society has lately been formed iu
college, under the auspices of a gentleman from
Andover ; but it does not meet with much encourage-
ment: only twenty-two of the students have joined
it, and most of them are supported by the Education
Society, so that they have not much to give. I sup-
pose you would be glad to hear that I am a member ;
but my regard to truth compels me to confess that
I am not.

There is a considerable revival of religion in this
town, and those adjoining, but unfortunately it has
not yet extended to the college. The students have
generally been very steady and regular this term,
but religion is less regarded than could be desired.
This is owing in part to the unpopularity of Mr.
Mead, whom the students dislike so much that they
will attend to none of his exhortations. I sincerely
sympathize with Uncle Robert, and the family, in the
pleasure they must feel at the approaching event. I
wish that it were possible for me to be present, in

BOYBOOD AND BACUELORHOOD. 117

order that I might learn how to conduct myself when
marriage shall be my fate. I console myself with
the tope that you, at least, will not neglect to give
me an invitation to your wedding, which I should
not be surprised to hear announced. Elizabeth says
that you are very deeply in love with Mr. Upham.
Is the passion reciprocal ?

The weather has lately been very cold, and there
is- now snow enough to make some sleighing. I keep
excellent fires, and do not stir from them unless
when it is absolutely necessary. I wish that I could
be at home to Thanksgiving, as I really think that
your puddings and pies and turkeys are superior to
anybody's else. But the term does not close till
about the first of January. I can think of nothing
else that would be interesting to you, and as it is
now nearly recitation time, I must conclude. I shall
expect a letter from you very soon, otherwise I shall
not write again.

Your affectionate nephew,

N. Hathoene.

Brunswick, April 21, 1825.

My dear Sister, — I have been negligent about
answering your letter, but you know my habits too
well to be at all concerned at it. Nothing of any
importance has taken place lately; my health has
been very good, and I have neither been suspended
nor expelled.

The term, T believe, will close about three weeks

118 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

from the present time. I feel extremely anxious to
see you all ; and unless the government should com-
pel me to stay in Brunswick during the vacation (of
which there is little danger), I shall certainly return
home. Mr. Leach was extremely anxious that I
should accompany him on a visit to Eaymond this
spring ; but I think I shall decline the honor.

I hope mother's health continues to improve, and
that I shall find her as well as ever, when I return.
You ought to give me a more particular account of
yourselves and all that concerns you, as, though it
might appear trifling to others, it would be interesting
to me. I suppose Louisa has by this time returned
from Newburyport, and gives herself the airs of a
travelled lady.

I betook myself to scribbling poetry as soon as I
heard of Lucy's album, and, after much labor, pro-
duced four lines, which I immediately burnt. I fear
I shall be unable to write anything worthy of the
immortality of such a record.

I have been thinking all the term of writing to
Uncle William, according to his request, and shall
expect a good scolding when I return, for neglect-
ing it. I believe I promised to write to him, but
promises are not always performed. He is so en-
gaged in business, however, that he wiU never think
of it.

I have scarcely any money, and wish to have fifteen
dollars sent me in about a fortnight. I am not sure
whether the term ends in three or, in four weeks. If

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 119

it is more than three, I will write after receiving the
money. I have nothing more to write, excepting my
respects to family and friends.

I am,

Nath. Hawthobne.

A boy's college life is often, in some respects, an
epitome of his after life in the world. In the one
place, as in the other, his character and tastes betray
themselves; he selects the associates who are con-
genial to his nature, and finds his level among them.
Nathaniel Hawthorne's academic career shows him
to have been independent, self-contained, and dis-
posed to follow his own humor and judgment, with-
out undue reference to the desires or regulations of
the college faculty. His friends were men who
afterwards attained a more or less distinguished posi-
tion in the world, — Franklin Pierce, Horatio Bridge,
and Longfellow. He evinced no unnatural and fe-
verish thirst for college honors, and never troubled
himself to sit up all night studying, with a wet towel
round his head and a cup of coffee at his elbow ; but
neither did he see fit to go to the other extreme.
He assimilated the knowledge that he cared for with
extreme ease, and took just enough of the rest to get
along with; in this respect, as in most others, dis-
playing a delectable maturity of judgment and im-
perturbable common-sense. He perceived that the
value of college to a man — or, at any rate, to him —
was not so much in the special things that were

120 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

taught as in the general acquaintance it brought about
with the various branches of learning ; and stiU more,
in the enlargement which it incidentally gives to
one's understanding of foreign things and persons.
At no time during his residence at Bowdoin did he
have the reputation of being a recluse, or exclusive ;
it was his purpose and practice to be like his fellows,
and (barring certain private and temperamental res-
ervations) to do as they did. He steered equally
clear of the Scylla of prigdom, and the Chary bdis
of recklessness ; in a word, he had the mental
and moral strength to be precisely his natural and
unforced self. Within certain limits he was facile,
easy-going, convivial ; but beyond those limits he
was no more to be moved than the Eock of Gibraltar
or the North Pole. He played cards, had " wines "
in his room, and went off fishing and shooting with
Bridge when the faculty thought he was at his
books ; but he maintained without effort his place
in the recitation room, and never defrauded the
college government of any duty which he thought
they had a right to claim from him. His personal
influence over his college friends was great; and
he never abused it or employed it for unworthy
ends.

He was the handsomest young man of his day, in
that part of the world. Such is the report of those
who knew him; and there is a miniature of him,
taken some years later, which bears out the report.
He was five feet ten and a half inches in height^

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 121

broad-shouldered, but of a light, athletic build, not
weighing more than one hundred and fifty pounds.
His limbs were beautifully formed, and the moulding
of his neck and throat was as fine as anything in
antique sculpture. His hair, which had a long, curv-
ing wave in it, approached blackness in color; his
head was large and grandly developed ; his eyebrows
were dark and heavy, with a superb arch and space
beneath. His nose was straight, but the contour of
his chin was Koman. He never wore a beard, and was
without a mustache until his fifty-fifth year. His
eyes were large, dark blue, brilliant, and full of varied
expression. Bayard Taylor used to say that they were
the only eyes he had ever known flash fire. Charles
Eeade, in a letter written in 1876, declared that he
had never before seen such eyes as Hawthorne's, in a
human head. When he went to London, persons whose
recollections reached back through a generation or so,
used to compare his glance to that of Robert Burns.
While he was yet in college, an old gypsy woman,
meeting him suddenly in a woodland path, gazed at
him and asked, " Are you a man or an angel ? " His
complexion was delicate and transparent, rather dark
than light, with a ruddy tinge in the cheeks. The
skin of his face was always very sensitive, and a cold
raw wind caused him actual pain. His hands were
large and muscular, the palm broad, with a full curve
of the outer margin ; the fingers smooth, but neither
square nor pointed ; the thumb long and powerful.
His feet were slender .and sinewy, and he had a long.

122 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

elastic gait, accompanied by a certain sidewise swing-
ing of the shoulders. He was a tireless walker, and
of great bodily activity ; up to the timS he was forty
years old, he could clear a height of five feet at a
standing jump. His voice, which was low and deep
in ordinary conversation, had astounding volume
when he chose to give full vent to it ; with such a
voice, and such eyes and presence, he might have
quelled a crew of mutinous privateersmen at least as
effectively as Bold Daniel, his grandfather: it was
not a bellow, but had the searching and electrifying
quality of the blast of a trumpet.

During the ensuing summer Mr. Dike, his uncle
by marriage, made him a visit at Brunswick, and saw
fit, on his return to Salem, to give the young man's
mother a somewhat eulogistic account of him. The
young man, however, was displeased at being so re-
ported. There was an indolence in his nature, such
as, by the mercy of Providence, is not seldom found
to mark the early years of those who have some great
mission to perform in the world, and who, but for
this protecting laziness, would set about the work
prematurely, and so bring both it and themselves to
ruin. Nathaniel Hawthorne hated to be told that
he was going to be a distinguished man. For, in the
first place, it was an invasion of his private freedom
thus to hamper and mortgage his right to do as he
pleased with himself ; and, in the second place, he
was secretly conscious that his ideal of ambition was

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 123

altogether too lofty and refined an affair ever to attain
that gross and palpable realization that is commonly
the condition of public distinction. He imagined
that his own commendation was the only thing worth
his striving for ; and it took a good many years of
lonely and unrecognized labor to deliver him from
that persuasion. But although this attitude which
he assumed may have been open to the charge of
selfishness and indolence, it was more dignified and
respectable tlian that of the man who thirsts for pop-
ular applause, and grasps at it pell-mell, before he
has gained experience enough to tell black from white.
The former is selfish, because it is concerned solely
with one's own benefit and enjoyment, apart from any
benefit to mankind ; and it is indolent, because it
involves the necessity only of thinking fine things,
and not also of giving them such visible or tangible
form that others may see and know them. But the
latter attitude is vulgar, because it finds pleasure
less in achievement than in recognition. Hawthorne
never knew how to be vulgar ; and in due time he
got the better both of his selfishness and his indolence.
Meanwhile, however, he deemed it prudent to aflSrm
that he would " never make a distinguished figure
in the world," and that all he hoped or wished was
"to plod along with the multitude." That is to
say, he was reluctant to commit himself to any-
thing. Nevertheless, here is what his sister writes
of him : —

" It was while in college that he formed the design

124 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of becoming an author by profession. In a letter to
me he says that he had ' made progress on my novel.'
I have already told you that he wrote some tales to
be called ' Seven Tales of my Native Land,' with the
motto from Wordsworth, 'We are Seven.' I read
them and liked them. I think they were bet-
ter than ' Fanshawe.' Mr. Goodrich (Peter Parley)
told him afterwards that he thought ' Fanshawe '
would have brought him some profit if it had had
an enterprising publisher. These 'Seven Tales' he
attempted to publish ; but one publisher, after keep-
ing them a long time, returned them with the ac-
knowledgment that he had not read them. It was
the summer of 1825 that he showed them to me.
One was a tale' of witchcraft, — ' Alice Doane,' I be-
lieve it was called ; and another was ' Susan Grey.'
There was much more of his peculiar genius in them
than in ' Fanshawe.' I recollect that he said, when
he was still in hopes to publish them, that he would
write a story which would make a smaller book, and
get it published immediately if possible, before the
arrangements for bringing out the Tales were com-
pleted. So he wrote ' Fanshawe ' and published it at
his own expense, paying $100 for that purpose. There
were a few copies sold, and he gave me one ; but after-
wards he took possession of it, and no doubt burned
it. We were enjoined to keep the authorship a pro-
found secret, and of course we did, with one or two
exceptions ; for we were in those days almost abso-
lutely obedient to him. I do not quite approve of

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORBOOD. 125

either obedience or concealment. Your father kept
his very existence a secret, as far as possible. When
it became known to literary men that ihere was such
a person, he had applications to write for annuals and
periodicals, etc. ; and that is the way, I suppose, that
genius is made known to the world in these days.
But even then he was not paid punctually, so that he
had much to depress his spirits. His habits were as
regular as possible. In the evening after tea he went
out for about one hour, whatever the weather was ;
and in winter, after his return, he ate a pint bowl
of thick chocolate (not cocoa, but the old-fashioned
chocolate) crumbed full of bread : eating never hurt
him then, and he liked good things. In summer he
ate something equivalent, finishing with fruit in the
season of it. In the evening we discussed political
affairs, upon which we differed in opinion ; he being a
Democrat, and I of the opposite party. In reality, his
interest in such things was so slight that I think
nothing would have kept it alive but my contentious
spirit. Sometimes, when he had a book that he par-
ticularly liked, he' would not talk. He read a great
many novels; he made an artistic study of them.
There were many very good books of that kind that
seem to be forgotten now."

And thus it was that he entered upon that long
vigil in the " haunted chamber " of the family mansion
in Herbert Street, — the antechamber of his fame.
* Sometimes,'" he writes, in the often-quoted passage,
"it seemed as if I were already in the grave, with

126 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

only life enough to be chilled and benumbed. But
oftener I was happy, — at least, as happy as I then
knew how to be, or was aware of the possibility of
being." His melancholy, indeed, belonged rather to
his imagination than to his realities ; it was the mel-
ancholy of a mind conscious of power, but as yet
doubtful whether that power could be so used or
adjusted as to leave its mark upon mankind. His
happiness was the result of good health, freedom from
petty annoyances, and the author's inestimable priv-
ilege of artistic creatioa There may be a revulsion
of feeling about the creations, when they have achieved
outward embodiment ; but so long as the process of
production is going on, there is pleasure of a very
high and enviable sort.

From the letters belonging to this period, I will
give the following, to his sister Louisa: —

Salem, Nov. 4, 1831.

Dear L., — I send Susannah's Gibraltars. There
were fourteen of them originally, but I doubt whether
there will be quite a dozen when she gets them.
Susannah knows well enough that she was the debtor,
instead of the creditor, in this business ; and if she
has any sort of conscience she will send me back
some sugar-plums.

I also send the bag of coins. I believe there is a
silver threepence among them, which you must take
out and bring home, as I cannot put myself to the
trouble of looking for it at present. It was a gift

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 127

to me from the loveliest lady in the land, and it
would break ray heart to part with it.

I don't understand the hint about the smelling-
bottle. I have made all possible inquiries, but neither
mother nor Elizabeth recollect to have seen such a
thing. I never make use of a smelling-bottle myself,
and of course would have no motive for keeping it.
I will speak to the town-crier to-morrow.

Mrs. Ede's wedding-cake will be very acceptable,
and I wish she had brought it with her when she
went through town. I am afraid there is little pros-
pect of my repaying her in kind ; but when I join the
Shakers, I will send her a great slice of rye-and-Indian
bread.

Nath. Hawthorne.

P. S. You can't imagine how quiet and comfort-
able our house has been since you went away.

The paragraph about the silver threepence is worth
marking. Though the coin in question had been
given to him by the loveliest lady in the land (who-
ever she may have been), and though it would have
broken his heart to part with it, yet he would not be
at the pains to put his hand into the bag to take it
out, but devolved that labor upon his sister. Thi^
seems to show that the frenzy of amorous passion
had not, at the age of twenty-seven, succeeded in
making an absolute slave of him. Concerning these
" loveliest ladies," his sister Elizabeth has the follow-
ing remarks to make : —

" About the year 1833, your father, after a sojourn

128 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of two or three weeks at Swampscott, came home
captivated, ia his fanciful way, with a ' mermaid/ as
he called her. He would not tell us her name, but
said she was of the aristocracy of the village, the
keeper of a little shop. She gave him a sugar heart,
a pink one, which he kept a great while, and then
(how boyish, but how like him ! ) he ate it. You will
find her, I suspect, in ' The Village Uncle.' She is
Susan. He said she had a great deal of what the
French call espiigl&rie. At that time he Yi&A. fancies
like this whenever he went from home."

Susan remains Susan still, and nothing more, to all
the world ; but I should like to know how she was
affected by the description of herself in " The Village
Uncle." This is how she appeared when he first
caught sight of her: —

"You stood on the little bridge, over the brook,
that runs across King's beach into the sea. It was
twilight ; the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by,
the crimson clouds fading in the west, and the sil-
ver moon brightening above the hill ; and on the
bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-
bird that might skim away at your pleasure. You
seemed a daughter of the viewless wind, a creature of
'the ocean foam and the crimson light, whose merry
life was spent in dancing on the crests of the billows,
that threw up their spray to support your footsteps.
As I drew nearer, I fancied you akjn to the race of
mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to
dwell with you among the quiet coves, in the shadow

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 129

of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of
the purest sand, aud when our northern shores grew
bleak, to haunt the islands, green and lonely, far amid
summer seas. And yet it gladdened me, after all
this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty girl,
sadly perplexed with the rude behavior of the wind
about your petticoats."

And, upon a further acquaintance, he addresses
her thus : —

" At a certain window near the centre of the vil-
lage, appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men
and horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish-hooks,
pins, needles, sugar-plums, and brass thimbles, —
articles on which the young fishermen used to ex-
pend their money from pure gallantry. What a
picture was Susan behind the counter! A slender
maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had
the slimmest of all waists, brown hair curling on her
neck, and a complexion rather pale, except when the
sea-breeze flushed it. A few freckles became beauty-
spots beneath her eyelids. How was it, Susan, that
you always talked and acted so carelessly, yet always
for the best, doiaig whatever was right in your own
eyes, and never once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked
a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till now ?
And whence had you that happiest gift, of brightening
every topic with an unsought gayety, quiet but irre-
sistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your sun-
shine, and did not shrink from it ? Nature wrought
the charm. She made you a frank, simple, kind-

130 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

hearted, sensible, and mirthful girl. Obeying nature,
you did free things without indelicacy, displayed a
maiden's thoughts to every eye, and proved yourself
as innocent as naked Eve."

Charming though all this declares her to have been,
however, the mermaid was not destined to have any
further effect on Hawthorne's destiny than to inspire
him to write this delicately conceived and gracefully
expressed sketch of her.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 131

CHAPTER IV.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD {Gontinued).

Before going further, it will be necessary to ex-
amine the epistolary records which cover the period
(between 1830 and 1837) during which Haw-
thorne began to become known as a man of letters.
There are numerous communications from Goodrich
and other publishers, and from Hawthorne's college
friends, Horace Bridge, Pranklin Pierce, and Cilley.
They have reference to his early contributions to
the "Token," the "Knickerbocker," and other peri-
odicals ; to his connection with the " Boston Bewick
Company's Magazine " (which became insolvent), to
a scheme of joining a South Polar expedition in the
capacity of historian, and various incidental matters.
The letters sufficiently explain themselves, and will
be given in the order of their dates, without further
comment.

Haetford, Conn., Jan. 19, 1830.

Dear Sir, — I brought the MSS. which you sSlit
me to this place, where T am spending a few weeka
I have read them with great pleasure. " The Gentle
Boy" and "My Uncle Molineaux" I liked particu-
larly ; about "Alice Doane" I should be more doubtful

132 BAWTHORNE AND MIS WIFE.

as to the public approbation. ' On my return to Bos-
ton in April, 1 will use my influence to induce a
publisher to take hold of the work, who will give it
a fair chance of success. Had "Fanshawe" been in
the hands of more extensive dealers, I do believe it
would have paid you a profit. As a practical evidence
of my opinion of the uncommon merit of these tales,
I offer you $35 for the privilege of inserting "The
Gentle Boy" in the "Token," and you shall be at
liberty to publish it with your collection, provided it
does not appear before the publication of the "Token."
In this ease I shall return " Eoger Malvin's Burial."
I will retain the MS. till your reply, which please
address to this place.

Eespectfully, S. G. Goodeich.

Boston, May 31, 1831.
Dear Sir, — I have made very liberal use of the
privilege you gave me as to the insertion of your
pieces in the " Token." I have already inserted four
of them ; namely, " The "Wives of the Dead," " Eoger
Malvin's Burial," "Major Molineaux," and " The Gen-
tle Boy." As they are anonymous, no objection
arises from having so many pages by one author,
particularly, as they are as good, if not better, than
anything else I get. My estimate of the pieces is
sufficiently evinced by the use I have made of them,
and I cannot doubt that the public will coincide
with me.

Yours respectfully,

S. G. Goodrich

BOYHOOt) AND BACHELORHOOD. 133

New York, Jan. 4, 1836.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Esq.

My dear Sir, — I have only to-day found time
to thank you for your truly beautiful article, " The
Fountain of Youth," in the current number of the
" Knickerbocker." I have rarely read anything which
delighted me more. The .style is excellent, and the
keeping of the whole excellent. We should be
glad to hear from you as often, as your leisure will
permit you to write; and you will please inform
•' Clark and Edson " when you desire the quid pro
qiu).

Among our contributions for next month will be a
poem of forty stanzas by Kobert Southey, that wiU
make you laugh, I think ; and other articles by
Professor Wolff of Jena University, Mr. Gait, and
Wordsworth. If you have a paper by you that we
might have for the February nun}ber, it would appear
among foreign and exotic plants of a good order.
Very truly, and with high regard,

S. Gaylord Clark.

H-AVANNAH, Feb. 20, 1836.

Dear Hawthoejie, — It is now ten days since
I received your letter in the country near Matanzas.
Nothing has giveA me so much pleasure for many a
day as the intelligence concerning your late engage-
ment in active and responsible business. I have
always known that whenever you should exert your-
self in earnest, that you could command refepecfe-

134 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

bility and independence and fame. As for your
present situation, I do not regard it so much in
itself — though it seems tolerably good to begin
with — as I do for its being the introduction to other
and better employment. Besides, it is no small point
gained to get you out of Salem. Independently of
the fact about " the prophet," etc., there is a peculiar
dulness about Salem, — a heavy atmosphere which
no literary man can breathe. You are now fairly
embarked with the other literary men, and if you

can't sail with any other, I '11 be d d. I hope you

will write for fhe "New York Mirror." It has a great
circulation, and its editor is a man of influence and
standing in the literary world, although in my judg-
ment he is not very deep. His good opinion will be
of service to you. I am writing with my coat and
hat off, doors and windows open, and mosquitoes
biting my feet. My letter is neither long nor neat ;
such as it is, though, it is probably worth the
postage.

With best wishes for your success and happiness,
I am

Yours truly, Horace Bridge.

#

Washington, March 5, 1836.
Dear Hawthorne, — I could make a very tolerable
apology for this long delay in answering your lettfer,
but as they are usually unsatisfactory, as they some-
times are insincere, we will if you please dispense
with them altogether. I was, as you supposed, try-

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 135

ing to effect a negotiation with Blair at the time
your letter was received; but I doubt whether I
should have succeeded in accomplishing anything
that would have been either agreeable or advanta-
geous to you. And I congratulate you sincerely
upon your installation in the editorial chair of the
"American Magazine." I hope you will find your
situation both pleasant and profitable. I wish you
to enter my name as a subscriber to the magazine.
Where do you board, and where is your office? I
may be at Boston in three or four weeks, and I shall
have no time to search out locations. If you do not
write to me soon, Hath, I will never write a puff of
the "American Magazine," or say a clever thing of its
editor.

Ever and faithfully your friend,

Fkank Pieece.

Augusta, May 14, 1836.

Am I not virtuous to-day ? have I not refused an
invitation to play cards with some, friends, thereby
compelling them to play each per se i This shows
what a good effect your letter had upon my morals.
But, after all, the worst accusation I can make against
myself is that I have no settled plan of existence,
even now, at the age of thirty. Meantime I keep
my heart as warm and kindly as possible, and am
happy enough in the friendship of a goodly number
of warm and indulgent friends.

I have read the April number of your journal.

136 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and like it well. The other, which you say is best,
has not come yet. There must be a great deal of
labor necessary to conduct it, and I rejoice that you
bear it so well. I fear that you may tire of your
present situation too soon ; but I think there is no
danger of your wanting literary employment long in
future. You are in for it, and are known. Good-
rich has opened a heavy fire upon P. Benjamin, I see.
I am glad that it is not you, and yet I should like
to see you thoroughly angry and pouring it into that
same fellow. I find that the Mill Dam is going
on famously. From present appearances I shall be
obliged to invest some twenty thousand dollars. You
must publish an article descriptive of this work,
when it is finished.

I shall try your advice with regard to the women
some time when I am away from here, though I shall
make a poor hand of it most certainly. I sometimes
think seriously of matrimony for ten minutes together,
and should perhaps perpetrate it if I did not like
myself too well. My morals have improved exceed-
ingly in the past year ; your advice in a former letter
was very efficient in this improvement, and Helen

J 's fate has confirmed me. I take advice from

you kindly. It seems divested of the presumption
and intermeddling spirit with which advice is usually
tinctured. I am a vain man, and a proud one ; and
I would spurn with scorn the interference of any one
whom I suspected of giving me advice with any
other than the most friendly feelings. But when 1

BOYBOOD AND BACHELORBOOD. 137

am sure of tLe purity and kindness of motive that
dictates the advice of a real friend, I can and do
feel grateful. But a little wickedness will not hurt
ouB, especially if the sinner be of a retiring disposi-
tion. It stirs one up, and makes him like the rest
of the world.

And now good-Tsy to you till we "ffleet, which I
trust will "be sooti. By the way, I wish you would
inquire of Earle, the tailoT, if he has sent my clothes.
I want them very much.

Yours truly,

Horace Bridge.

Boston, June 3, 1836.
Mr. Hawthorne.

Dear Sir, — Yours of this date is at hand. In

answer "to your wish that the Company would pay yon

some money soon, I would say it is impcssible to do

so just now, as the Company have made an assignment

of their property to Mr. Samuel Blake, Esq., for the

benefit of their creditors. They were compelled to

this course by the tightness of the money market,

and losses which they had sustained. We would like

to have you, when in the city, sign the assignment.

We shall continue the magazine to the end of the

volume. Your bills from the 27th May will be

settled by the assignee promptly.

Yours respectfully,

George A. Gmins,

For Sanmel Blake, assignee of B. Bewick Co.

138 HAWTBORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Boston, Sept. 23, 1836.
Deak Sir, — Your letter and the two folios oi
Universal History were received some days ago. I
like the History pretty well, — I shall make it do, —
I have requested Mr. Curtis to. make you the earliest
possible remittance. The " Token" is out ; the pub-
lisher owes you $108 for what you have written, —
shall it be sent to you ? I shall want three or four
sketches from you for the next volume, if you can

finish them.

Yours, S. G. Goodrich.

N. Hawthorne, Esq., Salem, Mass.

Augusta, Sept. 25, 1836.

Dear Hathorne, — The " Token " is out, and I
suppose you are getting your book ready for publica-
tion. What is the plan of operations ? who the pub-
lishers, and when the time that you will be known
by name as well as your writings are ? I hope to
God that you will put your name upon the title-
page, and come before the world at once and on your
own responsibility. You could not fail to make
a noise and an honorable name, and something be-
sides.

I 've been thinking how singularly you stand
among the writers of the day ; known by name to
very few, and yet your vn^itings admired more than
any others with which they are ushered forth. One
reason of this is that you scatter your strength hy
fighting under various banners. ;In the same book

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 139

you appear as the authot .of " The Gentle Boy," the
author of "The Wedding Knell," "Sights from a
Steeple," and, besides, throw out two or three arti-
cles with no allusion to the author, as in the case ot
" David Snow," and " The Prophetic Pictures," which
I take to be yours. Your articles in the last " Token "
alone are enough to give you a respectable name, if
you were known as their author. But you must be
aware of the necessity of coming out as you are, and
have probably made some arrangements about the
matter. I thought of writing a notice of the " Token,"
and naming you as the author of several articles,
with some candid remarks upon your merits as a
writer. Would you have any objection to this 1 If
not, I will do it.

I went to Boston this week, and saw Mrs. Fessen-
den, who told me that you were in Salem and had
been since last winter; that you had taken your
farewell in the last number of the magazine (which
by the way does not come to me), and that the maga-
zine had been sold out to some one who is to edit it.
Who is it ? Write me soon if it will not interfere
with your book that is to come out. Don't, flinch,
nor delay to publish. Should there be any trouble
in a pecuniary way with the publishers, let me know,
and I can and will raise the needful with great

pleasure.

Your friend,

H. Beidge.

140 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Augusta, Oct. 16, 1836.

Deae Hath, — I have a thousand things to say to
you, but can't say more than a hundredth part of
them. You have the blues again. Don't give up to
them, for God's sake and your own and mine and
everybody's. Brighter days will come, and that
within six months. It is lucky you did n't quarrel
with Goodrich, he being a practical man who can
serve you.

I should have been rejoiced to have been at Fresh
Pond with you and Frank Pierce, and think I should
have done honor to the good cheer. He is an hon-
orable man, that Frank, and of kind feelings ; and I
rejoice that he likes me.

By all means cultivate the "Knickerbocker;" and
I should think it good policy to write for the " New
York Mirror," though it is rather of the namby-pamby
order. See what I have written for the " Boston Post,"'
and tell me is it best, to send it : " It is a singular
fact that of the few American writers by profession,
one of the very best is a gentleman whose name has
never yet been made pubUe, though his writings are
extensively and favorably known. We refer to
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Esq., of Salem, the author of
' The Gentle Boy,' ' The Gray CharapiKjn,' etc., etc.,
all productions of high merit, which have appeared
in the annuals and magazines of the last three or
four years. Liberally educated, but bred to no pro-
fession, he has devoted himself exclusively to literary
pursuits, with an ardor and success which will ere-

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 141

long give him a high place among the scholars of this
country. His style is classical and pure ; his imagi-
nation exceedingly delicate and fanciful, and through
all his writings there runs a vein of sweetest poetry.
Perhaps we have no writer so deeply imbued with
the early literature of America, or who can so well
portray the times and manners of the Puritans.
Hitherto, Mr. Hawthorne has published no work of
magnitude ; but it is to be hoped that one who has
showu such unequivocal evidence of talent will soon
give to the world some production which shall place
him in a higher rank than can be attained by one
whose efforts are confined to the sphere of maga^
zines and annuals." This is not satisfactory by
any means, and yet it may answer the purpose of at-
tracting attention to your book when it comes out.
It is not what I wish it was, nor can I make it so.

Yours ever, H. Bridge.

New York,. Oct. 17, 1836.
Deab Sie, — In the midst of the " tempest and
I may say whirlwind " of avocations, I have only
time to say that I shall be glad to hear from you as
soon as you can, agreeably to yourself, favor us. with
anything from your pen, and that I shall never heed
postage in your case. In all cases,, therefore, please
send communications by mail.

Very truly, etc.,

S, Gaylobd Claek.
Nath. Hawthorne, Esq.

142 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

AususTA, Oct. 22, 1836.
Dear Hath, — I have just received your last, and
do not like its tone at all. There is a kind of des-
perate coolness in it that seems dangerous. I fear
that you are too good a subject for suicide, and that
some day you wiU end your mortal woes on your
own responsibility. However, I wish you to refrain
till next Thursday, when I shall be in Boston, Deo
volente. I am not in a very good mood myself just
now.aiid am certainly unfit. to write or think. Be
sure ^rid come to meet me in Boston.

. ' ^ Yours truly, H. Bkidge.

• Boston, Nov. 7, 1836.

Deae Sir, — I have seen Mr. Howes, who says he
can give a definite answer Saturday. When I get it,
I will communicate it to you. He seems pretty mn-
fident that he shall make the arraThgement with a man
who has capital, and will edit the hook. I think your
selection of the tales nearly right. Suppose you
say, for title, " The Gray Champion, and other Tales,
by N. H."

Tours truly, S. G. Goodrich.

N. Hawihornb, Esq.

Augusta, Kov. 17, 1836.
Dear Hath, — Have you obtained the magazine
again ? How does the book come on ? I am anx-
ious to see the effect it will produce, though nothing
doubting of its success. I fear you wiU hurt your-
self by pufiing Goodrich undeservedly, — for there is

BOYHOOD AND BACHELOliHOOD. 143

no doubt in my mind of his selfishness in regard to
your work and yourself. I am perfectly aware that
he has taken a good deal of interest in you, but when
did he ever do anything for you without a quid pro
quo ? The magazine was given to you for $100 less
than it should have been. The " Token " was saved
by your writing. What compensation you received
I do not know, — probably the same with the others.
And now he proposes to publish your book because
he thinks it -will be honorable and lucrative to be
your publisher now and hereafter, and perhaps be-
cause he dares not lose your aid in the "Token."
Unless you are already committed, do not mar the
prospects of your first book by hoisting Goodrich
into favor.

On the " 15th November, 1836," I opened the pack-
age so long since sealed, and forthwith notified Cilley
that he had lost the bet, sending him also a copy
of it, and of the agreement to pay within a month.
I think you will hear from him soon, and that he
wiU pay promptly. He is a candidate for Congress,
and would not like his Democratic friends at the
seat of government to think him dishonorable. By
all means accept the wine if he sends it. He is able
to pay, and would have exacted it if you had lost.
I think the odds were decidedly against you. It is
doubtful whether to rejoice or be. sad at the result.
Anyhow, I hope to taste the liquor.

Yours eVtr, H. Bridge,

144 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Thomaston, Nov. 17, 1836.

Friend Hathoene, — I have this day received a
letter from our classmate, Horace Bridge, containing
copies of a matrimonial wager made by us and left
with him twelve years ago last Monday. " Tempus
fugit." Now to the question. Have I won or lost ?
Are you single or double ? Were you, on the four-
teenth day of November last past, and to the utter-
most limits of said day, double or single ? or hast
thou, since the day and date above-named, ever tasted
the bliss of doable-trouble blessedness ? Please an-
swer truly and 'pon honor, as you love "the best
old Madeira wine." I see, by the articles signed and
sealed, that one month's grace is allowed the loser.

Bridge informs me that "you are about to publish a
book, and are coming into repute as a writer very feist."
I am gratified to hear it ; but just now it would have
pleased me more to have heard that you were about
to become the author and father of a legitimate and
well-begotten boy than book. What ! suffer twelve
years to pass away, and no wife, no chiLlren, to soothe
your care, make you happy, and call you blessed.
Why, in that time I have begotten sons and daugh-
ters to the number of half a dozen, more or less ;
though I mourn that some of them are not. Peace
be with them !

Now you are indeed a writer of great repute, and
soon to be the author of a book. I did. not mistake
your vein in that partiaular, if I did in the line mat-
Timonial. Damn that barrel of old Madeira ; who

BOYHOOD AND BACBELORROOD. 145

cares if I have lost it ! If only you and Frank
Pierce and Joe Drummer and Sam Boyd and Bridge
and Bill Hale were together with me, We would have
a regular drunk, as my chum in college used to call
it, on that same barrel of wine.

What sort of a book have you written, Hath ? I
hope and pray it is nothing like the damned ranting
stuff of John Neal, which you, while at Brunswick,
relished so highly. Send me a copy, and I '11 review
it for you. If I can't make a book, my partisan
friends call me good at a political harangue or stump
speech. Don't turn up your aristocratic nose, for it
is a pathway to fame and honor, as well as the course
you have marked out, and attended with more stimu-
lus, noise, and clatter, if not eclat; than that of a book
author and writer for immortality, who hides himself
from his own generation in a study or garret, and
neglects in the spring-time of life to plant and main-
tain that posterity to which he looks for praise and
commendation.

Don't fail to send me your book, on pain of my not
paying the barrel of wine. Is it a novel or poem ? —
has it a moral or religious tendency ? If not, Cheever
will be down upon it in the " Eeview." I have no
doubt it will be good, but I assure you I'll find fault
with it if I can.

I am,, dear sir,, very truly

Your obedient servant,

Jonathan Cillbs

Mr. Naxh. Hathqbne.

VOL. I. 10

Ii6 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Boston, Deo. 12, 1836.
Dear Sir, — Owing to peculiar circumstances, we
shall not be able to engage a good printer on your
book till next week. I thought it best to drop you a
line to this effect, that you might not think it un-
reasonably delayed or neglected.
Yours truly,

J. B. EUSSELL.
N. Hawthoenb, 'Esq.

Boston, Deo. 13, 1836.

Dear Sir, — I wiU with pleasure supply the copies
of the " Token " for the edition of the Tales. I be-
lieve the work is to go forward next week.

If you are disposed to write a volume of six hun-
dred small 12mo pages on the manner, customs, and
civilities of all countries, — for $ 300, — I could
probably arrange it with you. I should want a mere
compilation from books that I would furnish. It
might be commenced immediately. Let me know
your views. It would go in old Parley's name.
Yours in haste,

S. G. GooDRica

Augusta, Deo. 25, 1836.

Dear Hawthorne, — On this Christmas day and

Sunday I am writing up my letters. Yours comes

first. I am sorry that you didn't get the magazine;

because you wanted it, not that I think it very im-

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORBOOD. 147

portant to you. You will have the more time for
your book. . I rejoice that you have determined to
leave Goodrich to his fate. I do not like him.
Whether your book will sell extensively may be
doubtful, but that is of small importance in the first
book you publish. At all events, , keep up your
spirits till the result is ascertained ; and my word for
it, there is more honor and emolument in store for
you from your writings than you imagine. The bane
of your life has been self-distrust. This has kept you
back for many years, which, if you had improved by
publishing, would have long ago given you what you
must now wait a short time for. It may be for the
best, but I doubt it.

I have been trying to think what you are so miser-
able for. Although you have not much property,
you have good health and powers of writing, which
have made and can stiU make you independent.
Suppose you get but $ 300 per annum for your writ-
ings. You can with economy live upon that, though

it would be a d d tight squeeze. You have no

family dependent on you, and why should you " bor-
row trouble " ? This is taking the worst view of your
case that it can possibly bear. It seems to me that
you never look at the bright side with any hope or
confidence. It is not the philosophy to make one
happy. I expect next summer to be fuU of money,
a part of which shall be heartily at your service if it
comes. I doubt whether you ever get, your wine
from Cilley. His inquiring of you whether he had

148 HAWTHOUm: AKD BIS WIFE.

really lost the bet is suspidcras ; and he has written
me in a manner inconsistent with an intention of pay-
ing promptly ; and if a bet grows old it grows cold.
He wished me to propose to you to have it paid at
Brunswick next Commencement, and to have as many
of our classmates as could be mustered to drink it.
Though a bet of ^ine, it does not seem to me like a
bet of a bottle or a gallon even, which are to be
drunk by all concerned. A bet of a barrel can only
be intended for the individual's use who wins. It
may be Cilley's idea to pay over the balance after
taking a strong pull at it ; if so, it is well enough.
But still it should be tendered within the month.
Cilley says to me that if you answer his interroga-
tories satisfa,ctorily, he shall hand over the barrel of
old Madeira.

And so Frank Pierce is elected Senator. There is
an instance of what a man can do for himself by
trying. With no very remarkable talents, he, at the
age of thirty-four, fills one of the highest stations in
the nation. He is a good fellow, and I rejoice at his
success. He can do something for you perhaps.
The inclination he certainly has. Have you heard
from him lately ?

H. Ebidge.

Attgusta, Feb. 1, 1837.
Dear Hawthoene, — The Legislature is here in
session. I have not met Cilley yet, but probably
shall in a week or two, his election coming on again

BOYHOOD AND BACB^LOmiOOD. 149

■ February 6 ; and of course he will come here imme-
diately after. The probability is that he will be
successful this third time.

So your book is in press, and will soon be out.
Thank God that the plunge will be made at last.
I am sure it will be for good. It is a good
omen that you and Park Benjamin are reconciled,
though I should fear to trust him or Goodrich, par-
ticularly the last. I beHeve them both selfish and
unscrupulous.

I coincide perfectly with you touching the dis-
parity of profit between a writer's labor and a pub-
lisher's. It is hard that you should do so much and
receive so little for the " Token." You say an editor-
ship would save you. I tell you that within six
months you may have an editorship in any magazine
in the country if you wish it. I wish to God that
I could impart to you a little of my own brass.
You would dash into the contest of literary men, and
do honor to yourself and country in a short time.
But you never will have confidence enough in your-
self, though you will have fame. You must send
Frank Pierce a copy of your book by mail. He will
have no postage to pay, and will be gratified. Prank's
whole energies have been exerted for years in build--
ing up himself, and with surprising success. Hence
he has not been able to think or act for others, as he
would have done had he been less engrossed with
self. And yet I do not think him a selfish man.
He has been, in a measure, driven forward by cir-

150 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

cumstances, and obliged to obey his destiny. He
will be a good friend to you.

By next fall you and I will both have settled oui
destiny in no small degree. Write soon.

Yours truly, Horace.

Boston, Feb. 9, 1837.
Mt dear Sir, — If you have any articles writteu
for the "Token," I should be glad to get them soon,
as I am about putting the work into the hands of
the printers. The " Twice-Told Tales " will be ready
for the public eye in about ten days. It will be a
handsome book, — as to the interior, / know it will
take.

Yours, S. G. Goodrich.

N. Hawthorne, Esq^., Salem.

Boston, March i, 1837.
Dear Sir, — We shall publish your book next
Monday. I am directing the presentation copies, as
you directed, and have sent you twelve herewith, all
which shall be charged at cost.

In haste, yours truly,

J. B. EUSSELL.
N. Hawthorne, Esq.

Boston, March 17, 1837.

Dear Sir, — I have sent all the copies of your

book as you desired. It may be gratifying to you

to know that, in addition to the favorable opinions

expressed by the newspapers, your book is spoken of

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 151

in the highest terms by discriminating gentlemen
here and at Cambridge.

Yours truly, J. B. EussELL.

Augusta, March 19, 1837.

Deae Hath, — The " Twice-Told Tales " came yes-
terday, to my especial joy. The appearance of the
book is decidedly good. The name is excellent. I
have begun to write a notice which shall be published
as soon as our booksellers here receive any copies.
One of them ordered a dozen on my recommendation.
Has Goodrich kept his faith with you, and done
everything to promote the success of the book which
is usual in such cases ? I have never read " The
Gentle Boy " till to-day, when it had the credit of
making me blubber a dozen times at least during the
two readings which I have given it. I like it very
much, and think it better than any other in the
book. " Little Annie's Eamble '' is also new to
me, and very pleasant. It must be that you had
some particular child in your mind's eye, and per-
haps did actually take the walk. How was it?
Have you a smile that is more winning to chil-
dren than other men's ? I don't remember to have
heard you say anything about your partiality for
children.

It is not unlikely that the " Mirror " man may,
upon reading your book, try to engage your services
as editor, unless the "Mirror" clique should have
some interest in keeping you back, such as the glori-

152 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

fication of Willis. Two Nats cannot have their re-
flections in one Mirror, perhaps. Your first name
bids fair to stand high in the literary catalogue
There is yourself, Willis, and Nat Deering, — which
idea shall be wrought into a puff of you, under the
heading of " The Three Nats," which title will prob-
ably take enough to cause its republication.

As for me, I shall probably go to New York for
several weeks, if my " Mill Dam " continues to look
as well as it does now. Though I have forty or fifty
thousand at stake, I do not sleep the worse for it.
If I lose, I shall try for the appointment of Purser
In the Navy, and with a good chance of success.
This is a profound secret at present. Good times
for both of us are coming. You have broken the
ice ; the ice can't break me.

Your ancient friend, Hoeace.

Augusta, March 26, 1837.
Dear Hath, — I am delighted to hear that you
are likely to succeed in your wishes regarding the
South Sea, and would to God that I could go with
you, ruined or not ! Maybe I may, yet. I forwarded
a copy of your book to Cilley, telling him that his
assistance would be needed to get your situation.
What is the situation you want ? I only wait to
know this before procuring some letters for you. I
think I can do something with men of influence in
this, State, and perhaps in yours also. For instance, I
am well acquainted with George Bancroft. Hodgson,

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 153

our Land Agent, goes to-morrotv to New Hampshire
and will see Pierce; and if you will give Pierce
a hint, the thing may be managed easily. I will
answer for the whole Maine delegation. But, after
all, it will still be very doubtful if you succeed.
Therefore do not set your heart too thoi:oughly
upon it.

You seem to think that Pierce and I had some
mutual understanding upon this subject ; but I assure
you that not a syllable has passed between us about
it. Your book will do good, if the papers are cold
about it. Most of the coldness is due to the fact
that the stories are "Twice-Told;" and this I know
from remarks of some of my friends, who declined
buying because the book was not original! But
your fame here has become respectable, and I derive
some credit from being your friend.

Is it true that the man who was appointed Histo-
rian is sick and likely to resign ? I hope so.

Yours ever, H. Bridge.

HiLLSBOEo', March 28, 1837.
Dear Hathorne, — Yours of the 22d inst., with
the enclosure, came this morning, and you will learn
from the copy herewith enclosed what disposition I
propose to make of the latter. You will perhaps be
surprised that I seem to depend so much on Rey-
nolds. I think my letter in this respect is judicious;
the reasons I will explain to you when we meet.
I presume he will induce Gamberling to write a letter

154 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

to the President and enclose the articles, which I
now forward to him. I have taken the liberty
further to presume that it is important to you, on
account of other arrangements, to know as soon as
practicable what is to be the issue of this project.
I shall now remain quiet until I hear from Eey-
nolds; then communicate with you and take our
measures accordingly. Should anything, in the pres-
ent posture of affairs, occur to you as important, not
contained in my letter, I will supply its deficiency
without delay on being apprised of it. You wiU
receive herewith a copy of so much of my letter
to Mr. Eeynolds as relates to the subject of your
appointment.

In much haste, ever and truly your friend,

Frank Pierce.

Nath. Hawthoene, Esq., Salem.

{Copy.)
J. N. Kbtnolds, Esq.

Dear Sir, — Since we parted I have thought much
of the subject of our Sabbath evening conversation,
and am exceedingly desirous that my friend Haw-
thorne should accompany you on the South Sea
expedition. He is, as I remarked to you, extremely
modest, perhaps diffident, — a diffidence, in my judg-
ment, having its origin in a high and honorable
pride ; but he is a man of decided genius, without
any whims or caprices calculated to impair his effi-
ciency or usefulness in any department of literature

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 155

I was with him a day or two in Boston on my way
home ; and after full consideration, and consultation
with a few literary friends, he is disposed to accept
a situation, if tendered, though I was unable to inform
him precisely what would be the scope and character
of his duties, or what the compensation, — it ought to
be $1,500 at least. His recent publication (" Twice-
Told Tales") has been most favorably noticed by
many of the periodicals of the day. I should have
sent you a copy of the book, but had no opportunity.
Now, how is our object to be attained ? What is the
precise situation to apply for ? To whom should the
application be made ? To the Secretary of the Navy,
or directly to the President ? What testimonials
with regard to him will be useful, and from whom ?
These are questions upon which I desire your opinion
in order that our efforts may be promptly and effi-
ciently seconded by his friends. I hope you will
converse with Messrs. Camberling, Lee, McKean, and
Moore upon this subject, if you have a convenient
opportunity while in New York. Perhaps you may
enlist sufficient interest to address a letter to the
President; however, I would indicate no particular
course, but leave all to your better discretion. Haw-
thorne is very desirous of seeing you. Shall you be
in Boston before you visit Ohio ? If so, address a
letter to him at Salem, stating at what time and
where in that city he may expect to meet you. In
any event, he will be happy to receive a letter from
you on the subject. I hope to hear from you soon,

156 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

as it is important for my friend, on account of other
arrangements, that the probability of his becoming
attached to the expedition should be ascertained as
soon as practicable. I have before stated that Mr.
Hawthorne is not subject to any of those whims and
eccentricities which are supposed to characterize
men of genius, and which might disqualify him for
any solid and steady business; but as the articles
I send refer only to his abilities as a romance-writer,
it may be proper for me to add that he has been
hardly less successful in other departments. He
edited for some time the Boston Bewick Company's
"Magazine of Useful Knowledge," with great diligence
and success, — more, I believe, to the satisfaction of
the proprietors and the public than any previous
editors. You will perceive that I am in earnest upon
this subject ; it would be singular if it were other-
wise. I know Hawthorne's worth, and am sure you
would admire him as a man of genius, and love him
as a companion and friend.

Augusta, April 7, 1837.
Deae Hath, — I wrote George Bancroft, yester-
day, in your behalf, requesting a letter to the Secre-
tary of the Navy to be sent under cover to Pierce.
I don't know whether he will comply, but I think I
tickled him in the right place. He can't well help
doing the handsome thing by you. Has any one
interested Alexander Everett in your favor ? Pierce
might get him interested by a word, for he is ambi-

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 157

tious of office and honors. Pierce has not as yet writ-
ten me, nor am I certain that he will. If he has not
written Cilley, he ought at once ; for Cilley's having
been a classmate may have much weight. It looks
favorable for you now, but I must say again that it
is not good policy to set your heart wholly upon this
cast. You may not succeed, and what then ? Why,
you will be no worse off than now; on the other
hand, you will be much better ; for having made
interest among many of the high officers and higli
privates in the land, your reputation will be of course
extended, and the same men will feel bound to help
you again, if called upon. Pierce will not rest until
he does something for your permanent benefit. In
short, you now stand decidedly higher as a writer
than you would have done had not the post you seek
been thought of. It is absolute folly to think of
despairing, should you fail in this. There is many a
gi.^od jjay in store for you yet, if you never go to the
South Seas, of which, however, I have little doubt.
You must write often to Pierce ; every letter will
stimulate him to action, whether you push him or
not.

Yours truly, HoRACK

Boston, Apnl 8, 1837.

Dear 'Sir, — The book is selling well, and making
its way to the hearts of many. It will prove decid-
edly successful. I wish you could send me one or

158 HA WTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

two more stories for the " Token " within a week oi
fortnight. What say you ?

Yours, S. G. Goodrich.

Atjgtjsta, April 14, 1837.

Deak Hawthorne, — I am rejoiced that you seem
to think that the disappointment can be borne, even
if. you do not succeed in getting the post of Histo-
rian, the more because it looks very doubtful to me
whether you succeed. The disagreement between
Eeynolds, wlio holds your destiny in this respect, and
the Secretary will be a hard stumbling-block to get
over.

Are you seriously thinking of getting married ?
If you are, nothing that I could say would avail to
deter you. I am in doubt whether yoti would be
more happy in this new mode of life than you are
now. This I am sure of, that unless you are fortu-
nate in your choice, you will be wretched in a tenfold
degree. I confess that, personally, I have a strong
desire to see you attain a high rank in literature.
Hence my preference would be that you should take
the voyage if you can. And after taking a turn round
the world, and establishing a name that will be worth
working for, if you choose to marry you can do it
with more advantage than now.

I hope Longfellow will review the book, for I think
him a man of good taste and kindly feelings. Good-
by, and God bless us.

Yours ever, Horace

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 159

April 19, 1837.
The editors of the " United States Magazine and
Democratic Review," a new literary and political
periodical about to be commenced at Washington
City, knowing and highly appreciating Mr. Haw-
thorne's style of writing (as shown in a few sketches
and tales that have met their eye, such as " David
Snow," "Fancy's Show-Box," etc.), would be happy to
receive frequent contributions from him. This maga-
zine is designed to be of the highest rank of magazine
literature, taking ton of the first class iu England for
model. The compensation to good writers will be on
so liberal a scale as to command the best and most
polished exertions of their minds. It is therefore
intended that nothing but matter of distinguished
excellence shall appear in its pages, and that will
be very handsomely remunerated. Many of the finest
writers of the country are engaged for contribution,
as some will also be from England ; and as nothing
will be accepted which shall be worth a less price than
three dollars per page, in the judgment of the editors,
Mr. Hawthorne will perceive the general tone of su-
periority to the common magazine writing of this
country, at which they aim. In many cases they
propose to give five dollars per page, depending on
the kind and merit of the writing. As this magazine
will have a vast circulation throughout the Union, and
as it will occupy so elevated a literary rank, it will
afford to Mr. Hawthorne what he has not had before,
a field for the exercise of his pen, and the acquisition

160 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of distinction worthy of the high promise which the
editors of the " United States Magazine " see in what
he lias already written. The first number appearing
in July, any communication must be sent in by the
end of May. Please address " Langtree and O'Sulli-
van, Washington City, D. C."

[I must say that the above strikes me as being
the most amusing document of this whole batch. The
man who wrote it might have been retained as Head
Composer of Prospectuses for that famous specula-
tive enterprise in " Martin Chuzzlewit." He was, as
a matter of fact, John O'Sullivan, at this time about
eight-and-twenty years of age, a cosmopolitan of
Irish parentage on his father's side, and one of the
most charming companions in the world. He was
always full of grand and world-embracing schemes,
which seemed to him, and which he made appear to
others, vastly practicable and alluring, but which in-
variably miscarried by reason of some oversight which
had escaped notice for the very reason that it was so
fundamental a one. He lived in the constant anti-
cipatory enjoyment of more millions than the Ade-
lantado of the Seven Cities ever dreamed of ; and jet
he was not always able to make his income cover his
very modest and economical expenditure. Under dis-
appointments which would have crushed (one might
suppose) hope itself, he remained still hopeful and
inventive ; and it was difiicult to resist the contagion
of his eloquent infatuation. He and Hawthorne be-

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 161

came very dear friends ; and he was godfather to
Hawthorne's first child.]

BobTON, April 28, 1837.

Dear Hawthorne, — I saw Goodrich yesterday,
and had a long talk about you and your affairs. I
like him very much better than before. He told me
that the book was successful. It seemed that he was
inclined to take too much credit to himself for your
present standing, on the ground of having early dis-
covered and brought you forward. But, on the whole,
I like him much. I have also received a strong let-
ter of recommendation from Pierce in my behalf,
accompanied by a kind letter to me, in which he
speaks of you in terms of warmest friendship. He
says that he has written Eeynolds in your behalf,
and not yet received an answer. Still, I am glad
that you seem more disposed to stay at home than
awhile ago, for there is certainly much doubt of your
success. What has become of your matrimonial
ideas ? Are you in a good way to bring this about ?

I want you to spend two or three months this sum-
mer with me in my bachelor lodgings at Augusta.
We can be all to ourselves, and I am a famous cooker
of breakfast and tea. And then we will make an
excursion or two. Think of this seriously, and let
me know when I return.

Yours ever, Horace

VOL. I. 11

162 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Augusta, May 17, 1837.
Dear Hawthorne, — Have you heard anything
more of the Exploring Expedition ? It seems to me
that your chance of employment is as small almost
as mine. I am told that there is to be but one his-
toriographer, and that Colton, the chaplain, has con-
sented to perform that duty. My views of the
expedition have been materially changed since I
went to Washington. It is predicted by many of
the wise ones that it will be a decided failure, and
bring ridicule upon those who are connected with it.
If so, we had better keep out of it, especially if you
can marry a fortune, and I finish my Mill Dam. I
wish you would tell me if you were in earnest about
marrying. Goodrich told me that the book had sold
between six and seven hundred copies already, and
received high praise from some of the most eminent
literati of Boston and Cambridge. This is an ear-
nest of future eminence that cannot be mistaken. It
seems, however, as if all the reviewers in a small
way were determined to let you make your own way,
without giving the least assistance. Well, let them
take that course, and see who will come out brightest.
If the " North American " gives a good review of the
book, it will be worth the whole of these twopenny
critics' praise. Are you writing another book ? You
ought to follow up so good a beginning, if beginning
this may be called. I wish you would come to
Augusta and write all summer in my poor domicile.
I expect to take my French master into my house,

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 1G3

if he will come. God knows whether there will be
another opportunity, after this summer, for you and
me to be together again. My Mill Dam looks -well,
in spite of the blue times.

Tours ever,

H. Bridge

Boston, May 20, 1887.
Mr. Nathahiel Hawthorn.

Sib, — Mr. J. L. O'Sullivan, of Washington City,

wishes me to ask you if you have received a letter

from him. Having sent it by private hand, he is

doubtful whether you received it.

Very respectfully yours,

Samuel Dextee.

Mat 24, 1837.

Deae Hawthoene, — I am rejoiced that your last
gives reason to expect that you will pay me a visit
soon. When you come, make your arrangements so
that you can stay two or three months here. I have
a great house to myself, and you shall have the run
of it. As for old acquaintances, rely upon it they
will not trouble you. No one but Eveleth and Brad-
bury are here. The first is ruined and moping ; the
other prosperous, but does not darken my doors.
We are not friends.

I received a letter two days ago from Pierce, dated
May 2d, requesting me to ascertain exactly how mat-
ters were relating to the Exploring Expedition. I

164 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

have written to Pierce advising him to inquire of
the Secretary if there is any vacancy, and recom-
mending you for it. It might be well to put your
papers on file in his office, in case you are hereafter
a candidate for one of the editors of the magazine.
It is no use for you to feel blue. I tell you that you
will be in a good situation next winter, instead of
"under a sod." Pierce is interested for you, and can
make some arrangement, I know. An editorship or
clerkship at Washington he can and will obtain.
So courage, and au didble with your sods ! I have
something to say to you upon marriage, and about
Goodrich, and a thousand other things. I shall be
inclined to quarrel with you if yon do not come,
and that would be a serious business for you, for my
wrath is dreadful. Good-by till I see you here.
Yours truly,

H. Bridge.

P. S. Before I commenced this letter I put three
eggs into my teakettle to boil for dinner ; and it was
not till I had signed my name that the thought of
my eggs occurred to me. You see that I must have
been interested, and I shall see that the eggs are
sufficiently hard.

— The following passage from a letter to Miss E.
M. Hawthorne, from Miss E. P. Peabody, belongs to
a period a few months subsequent to the above, but
has its significance hero nevertheless : —

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 165

My DEAR Miss Hawthokne, — . . . I saw how much
your brother was suffering on Thursday evening, and
am glad you think it was not a trial, but rather the
contrary, to hear ray loquaciousness. I talked be-
cause I thought it was better than to seem to claim
entertainment from him, whose thoughts must be
wandering to the so frightfully bereaved. There
seems so little for hope and memory to dwell on in
such a case (though I hope everything always from
the Eevelation of Death), that I thought perhaps it
would be better if he could divert himself with the
German. . . .'Even your brother, studying the Pattern
Stvdent of the World, may be enabled to take such
a view of a literary life as will fill his desire of
action, and connect him with society more widely
than any particular of&ce under Government could
do. If, as you say, he has been so long uneasy — ■
however, perhaps he had better go; only, may he not
bind himself loTtg, only be free to return to freedom.
In general, I think it is better for a man to be
harnessed to a draycart to do his part in transporting
"the commodity" of the world; for man is weak,
and needs labor to tame his passions and train his
mind to order and method. But the most perilous
season is past for him. If, in the first ten years after
leaving college, a man has followed his own fancies,
without being driven by the iron whip of duty,
and yet has not lost his moral or intellectual dignity,
but rather consolidated them, there is good reason
for believing that he is one of Nature's ordained

166 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

priests, who is consecrated to her higher biddings.
I see that you both think me rather enthusiastic ; but
I believe I say the truth when I say that I do not
often overrate, and I feel sure that this brother of
yours has been gifted and kept so choice in her secret
places by Nature thus far, that he may do a great
thing for his coimtry. And let me tell him what a
wise man said to me once (that Mr. J. Phillips of
whom I once spoke to you) : " The perilous time for
the most highly gifted is not youth. The holy sensi-
bilities of genius — for all the sensibilities of genius
are holy — keep their possessor essentially unhurt as
long as animal spirits and the idea of heing young
last ; but the perilous season is middle age, when a
false wisdom tempts them to doubt the divine ori-
gin of the dreams of their youth ; when the world
comes to them, not with the song of the siren,
against which all books warn us, but as a wise old
man counselling acquiescence in what is below them."
I have no idea that any such temptation has come to
your brother yet; but no being of a social nature can
be entirely beyond the tendency to fall to the level
of his associates. And I have felt more melancholy
still at the thought of his owing anything to the
patronage of men of .such thoughtless character as
has lately been made notorious. And it seems to
me they live in too gross a region of selfishness to
appreciate the ambrosial moral aura which floats
around our Ariel, — the breath that he respires. I,
too, wovdd have him help govern this great people ;

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 167

but I would have him go to the faurdains of great-
ness and power, — the unsoiled souls, — and weave
for them his "golden web," as Miss Burley calls
it, — it may be the wei of destiny for this country.
In every country some oiu man has done what has
saved it. It was one Homer that made G-reece,
one Numa that made Eome, and one Wordsworth
that has created the Poetry of Reflection. How
my pen runs on, — but I can write better than I
can speak.

— Here or hereabouts it was that Hawthorne
met with an experience that carried with it serious
results. If there be any hidden cause for what
seems the premature reserve and gravity of his early
manhood, it will not, perhaps, be necessary to look
further for it than this. For a man such as he has
been shown to be, it was enough ; and it might, indeed,
have left deep traces upon a nature less sensitive and
a conscience less severe than his.

Among the young ladies of good family and social
standing that formed what were then the " best cir-
cles " of Salem and Boston, there was one who, for
convenience' sake, shall be designated as Mary. As
a child, she had been the victim of an abnormal and
almost diseased sensitiveness, which often caused her
to behave oddly and unaccountably. A distorted
vanity, or craving fox admiration, was perhaps at the
bottom of this behavior ; the child was passionately
desirous of producing an impression or a sensation.

168 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and indifference or" ridicule was an agony to her. The
success of her performance was tripped up by the
very intensity of her desire, and she had intelligence
enough to be keenly aware of her own shortcomings
and awkwardness. She was sent to dancing-school,
but suffered so much from the real or fancied slights
and raillery of her companions, that it was found
necessary to take her home again. Later on, a vio-
lent ambition to become learned took possession of
her ; she imagined that she could win by the power
of intellect that conspicuousness and homage which
were to her as the breath of her life. Her mind,
however, was not of the calibre of a De Stael or even
of a Margaret Fuller; she was clever, subtle, and
cunning, but possessed no real mental weight or
solidity. Nor did this yearning after the fruits of
wisdom long abide with her; she was now growing
out of her hobbledehoyhood, and was developing a
certain kind of glancing beauty, slender, piquant,
ophidian, Armida-like. Instead of a prophetess or
sibyl, she now aimed to become a social enchantress ;
and everything favored her purpose. She had learnt
how to conceal her true feelings and sentiments, or
to. let only so much of them appear as might enhance
the bomplejcity of her fascinations. She had a con-
siderable share of the dramatic instinct, — the art
of the actress ; and it was her constant delight to
devise comljinations and surprises wherein, in a man-
ner seemingly the most involuntary and unconscious,
she should appear as the centre and culmination

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 169

of interest. The alertness and rapidity of her men-
tal operations and perceptions enabled her to pro-
duce, upon persons whom she wished to dazzle or
captivate, an impression not only of intellectual
brilliance, but of a strange and flattering sympathy
with and understanding of their most intimate pre-
possessions and aspirations. In this way she se-
cured the regard, confidence, and occasionally the
devotion, of persons who were in every high respect
her immeasurable superiors. For she was, in reality,
a creature of unbounded selfishness, wantonly mis-
chievous, an inveterate and marvellously skilful liar ;
she was coarse in thought and feeling, and at times
seemed to be possessed by a sort of moral insanity,
which prompted her to bring about all manner of
calamities upon innocent persons, with no other
motive than the love of exercising a secret and
nefarious power. Thus, on one occasion, a certain
very agreeable young lady, a cousin of hers, hap-
pened to meet an, English nobleman, who fell violently
in love with her. She returned his affection, and
their marriage was already arranged, when Mary
stepped between them, and, by means of a series of
anonymous letters, devised with diabolical ingenuity,
succeeded in breaking off the match. The nobleman
returned to England heart-broken, and remained a
bachelor the rest of his life ; the cousin, some fifteen
years later, made a marriage of friendship with an
elderly and unromantic gentleman. As for Mary,
she had the benefit of whatever enjoyment is to

170 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

be derived from the disinterested torture of one's
fellow-creatiu-es.

While this notable personage was in the full tide
of her social triumph and fascination, a gentleman,
■whom I will call Louis, and who was on terms of
familiar intercourse with her, happened to speak to
her of his friend, Nathaniel Hawthorne. The report
thus given of the handsome and mysterious young
author aroused Mary's curiosity and ambition; she
resolved to add him to her museum of victims. At
her request, Louis brought him to her house and
introduced him. She at once perceived how great
his value would be to her, as a testimony to the
potency of her enchantments, and set heraelf to
ensnare him. In order to encourage his confidence,
she regaled, him with long extracts from the most
private passages of her own autobiography, all of
which were either entirely fictitious, or such boun-
teous embroideries on the bare basis of reality, as
gave to what was mean and sordid .an appearance of
beauty and a winning charm. Hawthorne, who was
himself above all things truthful, and who had never
considered the possibility of a lady being a deliberate
and gratuitous liar, accepted her confidences with
sympathetic interest, and allowed her to decoy him
into assuming towards her the attitude of a pro-
tecting friend and champion, — the rather, since she
assured him that he was the only human being to
whom she could reveal the secrets of her inmost
soul.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 171

So far all was well ; but when it came to takiiKT
the next step, — to beguiling him into exchanging
confidence for confidence, autobiography for auto-
biography, — Armida began to meet with difficulties.
Hawthorne intimated to her, in the gentlest and
most considerate manner, that it was impossible for
him to regard himself as an object of so much interest
as to warrant his dissecting himself for her benefit.
Mary had the tact not to seem put out by this rebuff,
and greatly augmented Hawthorne's kindly feelings
towards her by forbearing to urge him any further in
this direction. She did not, however, entertain any
idea of giving up her purpose. She merely resigned
herself to the necessity of changing her mode of
attack; and after due meditation she hit upon a
scheme which more than sustained her unhallowed
reputation for ingenuity. She summoned Hawthorne
to a private and mysterious interview, at which, after
much artful preface and well-contrived hesitation
and agitated reluctance, she at length presented him
with the startling information that his friend Louis,
presuming upon her innocence and guilelessness, had
been guilty of an attempt to practise the basest
treachery upon her; and she passionately adjured
Hawthorne, as her only confidential and trusted
friend and protector, to champion her cause. This
story, which was devoid of a vestige of truth, but
which was nevertheless so cunningly interwoven
with certain circumstances known to her auditor as
to appear like truth itself, so kindled Hawthorne's

172 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

indignation and resentment, that, without pausing to
make proper investigations, he forthwith sent Louis
a challenge.

Mischief was now afoot ; and Mary was charmed at
the prospect of seeing two men, who had always been
dear and cordial friends, engage in a duel on her ac-
count. Fortunately, however, Louis was not such
a fool as most young fellows would have been under
the circumstances; and. he was, moreover, cognizant
of instances in which this baleful young personage
had played a similar game. Accordingly, instead of
at once accepting the challenge, he made himself
acquainted with all the details of the matter, and
then wrote Hawthorne a frank and generous letter,
in which, after fully and punctually explaining to him
the ins and outs of the deception which had been
practised upon him, and completely establishing his
own guiltlessness of the charge against him, he re-
fused the challenge, and claimed the renewal of
Hawthorne's friendship.

Hawthorne immediately called upon him, over-
whelmed both by the revelation of the woman's false-
hood and by his own conduct in so nearly bringing
destruction upon a man he loved. He could scarcely
bring himself to believe, however, that Mary had
knowingly, and with full comprehension of what she
was about, contrived a plot of such wanton malice ;
and perhaps his self-esteem made him reluctant to
admit that the tender and confidential conduct she
had maintained towards him was nothing more than

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD. 173

the selfish artifice of a coquette. Howbeit, I^ouis
left his vanity not a leg to stand upon ; and finally,
to use the expression of one who was cognizant, of
these events at the time, Hawthorne went to Mary
and " crushed her."

If the matter had ended here, it would have re-
mained in Hawthorne's memory only as a rash and
regrettable episode of his impetuous youth, from the
worst consequences of which be had been providen-
tially preserved. But it is at this point that the
story takes a tragic turn. While the duel was still
a topic of conversation among the few of Hawthorne's
friends who knew anything about it, one of those
friends — Cilley — received the challenge of Wise..
Now, Cilley belonged to a knot of young Northern
men who had resolved to put down the tyranny of
the fire-eating Southerners. Nevertheless, he hesi-
tated some time before accepting this challenge, the
subject in dispute being unimportant, and his posi-
tion with regard to it being such that the " code of
honor" did not necessitate a meeting. At length,
however, some one said, " If Hawthorne was so ready
to fight a duel without stopping to ask questions,
you certainly need not hesitate ; " for Hawthorne
was uniformly quoted by his friends as the trust-
worthy model of aU that becomes a man in matters
of honorable and manly behavior. This argument,
at all events, put an end to Cilley's doubts ; he ac-
cepted the challenge, the antagonists met, and Cilley
was killed.

174 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

When Hawthorne was told of this, he felt as if he
were almost as much responsible for his friend's death
as was the man who shot him. He said little; but
the remorse that came upon him was heavy, and did
not pass away. He saw that it was Cilley's high
esteem for him which had led him to his fatal de-
cision ; and he was made to realize, with unrelenting
clearness, how small a part of the consequences of
a man's deeds can be monopolized by the man him-
self. " Had I not aimed at my friend's life," was the
burden of his meditation, "this other friend might
have been still alive." And if the reproach be
deemed fanciful, it would not on that account be
easier for Hawthorne to shake off. He had touched
hands with crime ; and all the rest was but a ques-
tion of degrees.

In the first volume of " Twice-Told Tales " there is
a short story, or " morality," as the author styles it,
which, if read in the light of the foregoing narrative,
will be found to have a peculiar interest. In it the
question is discussed, whether the soul may contract
the stains of guilt, in all their depth and flagrancy,
from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved
upon, but which physically have never had an ex-
istence. The conclusion is reached that "it is not
until the crime is accomplished, that guilt clinches
its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims it for its
own. . . . 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." Never-

DOY/IOOD AND BACUELOnaOOl). 175

theless, " man must not disclaim his brotherhood wiih
the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his
heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phan-
toms of iniquity. He must feel that, when he «hall
knock at the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an
unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there.
Penitence must kneel, and Mercy come from the
footstool of the throne, or that golden gate will never
open ! "

Those who wish to obtain more than a superficial
glimpse into Hawthorne's heart cannot do better
than to ponder every part of this little story, which
is comprised within scarcely more than a half-dozen
pages. It was written about the time of CUley's
unhappy death, and contains more than its due pro-
portion of " sad and awful truths."

I will append here a list of most of Hawthorne's
contributions to various periodicals from 1832 to
1838, inclusive.

In the "Token'' for 1832 appeared: Wives of the
Dead My Kinsman, Major Molineaux ; Eoger Mal-
vin's Burial ; The Gentle Boy. In the " Token " for
1833, The Seven Vagabonds; Sir William Pepperell ;
The Canterbury Pilgrims. In the " New England
Magazine" for 1834 (vol. vii.), The Story-Teller; —
in voL viii. of the same periodical. Visit to Niagara
Falls; Old News; Young Goodman Brown; Ambi-
tion's Guest ; — in vol. ix.. Graves and Goblins ; The
Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet ; Sketches from

176 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Memory; The Devil in Manuscript. Jn the "Token"
for 1835, The Mermaid (afterwards called The Vil-
lage Uncle) ; Alice Doane's Appeal ; The Haunted
Mind. In the " American Magazine of Knowledge "
(which he edited at this period, 1836-38, and
pretty much all of the contents of which he wrote
and prepared) will be found the following in par-
ticular : The Ontario Steamboat ; The Boston Tea
Party ; Preservation of the Dead ; April Fools ;
Martha's Vineyard ; The Duston Family ; Nature of
Sleep; Bells ; etc. In the "Token" for 1837, The
Man of Adamant ; and in 1838, The Shaker Bridal ;
Sylph Etheredge ; Endicott and his Men ; Peter
Goldthwaite; Night Thoughts under an Umbrella.
In the " Knickerbocker," 1836, Edward Fane's Eose-
bud; A Bell's Biography. In the "Democratic
Eeview," 1838-39, Memoir of Jonathan Cilley ;
ToU-Gatherer's Day ; Footprints on the Seashore ;
Snow-Flakes ; Chippings with a Chisel ; and the four
Tales of the Province House.

COURTSHIP. 177

CHAPTER V.

COURTSHIP.

"In 1811 and onwards," writes Miss E. P. Peabody,
" when we lived in Herbert Street, Salem, we used
to play with the Hawthorne children, who lived in
Union Street, — their yard stretching between the
two streets. Elizabeth Hawthorne, the eldest of the
children, used to do her lessons with me. I vividly
remember her; she was a brilliant little girl, and I
thought her a great genius. Nathaniel Hawthorne
I remember as a broad-shouldered little boy, with
clustering locks, springing about the yard. Madame
Hawthorne was a recluse, and was not in the habit
of receiving her husband's relations, or many of her
own ; it was considered, at that time, a mark of piety
and good taste for a widow to withdraw herself from
the world. About 1816 to 1820 the Hawthornes
were, most of the time, living in Eaymond, Maine,
and we lost sight* of them. But in the latter year I
heard that they had returned to Salem, and that Miss
Elizabeth now secluded herself in like manner as her
mother did, spending most of her time in reading
and in solitary walks. People said it was a love-
disappointment ; but that was merely hearsay..

VOL. I. 12

178 IIAWTUORNR AND BIS WIFE.

" Between 1830 and 1836 some stories in the
' New England Magazine ' arrested my attention. I
thought they were probably written by some ' new-
light' Quaker, who had outgrown his sectarianism;
and I actually wrote (but never sent) a letter to the
supposed old man, asking him how he knew that
'sensitive natures are especially apt to be malicious.'
It was not until 1837 that I discovered that these
stories were the work of Madame Hawthorne's son.
It was a difficult matter to establish visiting relations
with so eccentric a household; and another year passed
away before Mr. Hawthorne and his sisters called on
us. It was in the evening. I was alone in the draw-
ing-room ; but Sophia, who was still an invalid, was
in her chamber. As soon as I could, 1 ran upstairs
to her and said, '0 Sophia, you must get up and
dress and come down! The Hawthornes are here,
and you never saw anything so splendid as he is, —
he is handsomer than Lord Byron ! ' She laughed,
but refused to come, remarking that since he had
called once, he would call again. So I went down
to them again, and we passed a very pleasant evening.
Elizabeth, with her black hair in beautiful natural
curls, her bright, rather shy eyes, and a rather excited,
frequent, low laugh, looked full of wit and keenness,
as if she were experienced in the world ; there was
not the least bit of sentiment about her, but she was
strongly intellectual. There was nothing peculiar
about Louisa; she seemed like other people. Mr.
Hawthorne was very nicely dressed ; but he looked.

COURTSSIP. 179

at first, almost fierce with his determination not to
betray his sensitive shyness, which he always recog-
nized as a weakness. But as he became interested
in conversation, his nervousness passed away; and
the beauty of the outline of his features, the pure
complexion, the wonderful eyes, like mountain lakes
reflecting the sky, — were quite in keeping with the
'Twice-Told Tales.'

" He did call again, as Sophia had predicted, not
long afterwards; and this time she came down, in
her simple white wrapper, and sat on the sofa. As I
said ' My sister, Sophia,' he rose and looked at her
intently, — he did not realize how intently. As we
went on talking, she would frequently interpose a
remark, in her low, sweet voice. Every time she
did so, he would look at her again, with the same
piercing, indrawing gaze. I was struck with it, and
thought, ' What if he should fall in love with her ! '
and the thought troubled me ; for she had often told
me that nothing would ever tempt her to marry, and
inflict on a husband the care of an invalid. When
M.V. Hawthorne got up to go, he said he should come
for me in the evening to call on bis sisters, and he
added, ' Miss .Sophia, won't you come too ? ' But
she replied, 'I never go out in the evening, Mr.
Hawthorne.' 'I wish you would !' he said, in a low,
urgent tone. But she smiled, and shook her head,
and he went away."

It may be remarked here, that Mrs. Hawtbome, in
telling her children, many years afterwards, of these

180 UA WTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

first meetings with their father, used to say that his
presence, from the very beginning, exercised so strong
a magnetic attraction upon her, that instinctively, and
in self-defence as it were, she drew back and repelled
him. The power which she felt in him alarmed her ;
she did not understand what it meant, and was only
able to feel that she must resist. By degrees, how-
ever, her resistance was overcome; and in the end,
she realized that they had loved each other at first
sight.

"Mr. Hawthorne told me," continues Miss Peabody,
" that his sisters lived so completely out of the world
that they hardly knew its customs. ' But my sister
Elizabeth is very witty and original, and knows the
world, in one sense, remarkably well, seeing that she
has learned it only through books. But she stays
in her den, and I in mine : I have scarcely seen her
in three months. After tea, my mother and Louisa
come down and sit with me in the little parlor ; but
both Elizabeth and my mother take their meals in
their rooms, and my mother has eaten alone ever
since my father's death.'

"Mr. Hawthorne was never a ready talker; but
every word was loaded with significance, and his
manner was eminently suggestive, though there was
nothing oracular in it. I never saw any one who
listened so comprehendingly as he ; and he. was by
nature profoundly social. I was always especially
struck by his observations of nature. Nature re-
appeared in his conversation humanized ; and he

COURTSHIP. 181

spoke of the ofl&ce of nature's forms in building up
the individual mind.

" Whenever, after this, he called at our house, he
generally saw Sophia. One day she showed him her
illustration of ' The Gentle Boy,' saying, ' I want to
know if this looks like your Ilbrahim?' He sat
down and looked at it, and then looked up and said,
' He will never look otherwise to me.' He had re-
marked to me long before, ' What a peculiar person
your sister is ! ' And again, a year later, he wrote to
me, ' She is a flower to be worn in no man's bosom,
but was lent from Heaven to show the possibilities of
the human soul.' In return, I had talked to him
about her freely, and had described to him her rare
childhood. I also told liim of her chronic headaches,
and how the pain did not imbitter or even sadden the
unspoiled imagination of her heart. I showed him
her letters from Cuba, which we had had bound as a
book ; and by these means he became quite intimately
acquainted with her spirit and inner character.

" When I left Salem to live in West Newton, he
saw a great deal of Sophia, who, having grown up
with the feeling that she never was to be married,
looked upon herself as practically a child ; and she
would sometimes go over to Madame Hawthorne's,
in this way forming an acquaintance with her and
with Louisa. It afterwards transpired that Madame
Hawthorne became very fond of her. Madame Haw-
thorne always looked as if she had walked out of an
old picture,, with her antique costume, and a face of

182 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

lovely sensibility and great brightness, — for she did
not seem at all a victim of morbid sensibility, not-
withstanding her alFbut Hindoo self-devotion to the
manes of her husband. She was a woman of fine
understanding and very cultivated mind. But she
had very sensitive nerves, and appears not to have
been happily affected by her husband's relatives, —
the Hawthornes being of a very sharp and stern
individuality, and oddity of temper. Old Captain
Knights had once said to Mr. Manning, ' I hear your
darter is going to marry the son of Captain Ha-
thome ? ' 'I believe she is,' replied Mr. Manning.
' I knowed him,' continued Captain Knights, — ' I
knowed the Captain ; and he was the sternest man
that ever walked a deck ! ' Mr. Hawthorne used to
say that he inherited the granite that was in this
ancestor of his, and which contrasted so strongly
with the Manning sensibility. It is such contrasts
of parents that bring forth the greatest geniuses, —
provided", of course, that they are in some degree
harmonized and placed in equipoise by culture."

It was previous to the opening of the acquaintance
between the Peabodies and the Hawthornes, that
Wellington Peabody, as has already been mentioned,
died in New Orleans ; and it was at about that time
that the second brother, George, returned thence, to
die of his lingering disease. His death occurred in
1839 ; and during the preceding eighteen months he
lay on his bed, in the house in Charter Street, Salem
'(the home of Br. Grim.'ihawe), awaiting the inevitable

COURTSHIP. 183

end with a noble patience, courage, and cheerful-
ness. Miss Elizabeth Peabody spent the spring and
summer of 1838 with her brother Nathaniel, in West
Newton, a village near Boston ; and this was the oc-
casion of letters (whereof some extracts follow) being
written to her by Sophia. Besides the allusions
which they contain to well-known persons, and the
descriptions of Hawthorne himself, which creep iil
more often than the writer was probably aware of,
they show the growth and advancement of her mind
since the period of the Dedham Journal (1830), already
given. The extracts close with Hawthorne's starting
on the journey to Western Massachusetts, the record
of which appears in his published Note-Books, — July
27 to September 24, 1838.

" What a proof of the divinity of our nature is it,
that, by merely being true to it, we may attain to all
things. It is the simplest and the grandest command
uttered by the oracle within, and every human being
has capacity enough to obey it. Whenever my wing
is ready to droop in endeavoring to reach the upper
regions, it immediately grows buoyant again at the
thought that I can every Tnoment get onward if I re-
member this. How simple as a unit is the whole
problem of life, sometimes, to the mind ; and I sup-
pose it is always to the absolutely single-eyed. Oh,
let not the light, within me be darkness ! . . .

" Last night I was left in darkness, — soft, grateful
darkness, — and my meditations turned upon my habit

184 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of viewing things through the ' couleur de rose ' me-
dium, and I was questioning what the idea of it was,^
for since it was real, there must be some good expla-
nation of it, — when suddenly, like a night-blooming
cereus, my mind opened, and I read in letters of paly
golden-green words to this effect : The beautiful and
gpod and true are the only real and abiding things,
— the only proper use of the soul and nature. Evil
and ugliuess and falsehood are abuses, monstrous
aud transient. I do not see what is not, but what is,
through the passing clouds. Therefore, why is not
my view more correct than the other? . . .

^' All day yesterday, my head raged, aud I sat a pas-
sive subject for the various corkscrews, borers, pinch-
ers, daggers, squibs, and bombs to effect their will upon
it. Always I occupy myself with trying to penetrate
the mystery of pain. Towards night my head was
relieved, and I seemed let down from a weary height
full of points into a quiet green valley, upon velvet
turf It was as if I had fought a fight all day and
got through. After tea I lay down; but scarcely
touched my cheek to the pillow, when the bell rang,
and I was just as sure it was Mr. Hawthorne as if
I had seen him. I descended, armed with a blue,
odorous violet. Mr. Hawthorne would not take off
his coat or stay, because he had the headache and an
engagement. He said he had written to you, and
that it was a great thing for him to write a letter.
He looked very brilliant notwithstanding his head-
ache. I showed him a little temple mosaic I had

COURTSHIP. 185

begun to make, and he thought it very pretty. He
said he was going to Boston next week, and shoulil
have the little forget-me-not I painted set. Mary
invited him to come with his sister on Saturday and
read German ; but it seems to me he does not want
to go on with German. I had a delightful night,
and this morning feel quite lark-like, or like John of
Bologna's Mercury. Mr. Hawthorne said he wished
he could have intercourse with some beautiful chil-
dren, — beautiful little girls ; he did not care for
boys. What a beautiful smile he has ! You know,
in 'Annie's EaniDle,' he says that if there is any-
thing he prides himself upon, it is on having a smile
that children love. I should think they would, in-
deed. There is the innocence and purity and frank-
ness of a child's soul in it. I saw him better than
I bad ever before. He said he had imagined a story,
of which the principal incident is my cleaning that
picture of Fernandez. To be the means, in aay way,
of calling forth one of his divine creations, is no small
happiness, is it ? How I do long to read it ! He
did not stay more than an hour. Father came in,
and he immediately got up and said he must go. He
has a celestial expres^on. It is a manifestation of
the divine in human. ...

" I have been reading of the ruins of- Persiepolis.
Sliall I ever stand upon the Imperial Palace of Per-
sepolis ? Who knows but when I am dried to an
atomy like Mrs. Kirklaud, I too may go to the East ?
And when I go, perhaps my husband will uot be a

186 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

paralytic. Oh ! I forget. I never intend to have
a husband. Eather, I should say, I never intend
any one, shall have me for a wife. . . .

" I read ' Persia ' all day yesterday. The account
of Zoroaster is deeply interesting. Alas, me ! how
little I know ! It will indeed take an Eternity to
satisfy this thirst for knowledge. Whenever my
mind gets into a hustle about it, this thought of
Eternity can alone quiet it. How natural it is for
the mind to generalize ! It seems to me sometimes
as if every material object and every earthly event
were only signs of something higher signified ; and
at such times all particulars are merged into one
grand unit. Then I feel as if I could read a minute
portion of the universe. How everything hurries
into its place the moment we are high enough to
catch the central light! All factitious distinctions
hide their diminished heads. Conventionalities dis-
appear. I suppose Mr. Emerson holds himself in
that lofty region all the time. I wonder not at the
sublimity of his aspect, the solemnity of his air.
I have read the second volume of Miss Marti-
neau's 'Retrospect.' I admire her picture of Mr.
Emerson. I think Mr. Emerson is the greatest
man that ever lived. As a whole he is satisfactory.
Everything has its due with him. In all relations
he is noble. He is a unit. His uncommon powers
seem used for right purposes. It is often said,
' Oh, such an one must not be expected to do thus
and thus, — so gifted 1 ' Such nonsense Mr. Emerson

COURTSHIP. 187

proves it to be, does he not ? Because he is gifted,
therefore he cannot be excused from doing everything
and being equal to everything. He is indeed a ' Su-
pernal Vision.' For the rest, I think a great deal
more fuss is made over Miss Martineau's books than
there is any reason for. After all, what great- matter
is it what she says ? She is not the Pope. ... I
have read Carlyle's ' Miscellanies ' with deep delight.
The complete manner in which he presents a man is
wonderful. He is the most impartial of critics, I
think, except Mr, Emei-son. Every subject interest-
ing to the soul is touched in these essays. Such a
reach of thought produced no slight stir within me.
I am rejoiced that Carlyle is coming to America.
But I cannot help feeling that Emerson is diviner
than he. Mr. Emerson is Pure Tone.

"I have not told you of my Farm. A fortnight
ago, mother brought me some Houstonias in their
own bit of earth, — those meek blue starry flowers
which cover our hills and fields all summer. I put
them in a glass saucer, with some beautiful moss, and,
by degrees, have added violets and a periwinkle and
a delicious aromatic lavender. Several blades of
grass sprang up, and tiny clover. So you see I have
grass for cattle, and herb for the service of man, and
flowers to rejoice his heart, all growing and flourishing
within my little farm. I am constantly amazed at
the unfailing stores of that bit of earth. The Hous-
tonias say as plainly as flowers can speak, ' Be
humble and win love;' and if one may infer the

188 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

importance of the injunction from its repetition, surely
the angels never wrote a truth upon this earth so
important. . . .

" Live forever, Captain Pillsbury ! ' Even on this
earth I would have you live a thousand years. Pris-
ons and prisoners have been to me, ever since I could
reflect, the subjects of the deepest interest. I always
believed in that way of trusting even the greatest
criminals. I always believed that real confidence
and love could win even the hardest heart. Captain
Pillsbury proves it. I always wished prisoners could
be more visited by persons who honor humanity. Our
Saviour's command to visit prisoners seems very little
regarded. The sick in body obtain more atteation
and need it less than the sick in soul. One of my
dearest visions is getting well enough to go into pris-
ons and tell felons I have sympathy for them, espe-
cially women ; though I should fear a corrupt woman
more than a corrupt man. . . .

"After dinner I was lost in a siesta, when Mr.
Hawthorne came. I was provoked that I should have
to smooth my hair and dress, while he was being
wasted downstairs. He looked extremely handsome,
with sufficient sweetness in his face to supply the rest
of the -world with and still leave the ordinary share
to himself. He took from his pocket the 'Forget-me-
not,' set in elegant style beneath block crystal, — gold
all over the, back, so that it is enshrined from every
possible harm. He said he would leave it for in-
epection, and I have it on at this moment. 'It is

COURTSHIP. 189

beautiful, is n't it ? ' he said. He thought it too fine
for himself to wear ; but I am sure it is as modest as
a brooch could be.

"... This afternoon I went to the Hawthornes'
house in Herbert Street. Louisa came to the door,
and took me upstairs. As Elizabeth did not know
I was coming, I thought I should not see her. It
would be an unprecedented honor if she should come.
I asked for her immediately, and Louisa said that
she would be there in a few minutes ! There, now !
Am not I a privileged mortal ? She received me very
affectionately, and seemed very glad to see me ; and
I all at once fell in love with her. I think her eyes
are very beautiful, and I liked the expression of her
taper hands. I stayed in the house an hour ! I
could not get away ; she urged me to stay so much,
as if she wanted me. She asked whether you were
not always cheerful, for you seemed so to her. She
spoke of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and surprised
me by saying she admired Pope. We talked, about
the sea, and the winds, and various things. Now,
what think you of my triumph ? I think I should
love her very much. I believe it is extreme sensi-
bility which makes her a hermitess. It was difficult
to meet her eyes ; and I wanted to, because they
are uncommonly beautiful. She said tulips were her
favorite flower, and she did not wonder that a thou-
sand pounds had formerly been given for a bulb ! So
I determined that she should have a gorgeous bunch
of them as soon as I could procure any. ... The

190 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

next day Mr. Hawthorne came here, and I was glad
he seemed a little provoked he was not at home
yesterday. He asked for his pin, and when I brought
it, said that if ' he did not like it so much he could
wear it better.' I inquired whether the story of the
picture were written yet, and he replied, 'No; but
this week -I am going about it.' He had promised
to get up at dawn from the 1st May. Mary asked if
he had remembered to do so. 'No, I have not,' he
said. 'I have not slept well; but I will certainly
begin to-morrow morning, if the sun rises, — I mean,
if it shines,' he added, laughing. . . .

"Our brother George has been very ill all day.
This week I have realized his pain as I had not
before. It is a new trial to me, and unimagined
with all my imagination. I never have thought, you
know, that it was any trial to bear my own pain, — I
could arrange that in the grand economy of events ;
but I must yet learn to be patient and serene at the
sight and consciousness of his. His slow and ever-
increasing suffering is an appalling prospect. For
myself, after using all human means to be in the best
condition of health, I am utterly content if they fail.
I am happy because first my heart, and daily, more
and more, my reason, assure me that there is a God.
But George's pain added to my own weakness seems to
obliterate me. The sublimity of his patience and de-
meanor impresses me more and more. The idea that
he may die has not been fully presented to me before.
There is something in the family tie that is different

COURTSHIP. 191

from any other. There is no reasoning about it ; it
exists, and that is the whole matter. The void made
in my life by Wellington's departure can never be
filled till I meet him again. He is a part of my
being, and I cannot be complete without him. It
seems as if I could not bear another rending ; but I
know, of course, it would be George's immeasurable
gain. I would not withhold him for a moment, yet,
with all this, there is the pang ! It cannot 'be helped,
— it is the way I am made. God knows that my
heart says, ' Thy will be done,' and therefore He will
forgive the irrepressible sorrow. Eemember, when '
the hour comes, that I do not despond or question or
complain, but that I love, and that I am sadly weak-
ened in the organs by which I might manifest repose.
My body is one, and my mind is another; and disease
has in part destroyed their connection. . . .

"Since the furor scrihendi has been upon Mr.
Hawthorne, we have not seen him. I carried your
packet and the flowers there on Saturday. I supposed
the flowers were for him ; but I received a note from
Elizabeth yesterday, in which she says, ' The flowers
which E. sent, so sweet and so tastefully arranged'
(Mary arranged them), ' I thought would be unwor-
thily bestowed upon my brother, who professes to
regard the love of flowers as a feminine taste. So I
permitted him to look at them, but considered them
as a gift to myself, and beg you to thank her in my
name, when you write.' Now, I am a little provoked
at this, aren't you? I do not believe he does not

192 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

care for flowers. Mary has sent him word that he
may write for to-morrow's packet, and I hope he will
bring a letter for you this evening. . . . He came the
next morning for a take-leave call, looking radiant.
He said he was not going "to tell any one where he
should be for the next three months; that he thought
he should change his name, so that if he died no one
would be able to find his gravestone. He should
not tell even his mother where he could be found, —
that he intended neither to write to any one nor to
be written to. He seems determined to be let alone.
He said he wished he could read German, but could
not take the trouble. It seems he talked a little of
me to Miss Eawlins, and paid me a splendid com-
pliment, — that I was the Queen of Journalizers ! I
shall ever thank my stars that I have given him
so much pleasure. He looked like the sun shining
through a silver mist when he turned to say good-by.
It is a most wonderful face. Mary asked him to
write a journal while he was gone. He at first said
he should not write anything, but finally concluded
it would suit very well for hints for future stories.
I feel as if he were a born brother. I never, hardly,
knew a person for whom I had such a full and at the
same time perfectly quiet admiration. I do not care
about seeing him often ; but I delight to remember
that he is, and that from time to time I shall have in-
tercourse with him. I feel the most entire ease with
him, as if I had always known Mm. He converses a
great deal with me when you are not present, — just

COURTSHIP. 193

as he talks more to you when we are not present.
■He said of Helen Barstow, that he thought she was
not natural ; hut he expressed a sense of her brilliant
powers, her wit and acuteness, and then said he
thought 'women were always jealous of such a kind
of remarkability ' (that was his word) ' in their own
sex,' and endeavored to deprecate it. I wonder what
has given him such a horrid opinion of us women.
But enough of Mr. Hawthorne." . . .

The little episode about the flowers sent to Haw-
thorne, which his sister Elizabeth quietly appropri-
ated, is amusing; and there can be no doubt that
the latter took an unwarrantable and characteristic
liberty. No one was more sensible than Hawthorne
of the beauty and charm of flowers ; but the truth
was, that his sister was jealous of any attentions
paid to him, and was apt to offer at least a passive
resistance to them. Her letter, referred to above, is
here subjoined entire.

Salem, 1838.

My dear Miss Sophia, — For many days I have
■wished to write and tell you how much I regretted
not having thanked you immediately for those beau-
tiful tulips ; but, as Mary supposed, I was ashamed
to appear before you, either in person or by note.
I have not seen so great a variety for several years,
and I kept them as long as possible, and looked
at them almost continually, till, in defiance of my
efforts to preserve them, they faded. The flowers
which Elizabeth sent, so sweet and so tastefully

VOL. I. 13

194 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

arranged, I thought would be unworthily bestowed
upon my brother, who professes to regard the love
of flowers as a feminine taste ; so I permitted him to
look at them, but consider them as a gift to myself,
and beg you to thank her, in my name, when you
write. I hope this warm weather agrees with you,
and that next week it will be cool enough for Mary
and me to walk. I wished to go this afternoon ; but
the thermometer stands at 98° in the shade, though
it is after four o'clock. I did not know until last
evening that your brother wished for Mr. Payne's
Letters. I send them now, with the book of fruits,
which your mother said she would like to see ; and
the " Quarterly Eeview." I do not know whether you
can read this scrav/1, but I have forgotten how to
wri£e.

Believe me yours, E. M. H.

We now come to the critical period of the Haw-
thorne Eomance, — the Eomance that he lived, not
wrote. In 1837 he had remarked in his journal,
" My circumstances cannot long continue as they are
and have been ; " but herein he referred rather to his
worldly condition than to the state of his affections,
for he adds that " Bridge, too, stands between high
prosperity and utter ruin," and '' Fate seems prepar-
ing changes for both of us." In fact, Hawthorne
felt that he had tried the experiment of seclusion
long enough, and that no further benefit was to be
expected from it. He was fast growing to be as a

COURTSHIP. 195

shadow, walking in a shadowy world, and losing all
sense of reality in either himself or his surroundings.
The feeling crops out here and there in his journal :
" A man tries to be happy in love," he writes ; " he
cannot sincerely give his heart, and the affair seems
all a dream. In domestic life, the same ; in politics,
a seeming patriot ; — all seems like a theatre." The
work which he had done in literature had not
brought him satisfaction; it had failed to put him
into vital and tangible relations with the world. He
was awakened to the urgent necessity of acting as a
man among men, of shouldering in with the crowd,
of •measuring himself and weighing himself against
all comers. Precisely how he was to set about pro-
ducing this change in his habits and circumstances,
he knew not ; but rather than not have a change, he
would have Ueen willing to become a blacksmith, or
push a huckster's hand-cart through the streets. It
was the instinctive impulse of a healthy nature
to guard against the imminent peril of morbidness.
'' I want to have something to do with this material
world," he said to Miss Peabody. Martin Van Buren
was in the Presidential chair at this time, and George
Bancroft was Collector at Boston. It came to the
ears of the latter gentleman that Nathaniel Haw-
thorne stood ready to put his hand to any respectable
and arduous employment; whereupon Mr. Bancroft
got him appointed weigher and gauger in the Boston
Custom House. Here was hard work enough to do,
and of a kind, too, to afford the strongest possible

196 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

contrast to his previous existence. It lB.sted but a
couple of years, — that is to say, during the re-
mainder of the Democratic regime; but it enabled
Hawthorne to realize his ambition of being entitled
to call the sons of toil his brethren. And after, this
spell of rough and grimy work was over, he could
take up his pen once more with a new stimulus and
appreciation, and with the certainty that mankind
was a solid reality and that he himself was not a
dream.

And yet the Custom House was only one, and not
the most important, of the causes which produced
this wholesome state of affairs. Sophia Peabody was
Hawthorne's true guardian and re-creating angel.
The acknowledgment between them of their mutual
love took place about the time pi the Custom House
appointment, and furnished an object dihd a spur for
his labors. A strict secrecy was maintained by them
respecting their engagement during nearly the entire
three years of its continuance ; and the reason of this
concealment was a somewhat singular one. Enough
has been said about the extreme impressibility of
Madame Hawthorne ; and it appears that her son was
led to imagine that the news of his relations with
Miss Sophia would give her a shock that might
endanger her life. What, then, was Madame Haw-
thorne's objection to Miss Sophia supposed to be,
since, as has already been shown, she was personally
very fond of her ? It was owing to what was as-
sumed to be the latter's hopeless state of invalidism.

COURTSHIP. 197

Madame Hawthorne (her son was assured) could never
endure the thought of his marrying a woman who
was a victim to constant nervous headaches ; and
were he, nevertheless, to do so, the most lamentable
consequences were to be anticipated. Now, any
other conceivable obstacle than this would have
influenced Hawthorne not a whit ; but he was not
prepared to face the idea of defying and perhaps
" killing " his mother. All this time, be it observed,
he and his mother had never exchanged a single
word, good or bad, on the subject of Miss Sophia
Peabody. This was owing partly to the apprehen-
sion on his part as to the issue of such a discussion,
and partly to the habit of mutual undemonstrative-
ness (so to say) which had grown up between them
during a lifetime. He had never spoken freely and
unrestrainedly'to her about any matter which deeply
concerned him, nor had she ever invited such a
confidence ; and this despite the fact that the mother
and son entertained a profound love and respect for
each otlier. But for the sort of people who build
up these viewless barriers, nothing seems to be so
difficult and apparently impossible as to break them
down again. Be that as it may, Hawthorne delayed
to speak, and thereby laid up for himself a good deal
of unnecessary anxiety.

But who put it into his head to tliink that his
mother would adopt this attitude ? I fear it must
be confessed that the MachiaveUi in question was
none other than his own sister Elizabeth. This

198 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

bright-eyed and brilliant little lady saw plainly enough
how matters were likely to go between her brother
and Miss Sophia, and was resolved to do what she
could to prevent it. She was quite sincere, moreover,
in her belief that Sophia would never be strong
enough properly to fulfil the duties of married life ;
and this added substance to the dislike she felt to the
idea of her brother's marrying at all. (" He will
never marry," she had once remarked : " he will never
do anything ; he is an ideal person." The wish was
father to the assertion.) But though she thus found
herself provided with a good ground for opposing the
marriage, she was wise enough to perceive that Haw-
thorne was not likely to pay much heed to her oppo-
sition. The time when brothers are most sensible
of their fraternal obligations is not, as a general rule,
precisely the time when they are in love. It was
necessary, therefore, for Elizabeth to seek some rein-
forcement. She knew how great was Hawthorne's
reverence and tenderness for his mother, and she
saw that by simply intimating to him that such and
such a possible event would dangerously agitate
Madame Hawthorne, she would be enlisting in her
cause the very most powerful auxiliary that could
have been selected. This, accordingly, she did ; and
let all indignant lovers do her the justice to believe
that, in representing her mother in this light, she
was not conscious of unduly emijhasizing what might
probably turn out to be the truth.

Indeed, Hawthorne himself, and Sophia not less

COURTSHIP. 199

than he, felt the weight of the pathological objection ;
and Sophia consented to let the engagement continue
only upon the stipulation that their marriage was to
he strictly contingent upon her own recovery from
her twenty years' illness. "If God intends us to
marry," she said to him, " He will let me he cured;
if not, it will be a sign that it is not best." The
likelihood of a cure taking place certainly did not
seem great; in fact, it would be little less than a
miracle. Miracle or not, however, the cure was
actually accomplished ; and the lovers were justified
in believing that Love himself was the physician.
When Sophia Peabody became Sophia Hawthorne,
in 1842, she was, for the first time since her infancy,
in perfect health ; nor did she ever afterwards relapse
into her previous condition of invahdism. Mean-
while, however, there was a period of suspense to be
lived through. There is reason to believe, on the
other hand, that the secrecy which was now, perforce,
a condition of their communion, may not have been
without its charm. Elizabeth and Louisa may prob-
ably have suspected that their brother's apparent
acquiescence in the general opinion as to Sophia's
unmarriageableness was apparent only ; but they
eould not do more than they had done. Hawthorne
had taken up his residence in Boston, in order to
attend to his business, and saw them not oftener than
once a fortnight ; and it may easily be imagined that,
on those occasions. Miss Peabody was not the sub-
ject of conversation. They, at all events, would not

200 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

venture to introduce a subject on which he chose to be
silent. But the lovers, aided by Miss E. P. Peabody,
maintained a constant correspondence by letter ; they
enjoyed occasional walks and talks together; and
when, after George Peabody's death, the Peabodies
moved to Boston, and lived at No. 13 West Street,
the two were able to have almost daily interviews.
It is likely, therefore, that the course of their love
was only just not smooth enough to keep them con-
stantly mindful of its sweetness.

In 1841, Hawthorne (not much to his regret, evi-
dently) was turned out of ofiBce by the Whig admin-
istration, and resolved to try what virtue there might
be, for him and his future wife, in the experiment of
Brook Farm. The subject of this Community has
been so exhaustively and exhaustingly canvassed of
late, and it seems to be intrinsically so barren of
interest and edification, save only for the eminent
names that were at first connected with it, that the
present writer has pleasure in passing over it without
further remark. The chief advantage it brought to
Hawthorne was, that it taught him how to plant
corn and squashes, and to buy and sell at the produce
market ; and that it provided him with an invaluable
background for his " Blithedale Eomance," written
about ten years afterwards. He did his share of the
farm work like a man, — indeed, with the vigor and
fidelity of two or three men, - — and he was elected to
certain responsible offices in the board of manage-
ment. Meantime he was able to do very little

COURTSHIP. 201

writing ; though the " True Stories" were on the
stocks at this time, and Miss Sophia was drawing
illustrations for some of them. His pecuniary pros-
pects were not reassuring ; for he had sunk most of
his Custom House savings in the Community, and
his pulilishers seem to have betrayed an illiberal
tendency happily unknown in that guild at the pres-
ent day. But rents were low in New England forty
years ago, and domestic life could be managed at
little cost. Hawthorne, at all events, was not the
man to wait until he was a millionnaire before he
began to be happy. He married in the summer
of 1842, and took up his first abode in Concord.
His wife, as has been said, had got rid of her in-
firmities ; and the family opposition which he had
dreaded had melted away at the first touch. For
when it became necessary to acquaint his mother with
his matrimonial intentions, she received the intelli-
gence not only without agitation, but with a sympa-
thetic cordiality that not a little amazed her son.
'' What you tell me is not a surprise to me," she said ;
" I already knew it." " How long have you known
it ? " he demanded. " Almost ever since you knew it
yourself," was her reply; "and Sophia Peabody is the
wife of all others whom I would have chosen for
you." The moral of this anecdote is obvious. As
for the wicked sisters, Elizabeth and Louisa, they
seem altogether to have failed to maintain the con-
sistency of their role. They shamelessly rejoiced in
their brother's happiness, and loved his wife quite as

202 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

much as if they had never cherished any dark designs
against the alliance.

The foregoing narrative owes its existence chiefly
to the necessity of making the following batch of
letters intelligible. They are Hawthorne's love-letters,
or so much of them as may properly be made public.
Some of the elements of greatest beauty in them are
necessarily suppressed ; but, after all excisions, they
are beautiful enough. The pure, spontaneous style
in which they are expressed; their tone, at once
tender, playful, and profound ; and the testimony they
bear to the possibility of a passion not less delicate
and magnanimous than it was ardent, — these quali-
ties are not without value and significance in times
like ours. The single-hearted love and reverence
which marks these letters, written before marriage,
are, moreover, just as conspicuous in every letter
that Hawthorne wrote to his wife, up to the end of
their wedded existence on earth. No cloud or change
ever passed over their affection, even for a moment ;
but every succeeding year found their union more
exquisitely complete.

Boston, April 17, 1839.
My Deabest, — I feel pretty secure against intrud-
ers, for the bad weather will defend me from foreign
invasion ; and as to Cousin Haley, he and I had a
bitter political dispute last evening, at the close of
which he went to bed in high dudgeon, and probably
will not speak to me these three days. Thus you

COURTSHIP. 203

perceive that strife and wrangling, as well as east-
winds and rain, are the methods of a kind Providence
to promote my comfort, — which would not have been
so well secured in any other way. Six or seven
hours of cheerful solitude ! But I will not be alone.
I invite your spirit to be with me, — at any hour and
as many hours as you please, — but especially at the
twilight hour, before I light my lamp. I bid you at
that particular time, because I can see visions more
vividly in the dusky glow of firelight than either by
daylight or lamplight. Come, and let me renew
my spell against headache and other direful effects
of the east-wind. How I wish I could give you a
portion of my insensibility ! and yet I should be
almost afraid of some radical transformation, were I
to produce a change in that respect. If you cannot
grow plump and rosy and tough and vigorous with-
out being changed into another nature, then I do
think, for this short life, you bad better remain just
what you are. Yes ; but you will be the same to me,
because we have met in Eternity, and there our inti-
macy was formed. So get well as soon as you pos-
sibly can, and I shall never doubt that you are the
same Sophie who have so often leaned upon my arm
and needed its superfluous strength. I never, till now,
had a friend who could give me repose ; all have
disturbed me, and, whether for pleasure or pain, it
was still disturbance. But peace overflows from your
heart into mine. Then I feel that there is a Now,
and that Now must be always calm and happy, and

204 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

that sorrow and evil are but phantoms that seem to
flit across it.

You must never expect to see my sister Elizabeth
in the daytime, unless by previous appointment or
when she goes to walk. So unaccustomed am I to
daylight interviews with her, that I never imagine
her in sunshine ; and I really doubt whether her fac-
ulties of life and intellect begin to be exercised till
dusk, unless on extraordinary occasions. Their noon
is at midnight. I wish you could walk with her ;
but you must not, because she is indefatigable, and
always wants to walk half round the world when
once she is out of doors.

When this week's first letter came, I held it a long
time in my hand, marvelling at the superscription-
How did you contrive to write it ? Several times
since I have pored over it, to discover how much
of yourself mingled with my share of it ; and cer-
tainly there is grace flung over the fac-simile, which
never was seen in my harsh, uncouth autograph,
and yet none of the strength is lost. You are
wonderful.

What a beautiful day ! and I had a double enjoy-
ment of it — for your sake and my own. I have been
to walk, this afternoon, to Bunker's Hill and the Navy
Yard, and am tired, because I had not your arm to
support me.

God keep you from east-winds and every other
evil.

Your own friend, N. H,

COURTSHIP. 205

May 26.

... It is very singular (but I do not suppose 1
can express it) that, while I love you so dearly, and
while I am so conscious of the deep union of our
spirits, still I have an awe of you that I never felt
for anybody else. Awe is not the word, either, because
it might imply something stern in you; whereas —
but you. must make it out for yourself. I do wish
I could put this into words, — not so much for your
satisfaction (because I believe you will understand)
as for my own. I suppose I should have pretty
much the same feeling if an angel were to come from
Heaven and be my dearest friend, — only the angel
could not have the tenderest of human natures too,
the sense of which is mingled with this sentiment.
Perhaps it is becaUse, in meeting you, I really meet a
spirit, whereas the obstructions of earth have pre-
vented such a meeting in every other case. But I
leave the mystery here. Some time or other it may
be made plainer to me. But methinks it converts
my love into religion. And then it is singular, too,
that this awe (or whatever it be) does not prevent
me from feeling that it is I who have the charge of
you. And will not you rebel ? Oh, no ; because I
possess the power to guide only so far as I love you.
My love gives me the right, and your love consents
to it.

Since writing the above, I have been asleep ; and I
dreamed that I had been sleeping a whole year in the
open air, and that while I slept, the grass grew around

206 hAwthorne and his wife.

me. It seemed, in my dream, that the bed-clothes
were spread beneath me ; and when I awoke (in my
dream) I snatched them up, and the earth under
them looked black, as if it had been burnt, — a square
place, exactly the size of the bed-clothes. Yet there
were grass and herbage scattered over this burnt space,
looking as fresh and bright and dewy as if the sum-
mer rain and the summer sun had been cherishing
them all the time. Interpret this for me ; but do not
draw any sombre omens from it. What is signified
by my nap of a* whole year (it made me grieve to
think that I had lost so much of eternity) ? — and
what was the fire that blasted the spot of earth which
I occupied, while the grass ilourished all around ? —
and what comfort am I to draw from the fresh herb-
age amid the burnt space ? But it is a silly dream,
and you cannot expound any sense out of it.

Boston, Monday eve, July 15, 1839.

My Dearest, — Your letter was brought to me at
East Cambridge, this afternoon ; otherwise I know
not when I should have received it, for I am so busy
that I know not whether I shall be at the Custom
House these two or three days. I put it in my
pocket, and did not read it till just now, when I could
be quiet in my own chamber ; for I always feel as
if your letters were too sacred to be read in the midst
of people, and (you will smile) I never read them
without first washing my hands.

And so you have been ill, and I cannot take care

COURTSHIP. 207

of you. Oh, my dearest, do let our love be powerful
enough to make you well. I will have faith in its
efficacy, — not that it will work an immediate miracle,
but it shall make you so well at heart that you can-
not possibly be ill in the body. Partake of my health
and strength, my beloved. Are they not your own,
as well as mine ? Yes, — and your illness is mine as
well as yours; and, with all the pain it gives me,
the whole world should not buy my right to share
in it.

My dearest, I will not be much troubled, since you
tell me (and your word is always truth) that there
is no need. But, oh, be careful of youi'self, remem-
bering how much earthly happiness depends on your
health. Be tranquil, — let me be your Peace, as you
are mine. Do not write to me, unless your heart
be unquiet, and you think that you can quiet it
by writing. May God bless you !

NOVEMBEK 15, 1839.

Deaeest, — Your yesterday's letter was received,
and gave me comfort; yet, oh, be prepared for the
worst, — if that may be called worst which is in
truth best for all, and, more than all, for George.
I cannot help trembling for you, dearest. God bless
you and keep you !

NOVEMBEB 29.

Dearest, — I pray you, for some little time to
come, not to muse too much upon your brother, even
thoiigh such musings should be untinged with gloom

208 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and should appear to make you happier. In the
eternity where he now dwells, it has doubtless be-
come of no importance to himself whether he died
yesterday or a thousand years ago. He is already
at home in the Celestial city, — more at home than
ever he was in his mother's house. Then let us
leave him there for the present ; and if the shad-
ows and images of this fleeting, time should inter-
pose between us and him, let us not seek to drive
them away, for they are sent of God. By and by
it will be good and profitable to commune with
your brother's spirit; but so soon after his release
from mortal infirmity, it seems even ungenerous to-
wards himsplf to call him back by yearnings of the
heart and too vivid picturings of what he was.

Decembrb 5.
Dearest, — I wish I had the gift of making rhymes,
for methinks there is poetry in my head and heart
since I have been in love with you. You are a
Poem. Of what sort, then ? Epic ? Mercy on me,
no ! A sonnet ? No ; for that is too labored and
artificial. You are a sort of sweet, simple, gay, pa-
thetic ballad, which Nature is singing, sometimes
with tears, sometimes with smiles, and sometimes
with intermingled smiles and tears.

December 31, 1839.
Best Beloveb, — I send you some allumettes
wherewith to kindle the taper. There are very few,

COURTSHIP. 209

but my second finger could no longer perform extra
duty. These will serve till the wounded one be
healed, however. How beautiful is it to provide
even this slightest convenience for you, dearest ! I
cannot tell you how much I love you, in this back-
handed style. My love is not in this attitude, — it
rather bends forward to meet you.

What a year has this been to us ! My definition
of Beauty is, that it is love, and therefore includes
both truth and good. But those only who love as
we do can feel the significance and force of this.

My ideas will not flow in these crooked strokes.
God be with you. I am very well, and have walked
far in Danvers this cold morning. I am full of the
glory of the day. God bless you this night of the
old year. It has proved the year of our nativity.
Has not the old earth passed away from us ? — are
not all things new ? YouE Sophie.

— The above letter is the only surviving one of
those which Sophia Peabody wrote in answer to
Hawthorne's. It will be remembered that in the
" American Xote-Books " he says that, before going
to England, he burned "great heaps of old letters
and other papers. . . . Among them were hundreds
of Sophia's letters. The world has no more such, and
now they are all dust and ashes." This letter was
written with the left hand, and has a backward incli-
nation, very different from the usual graceful flow of
her chircgraphy.

TOL. I. 14

210 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

January 1, 1840.,
Beloved, — My heart was exceedingly touched by
that little back-handed note, and likewise by the bun-
dle of allumettes. Nurse that finger well, dearest ; for
no small portion of my comfort and cheeriness of heart
depends upon that beloved finger. If it be not well
within a few days, do not be surprised if I send down
the best surgeon in Boston to effect its speedy cure.

I have a mind, some day, to send you a journal of
all my doings and sufferings, my whole external life,
from the time I awake at dawn till I close my eyes
at night. What a dry, dull history would it be !
But then, apart from this, I would write another
journal, of my inward life throughout the self-same
day, — my fits of pleasant thought, and those like-
wise which are shadowed by passing clouds, — the
desires of my heart towards you, — my pictiires of
what we are to enjoy together. Nobody would
think that the same man could live two such dif-
ferent lives simultaneously. But then the grosser
life is a dream, and the spiritual life is a reality.

Dearest, I wish you would make out a list of
books that you would like to be in our library ; for I
intend, whenever the cash and the opportunity occur
together, to buy enough to fill up our new bookcase,
and I want to feel that I am buying them for both
of us. The bookcase will hold about two hundred
volumes ; but we will collect it in small lots, and then
we shall prize every volume, and receive a separate
pleasure from the acquisition of it.

COURTSHIP. 211

Janttab-? 3, 1840.

. . . Tou cannot think how much delight those
pictures you are painting are going to give me. I
never owned a picture in my life ; yet pictures have
been among the earthly possessions (and they are
spiritual possessions too) which I most coveted.
They will be incomparably more precious to me than
all the productions of all the painters since Apelles.
When we live in our own house, we will paint
pictures together, — that is, our minds and hearts
shall unite to form the conception, to which your
hand shall give external existence. I have often
felt that I could be a painter, only 1 am sure that
I could never handle a brush; now you will show
me the images of my inward life, beautified and
etherealized by the mixture of your own spirit. I
think I shall get these two pictures put into mahog-
any frames, because they will harmonize better with
the furniture of our parlor than gilt frames- would.

How strange that such a flower as our affection
should have blossomed amid snow and wintry winds,
— accompaniments which no poet or novelist, that
I know of, has ever introduced into a love-tale.
Nothing like our story was ever written, or ever will
be ; but if it could be told, methinks it would be
such as the angels might take delight to hear. . . .

Janttart 24.

... I came home as soon as I possibly could, and
there was the package ! I actually trembled as I un-
did it, so eager was I to behold them. There was

212 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

never anything so lovely and precious in this VForld !
They are perfect. So soon as the dust and smoke of
my fire had evaporated, I put them on the mantel-
piece, and sat a long time before them, painting a
fac-simile of them in my heart, in whose most
sacred chamber they shall keep a place forever and
ever. I was not long in finding out the little white
figure in the Menaggio. In fact, she was the very
first object that my eyes rested on. She came
straight to my heart, and yet she remains just where
you placed her. If it had not been for your strict
injunctions that nothing must touch the pictures, I
do believe that my lips would have touched that
Sophie, as she stands on the bridge. Do you think
the pensive little damsel would have vanished be-
neath my kiss ? What a misfortune would that
have been to her poor lover, — to find that he had
kissed away his mistress ! However, I shall refrain
from all endearments, till you tell me they may be
hazarded without fear of her taking it in ill part and
absenting herself without leave.

My dearest, it is a very noble-looking cavalier
with whom Sophie is standing on the bridge. Are
you quite sure that he is the right person ? Yet I
need not ask ; for there is Sophie to bear witness to his
identity. Yes, it must be my very self : it is not my
picture, but the very I ; and as my inner self belongs
to you, there is no doubt that you have caused my
soul to pervade this figure.

I have put the pictures into my bedroom for the

COURTSHIP. 213

present, being afraid to trust them on the mantel-
piece ; but I cannot help going to feast my eyes
upon them, every little while. I have determined
not to hang them up now, for fear of the dust and
of the fingers of the chambermaid. Whenever I am
away, they will be safely locked up. I shall want
your express directions as to the height at which they
ought to be hung, and the width of the space between
them, and other minutest particulars. We will dis-
cuss these matters when I come home to you. . . .

Fbbruaey 14.

Deaeissima, — I have put the Isola picture on

the mantel-piece, and the Menaggio on the opposite

wall. I sit before them with something of the

quiet and repose which your own beloved presence

is wont to impart to me. I gaze at them by all

sorts of lights, — daylight, twilight, and candle-light ;

and when the lamps are extinguisiied, and before

going to bed, I sit looking at these pictures by

the flickering firelight. They are truly an infinite

enjoyment.

Boston, March 15, 1840.

Dearest, — What an ugly day is this ! My heart
is heavy ; or, no, it is not heaviness, — not the
heaviness, like a great lump of ice, which I used to
feel when I was alone in the world, — but — but —
in short, dearest, where you are not, there it is a sort
of death, — a death, however, in which there is still
hope, and assurance of a joyful life to come. Me-
thinksi if my spirit were not conscious of yours,

214 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

this dreary snow-storm would chill me to torpor;
the warmth of my iireside would he quite powerless
to counteract it. Most absolute little Sophie, didst
thou expressly command me to go to Father Tay-
lor's church this very Sabbath ? Now, it would not
be an auspicious day for me to hear the aforesaid
Son of Thunder. I have a cold, though, indeed, I
fear I have partly conjured it up to serve my naughty
purpose. Some sunshiny day, when I am wide awake
and warm and genial, I will go and throw myself open
to his blessed influence ; but now there is only one
thing that I feel anywise inclined to do, and that is
to go to sleep. But indeed, dearest, I feel somewhat
afraid to hear this divine Father Taylor, lest my
sympathy with your admiration of him be colder and
feebler than you look for. Our souls are in happiest
unison, but we must not disquiet ourselves if every
tone be not re-echoed from one to the other, — if every
slightest shade be not reflected in the alternate
mirror. Our broad and general sympathy is enough
to secure our bliss, without our following it into mi-
nute details. Will you promise not to be troubled,
should I be unable to appreciate the excellence of
Father Taylor ? Promise me this, and at some aus-
picious hour, which I trust will soon arrive. Father
Taylor shall have an opportunity to make music
with my soul. But I forewarn you, dearest, that I
am a most unmalleable man ; you are not to suppose, '
because my spirit answers to every touch of yours,
that therefore every breeze, or even every whirlwind.

COURTSHIP. 215

can upturn me from my depths. Well, I have said
my say in this matter. And now, here are the same
snow-flakes in the air that were descending when I
began. Would that there were an art of making
sunshine ! Do you know any such art ? Truly you
do, and have often thrown a heavenly sunshine
round my spirit, when all things else were full of
gloom. What a woe, what a cloud, it is, to be away
from you !

Boston, April 21.

I DO trust, my dearest, that you have been em-
ploying this bright day for both of us ; for I have
spent it in my dungeon, and the only light that
broke upon me was when I opened your letter. I
am sometimes driven to wish that you and I could'
mount upon a cloud (as we used to fancy in those
heavenly walks of ours), and be borne quite out of
sight and hearing of all the world ; for now all the
people in the world seem to come between us. How
happy were Adam and Eve ! There was no third
■person to come between them, and all the infinity
around them only served to press their hearts closer
together. We love one another as well as they ; but
there is no silent and lovely garden of Eden for us.
Will you sail away with me to discover some summer
island ? Do you not think that God has reserved
one for us, ever since the beginning of the world?
Foolish that I am to- raise a question of it, since we
have found such an Eden — such an island sacred to
us two — whenever we have been together ! Then,

216 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

we are the Adam and Eve of a virgin earth. Now,
good-by; for voice.s are babbling around me, and I
should not wonder if you were to hear the echo of
them while you read this letter.

April 22.
I HAVE met with an immense misfortune. Do you
sympathize from the bottom of your heart ? Would
you take it upon yourself, if possible ? Yes, I know
you would, even without asking the nature of it; and,
truth to tell, I would be selfish enough to wish that
you might share it with me. Now art thou all in a
fever of anxiety ? Shall I tell thee ? No — yes ; I
will. I have received an invitation to a party at
General McNeil's next Friday evening. Why will
not people let poor persecuted nie alone ? What
possible good can it do for me to thrust my coal-
begrimed visage and salt-befrosted locks into good
society ? What claim have I to be there, — a hum-
ble measurer, a subordinate Custom House officer, as
I am? I cannot go; I wiU not go. I intend to
pass that evening with you, — that is, in musing and
dreaming of you ; and moreover, considering that we
love each other, methinks it is an exceeding breach
of etiquette that you were not invited ! How strange
it is, tender and fragile little Sophie, that your pro-
tection should have become absolutely necessary to
such a great, rough, burly, broad-shouldered personage
as I! I need your support as much as you need
mine.

COURTSHIP. 217

June 2..

My Dearest, — I know not what counsel to give
you about calling on my sisters, and therefore must
leave the matter to your own exquisite sense of what
is right and delicate. We will talk it over at an
early opportunity. I think I can partly understand
why they feel cool towards you ; but it is for noth-
ing in yourself personally, nor from anyunkindness
towards you, whom everybody must feel to be the
lovablest being in the world. But there are some
untoward circumstances. Nevertheless, I have faith
that all will be well, and that they will receive
Sophia Hawthorne into their heart of hearts. So let
us wait patiently on Providence, as we always have,
and see what time will bring forth. And, my dear-
est, whenever you feel disquieted about things of this
sort, — if ever that be the case, — speak freely to me ;
for these are matters in which words may be of use,
because they concern the relations between ourselves
and others.

I have bought a very good edition of Milton (his
poetry) in two octavo volumes, and I saw a huge new
London volume of his prose works ; but it seemed to
me that there was but a small portion of it that you
and I would ever care to read ; so I left it on the
shelf. I have bought some lithographic prints at
another store, which I mean to send you, that you
may show them to me the next afternoon you permit
me to spend with you. You are not to expect any-
thing very splendid ; for I did not enter the auction

218 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

room till a large part of the collection was sold, so
that my choice was limited. Perhaps there are one
or two not altogether unworthy to be put on the
walls of our sanctuary ; but this I leave to your finer
judgment. I would you could peep into my room
and see your own pictures. There is no telling how
much brighter and cheerfuUer the parlor looks now,
whenever I- enter it.

Belovedest, I love thee very especially much to-day.
But it is now breakfast-time, and I have an appetita
What did you eat for breakfast ? — but I know well
enough that you never eat anything but bread and
milk and chickens. Do you love pigeons in a pie ?
I am fonder of Dove than anything else, — it is my
heart's food and sole sustenance.

God bless us. YouE own.

June 22, 1840.
Be>lovedest, what a letter ! Never was so much
beauty poured out of any heart before ; and to read it
over and over is like bathing my brow in a fresh
fountain, and drinking draughts that renew the life
within me. - Nature is kind and motherly to you, and
takes you into her inmost heart and cherishes you
there, because you look on her with holy and loving
eyes. How can you say that I have ever written
anything beautiful, being yourself so potent to repro-
duce whatever is loveliest ? If I did not know that
you loved me, I should even be ashamed before you.
Worthy of you I am not ; but you will make me so,

COURTSHIP. 219

for there will be time or eternity enough for your
blessed influence to work on me. Would that we
could build our cottage this very summer, amid these
scenes of Concord - which you describe. My heart
thirsts and languishes to be there, away from the hot
sun, and the coal-dust, and the steaming docks, and the
thick-pated, stubborn, contentious men, with whom I
brawl from morning till night, and all the weary toil
that quite engrosses me, and yet occupies only a small
part of my being, which I did not know existed be-
fore I became a measurer. I do think I should sink
down quite disheartened and inanimate if you were
not happy, and gathering from earth and sky enjoy-
ment for both of us ; but this makes me feel that
my real, innermost soul is apart from all these unlovely
circumstances, and that it has not ceased to exist, as
I might sometimes suspect, but is nourislied and kept
alive through you. You know not what comfort I
have in thinking of you amid those beautiful scenes
and amid those sympathizing hearts. If you are
well and happy, if your step is light and joyous
there, and your cheek is becoming rosier, and if your
heart makes pleasant music, then is it not better for
you to stay there a little longer ? And if better for
you, is it not so for me likewise? Now, I do not
press you to stay, but leave it all to your wisdom ;
and if you feel it is now time to come home, then let
it be so.

I meant to have written to you yesterday ; but,
dearest, on that day Hillard and I took a walk into

220 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

•
the country. We set out over the Western Avenue,
a dreary, fierce-sanshiny, irksome route; but after
journeying four or five miles, we came to some of the
loveliest rural scenery — yes, the very loveliest —
that ever I saw in my life. The first part of the
road was like the life of toil and weariness that I ara
now leading ; the latter part was like the life that we
will lead hereafter. Would that I had your pen, and
I would give you pictures of beauty to match your
own; but I should only mar my remembrance of
them by the attempt. Not a beautiful scene did I
behold, but I imaged you in the midst of it ; — you
were with me in all the walk, and when I sighed it
was for you, and when I smiled it was for you, and
when I trusted in future happiness it was for you;
and if I did not doubt and fear, it was altogether be-
cause of you. What else than happiness can God
intend for you ? and if your happiness, then mine
also. On our return we stopped at Braman's swim-
ming-baths, and plunged in, and washed away all
stains of earth and became new creatures. I am not
entirely satisfied with any more contracted bath than
the illimitable ocean ; and to plunge into it is the
next thing to soaring into tiie sky.

This morning I rose early, to finish measuring a
load of coal ; which being accomplished, and Colonel
Hall perceiving that my energies were somewhat ex-
hausted by the heat and by much brawling with the
coal-people, did send me home immediately for din-
ner. So then I took a nap, with a volume of Spenser

COURTSHIP. 221

in my hand, and, awaking at four, I re-re-re-perused
your letter, and sat down to pour myself out to thee ;
and in so doing, dearest, I have had great comfort. I
must not forget to thank Mr. Emerson for his invita-
tion to Concord, but really it will not be in my power
to accept it. Now, good-by. You have our whole
treasure of happiness in your keeping. Keep it safe,
and add to it continually. God bless you.

Boston, July 10, 1840.

Dearest, — My days have been so busy and my
evenings so invaded with visitants, that I have not had
a moment's time to talk with you. Scarcely till this
morning have I been able to read your letter quietly.
Night before last came Mr. Jones Very; and you
know he is somewhat unconscionable as to the length
of his calls. The next afternoon came Mr. Hillard's
London brother, and wasted my precious hours with
a dull talk of nothing; and in the evening I was
sorely tried with Mr. Conolly, and a Cambridge law-
student, who came to do homage to my literary re-
nown. So you were put aside for these idle people.
I do wish the blockheads, and all other blockheads
in this world, could comprehend how inestimable are
the quiet hours of a busy man, especially when that
man has no native impulse to keep him busy, but
is continually forced to battle with his own nature,
which yearns for seclusion (the solitude of a united
two) and freedom to think and dream and feel.

WeU, dearest, I am in perfect health this morning,

222 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and good spirits ; and much do I rejoice that you are
so soon to be near me. But do not you make your-
self ill in the bustle of removing ; for I think that
there is nothing more trying, even to a robust frame
and rugged spirit, than the disturbance of such an
occasion. Now, good-by.

YOUK OWN De I'AUB^PINE.

Boston, October, 1840.
. . . Sometimes, during my solitary life in our old
Salem house, it seemed to me as if I had only life
enough to know that I was not alive ; for I had no
wife then to keep my heart warm. But, at length,
you were revealed to me, in the shadow of a seclu-
sion as deep as my own. I drew nearer and nearer
to you, and opened my heart to you, and you came
to me, and will remain forever, keeping my heart
warm and renewing my life with your own. You
only have taught me that I have a heart, — you only
have thrown a light, deep downward and upward, into
my soul. You only have revealed me to myself; for
without your aid my best knowledge of myself would
have been merely to know my own shadow, — to
watch it flickering on the wall, and mistake its fan-
tasies for my own real actions. Do you comprehend
what you have done for me ? And is it not a some-
what fearful thought, that a few slight circumstances
might have prevented us from meeting, and then I
should have returned to my solitude, sooner or later
(probably now, when I have thrown down my burden

COURTSHIP. 223

of coal and salt), and never should have been created
at all ! But this is an idle speculation. If the whole
world had stood between us, we must have met ;
if we had been born in different ages, we could not
have been sundered !

When we shall be endowed with spiritual bodies,
I think they will be so constituted that we may
send thoughts and feelings any distance, in no time
at all, and transfuse them warm and fresh into the
consciousness of those we love. Oh, what happiness
it would be, at this moment, if I could be conscious
of some purer feeling, some more delicate sentiment,
some lovelier fantasy, than could possibly have had
its birth in my own nature, and therefore be aware
that you were thinking through my mind and feeling
through my heart ! Perhaps you possess this power
already.

Salem, Nov. 27, 1840.

Dearest, — I pity you now ; for I apprehend
that by this time you have got my dullest of old
books to read. And how many pages can you read
without falling asleep ? Well is it for you that you
have adopted the practice of extending yourself on
the sofa while at your studies ; for now I need be
under no apprehension of your sinking out of a chair.
I would, for your sake, that you could iind something
laudable in this awful little volume, because you
would like to tell me that I have done well. Dearest,
I am utterly ashamed of my handwriting. I wonder
how you can anywise tolerate what is so ungraceful,

224 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

being yourself all grace. But I think I seldom write
so shamefully as in this epistle. . . .

Whenever I return to Salem, I feel how dark my
life would be without the light that you shed upon
it, — how cold, without the warmth of your love.
Sitting in this chamber, where my youth wasted
itself in vain, I can partly estimate the change that
has been wrought. It seems as if the better part
of me had been born since then. I had walked those
many years in darkness, and might so have walked
through life, with only a dreamy notion that there
was any light in the universe, if you had not kissed
ray eyelids and given me to see. You, dearest, have
always been positively happy. Not so I, — I have
only not been miserable. Then which of us has
gained the most ? I, assuredly ! "When a beam of
heavenly sunshine incorporates itself with a dark
cloud, is not the cloud benefited more than the sun-
shine ? Nothing at all has happened to me since I
left you. It puzzles me to conceive how you meet
with so many more events than I. You will have
a volume to tell me, when we meet, and you will
pour your beloved voice into my ears in a long
stream ; at length you will pause and say, " But
what has your life been ? " and then will stupid I
look back upon what I call my life, for three or four
days past, and behold, a blank ! You live ten times
as much as I, because your spirit takes so much more
note of things.

I am enduring my banishment here as best I inay;

COURTSHIP. 225

metliinks, all enormous sinners should be sent on
pilgrimage to Salem, and compelled to spend a length
of time there, proportioned to the enormity of their
offences. Such punishment would be suited to crimes
that do not quite deserve hanging, yet are too aggra-
vated for the State's Prison. Oh, naughty I ! If it
be a punishment, I deserve to suffer a life-long inflic-
tion of it, were it only for slandering my native town
so vilely. But any place is strange and lonesome to
me where you are not ; and where you are, any place
will be home. I ought to love Salem better than I
do ; for the people have always had a pretty generous
faith in me, ever since they knew me at all. I fear
I must be undeserving of their praise, else I should
never get it. What an ungrateful blockhead am I !

Now I think of it, it does not please you to hear
me spoken slightingly of. Well, then you should not
have loved such a vulnerable person. But, to your
comfort be it said, some people have a much more
exalted opinion of me than I have. The Eev. Mr.
Gannet delivered a lecture, at the Lyceum here, the
other evening, in which he introduced an enormous
eulogium on whom do you think ? Why, on my
respectable self I Thereupon all the audience gave
a loud hiss ! Now is my mild little Sophie exceed-
ingly enraged, and will plot some mischief and all
involving calamity against the ^alem people. Well,
then, they did not actually hiss at the praises be-
stowed on me, — the more geese they !

God bless you, you sinless Eve !

VOL. I. 15

226 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

Saleh, Jan. 13, 1841.
Oh, beloved, what a weary week is this ! Never
did I experience the like. Will you know my face
when we meet again ? Are you much changed by
the flight of years, ray poor little Sophie ? Is your
hair turned gray ? Do you wear a day-cap as well
as a night-cap ? How long since did you begin to
wear spectacles ? Perhaps you will not like to have
me see you, now that time has done his worst to mar
your beauty ; but fear not, for what I have loved and
admired in you is eternal. I shall look through the
envious mist of age, and discern your immortal grace,
as perfectly as in the light of Paradise. As for me,
I am grown quite bald and gray, and have very deep
wrinkles across my brow, and crowsfeet and furrows
all over my face. My eyesight fails me, so that I
can only read the largest print in the broadest day-
light ; but it is a singular circumstance that I make
out to decipher the pygmy characters of your epistles,
even by the faintest twilight. The secret is, that
they are characters of light to me, so that I could
undoubtedly read them in midnight darkness. . . .

— At this point, chronologically if not sentimen-
tally, comes in the following letter from Hawthorne
to his sister Louisa, with three from her to him. If
they interrupt for a few moments the flow of lovers'
talk, they do so in a pleasant fashion, and incidentally
afford a glimpse worth having of the way these in-
visible and problematical Hawthornes felt towards
one another.

COURTSHIP. 227

Brook Farm, West Roxbury, May 3, 1841.

As the weather precludes all possibility of plough-
ing, hoeing, sowing, and other such operations, I be-
think me that you may have no objections to hear
something of my whereabout and whatabout. You
are to know, then, that I took up my abode here on
the 12th ultimo, in the midst of a snow-storm, which
kept us all idle for a day or two. At the first glimpse
of fair weather, Mr. Eipley summoned us into the
cow-yard, and introduced me to an instrument with
four prongs, commonly entitled a dung-fork. With
this tool I have already assisted to load twenty or
thirty carts of manure, and shall take part in loading
nearly three hundred more. Besides, I have planted
potatoes and pease, cut straw and hay for the cattle,
and done various other mighty works. This very
morning I milked three cows, and I milk two or
three every night and morning. The weather has
been so unfavorable that we have worked compara-
tively little in the fields; but, nevertheless, I have
gained strength wonderfully, — grown quite a giant,
in fact, — and can do a day's work without the
slightest inconvenience. In short, I am transformed
into a complete farmer.

This is one of the most beautiful places I ever saw
in my life, and as secluded as if it were a hundred
miles from any city or village. There are woods, in
which we can ramble all day without meeting any-
body or scarcely seeing a house. Our house stands
apart from the main road, so that we are not

228 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

troubled even with passengers looking at us. Once
in a while we have a transcendental visitor, such as
Mr. Alcott ; but generally we pass whole days with-
out seeing a single face, save those of the brethren.
The whole fraternity eat together ; and such a delect-
able way of life has never been seen on earth since
the days of the early Christians. We get up at half-
past four, breakfast at half-past six, dine at half-past
twelve, and go to bed at nine.

The thin frock which you made for me is consid-
ered a most splendid article, and I should not wonder
if it were to become the summer uniform of the Com-
munity. I have a thick frock, likewise ; but it is
rather deficient in grace, though extremely warm and
comfortable. I wear a tremendous pair of cowhide
boots, with soles two inches thick, — of course,
when I come to see you I shall wear my farmer's
dress.

We shall be very much occupied during most of
this month, ploughing and planting; so that I doubt
whether you will see me for two or three weeks.
You have the portrait by this time, I suppose ; so
you can very well dispense with the original. When
you write to me (which I beg you will do soon), direct
your letter to West Eoxbury, as there are two post-
offices in the town. I would write more, but William
Allen is going to the village, and must have this
letter. So good-by.

Nath. Hawthorne, Ploughman.

COURTSHIP. 229

Salem, May 10, 1841.
My dear Beother, — I am very glad you did
bethink yourself that we might want to hear from
you ; for we had looked for you so long in vain,
that we were very impatient to know in what quarter
of the world you had bestowed yourself What a
delightful beginning of your farmer's life that snow-
storm was ! I could not help thinking all day how
dreary it must look to you. You do give a won-
derful account of your works. Elizabeth does not
seem to have entire faith in it, — it passes her com-
prehension ; she says she knows you will spoil the
cows if you attempt to milk them, and she thinks
William Allen will have the hardest time of all, it
being his province to direct you. What an event it
will be when the potatoes you have planted come up !
I should like to see you at work ; what a figure you
must cut after a day's ploughing, or labor in the barn-
yard ! Your carpet will suffer this summer if you tread
upon it with your cowhide boots. Do not work too
hard ; I have more faith in your working than
Elizabeth has, and I am afraid you will take it too
hard. Mother groans over it, and wishes you would
come home. The portrait came home a fortnight
ago, and gives great delight. Mother says it is
perfect ; and if she is satisfied with the likeness, it
must be good. The color is a little too high, to be
sure : but perhaps it is a modest blush at the com-
pliments which are paid you to your face. Mrs.
Cleveland says it is bewitching, and Miss Carlton

230 HA WTHORNE AND HIS- WIFE.

says it only wants to speak. Elizabeth says it is
excellent. It has one advantage over the original, — '-
I can make it go with me where I choose ! But
good as it is, it does not by any means supplj' the
place of the original, and you are not to think that
you can stay away any longer than before we had
it. If you only knew how we anticipated your
coming home, and how impatient we are when you
do not come at the usual time, you would not think
you could be spared. It is a comfort to look at the
picture, to be sure ; but I am tempted to speak to it
sometimes, and it answers never a word ; and when
mother looks at it, she takes up a lamentation be-
cause you stay away so long and work so hard. I
wonder if they would not take me into the Com-
munity for a week this summer. I should like to
get into the country and ramble in the woods. I
won't work much, though ; neither, I hope, will you
when the hot weather comes, — which does not seem
likely to be very soon. Do you see the newspapers,
so as to know what is going on among the world's
people ? What a sweep there is among your old
friends at the Custom House !

You do not tell us what you eat. I should like
to know what your farmer's fare is. What a loaded
table you must want, so many of you, after a hard
day's work ! I should think you would bring us
home a box of butter, if your dairy-woman is very
nice. Do you know, when Sunday comes now, I think
among so many ministers you might have preaching!

' COURTSHIP. 531

Shall not you be at home by next Friday, — the
National Fast ? It is five weeks to-morrow since
you went away, and we do so want to see you. I
am glad your frock gives satisfaction ; I suppose that
is your Sunday dress. You can wear that when you
are at home ; but Beelzebub begs that you will leave
your thick boots behind you, as her nerves are some-
what delicate and she could not bear them. She
came into the room the other night, and looked all
round for you, and uplifted her voice. She will not
take the least notice of the picture ; she wants the
real, not the imitation. She is rather conceited just
now, as she has been told that there is a canary-
bird named for her, which has added to her vanity.
I have written a very long letter ; but if it continues
to rain, you will have time to read it. If you do not
come home this week, do write, — but do come.
Your affectionate sister,

M. L. Hawthorne.

Salem, June 11, 1841.
Dear Natty, — We received your letter, and were
very glad to hear from you, although we should have
been much better pleased to have had you come
yourself. I had not written before, because we had
been looking for you every day; and we do most
seriously object to your staying away from home so
long. Do you know that it was nine weeks last
Tuesday since you left home ? — a great deal too
long. I do not see how you manage to work this

23§ HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

hot weather without your thin clothes ; and I do not
like your working so hard at alL I am sure it can-
not be good for your health to work from half-past
four till seven ; and I cannot bear to think that this
hot sun is beating upon your head. You could but
work hard if you could do nothing else ; as it is, you
can do a great deal better. What is the use of burn-
ing your brains out in the sun, when you can do any-
thing better with, them ? Ebe says she thought you
were only to work three hours a day for your boai-d,
and she cannot understand your keeping at it all
day.

I am bent upon coming up to see you this summer.
Do not you remember how you and I used to go
a-fishing together in Eaymond ? Your mention of
wild-flowers and pickerel has given me a longing for
the woods and waters again ; and I want to wander
about as I used to in old times ; and I mean to come !
Who are the four young ladies who give you so
much trouble ? They ought to work as well as you.
I should think so much company would hinder you
very much. I only wish you were near enough tp
Salem to be visited. Elizabeth Cleveland says she
.saw Mr. George Bradford in Lowell last winter, and
he told her he was going to be associated with you ;
but they say his mind misgave him terribly when
the time came for him to go to Eoxbury, and whether
to take such a desperate step or not, he could not
tell. Mrs. Cleveland saw a young lady who had seen
you in jout frock, and they told her you carried milk

COURTSHIP. 233

into Boston every morning; so she says she stared at
every mUk-cart she met to see if the milkman resem-
bled the picture, but she was disappointed in her
hopes of seeing you. I hope you were dressed in
your best frock at the fSte in Brook Farm. I should
think your clothes were in a very dilapidated con-
dition by this time, and I am glad of itj for then
you will have to come home. We have sent that
frock-coat to be dyed, and it is to be done to-morrow ;
your stocks are in progress, and mother is this after-
noon putting buttons on your thin pantaloons, of
which you have three pairs, which you must want
very much. I wish j'ou had said if you wanted any
more of those working-shirts ; they are pretty thick
for this weather. Mother apostrophizes your picture
because you do not come home. Elizabeth walked
over to Marblehead the other day, and got plenty of
violets and columbines. I went to Harmony Grove
last week ; it looked pretty enough. We saw in the
" Boston Post " a notice of that article of yours, and
part of it was copied into the "Gazette." If you
have the magazine do bring it home with you, that
we may see the whole article. I shall be glad when
you renew your acquaintance with the person therein
mentioned, and recommend you to do it speedily.
Mother says she shall look for you sometime to-
morrow; if you do not come then, do not defer it
longer than next week. We do want to see you,
and you must not stay any longer ; only think, it is
more than two months since you went away, and

234 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

my patience is exhausted. Beelzebub is very well,
but she had the misfortune to set lierself on fire the
other day, which improves her beauty by contrast.
She wants one of those partridges you tell of. I am
writing in your chamber. Do come very soon.
Your affectionate sister,

M. L. Hawthorne.

Salem, Aug. 3, 1341.
Dear Natty, — I have waited for a letter from
you till I am tired and cannot wait any longer. And
I have been to the post-ot&ce and received the same
answer so often, that I am ashamed to go any more.
What do you mean by such conduct, — neither com-
ing, nor writing to us ? It is six weeks to-day since
you left us, and in all that time we have heard nothing
from you. We do not like it at all. It was a great
deal better, and, I am sure, a great deal pleasanter
and happier, when you came home once a fortnight
at least; that was quite long enough to stay away.
Mother is very vehement about it. I take for
granted you would like to hear from us ; we are all
pretty well. Susan Giddings says they frequently
heard from you by way of Mr. Farley, whose sister-
in-law lives in the house with them, and to whom he
writes frequently. She was very much amazed at
the idea of your working so hard. By the way, I
hope you do not work very hard this hot weather.
I have been troubled about it when the sun was
so hot that I could not step out of doors. How did

COURTSHIP. 235

you get through haying? I was glad to hear of
your going to Plymouth, because it seemed as if your
hwry was over. Elizabeth walked to Marblehead
the other day. Poor Beelzebub is very unfortunate :
she has been lame this three weeks ; whether it is
the gout, or a sprain, or fighting, we cannot tell ; but
she hobbles on three legs in a most pitiable manner,
though I suppose you might be wicked enough to
laugh at her. I doubt very much if she ever walks
on four legs again. Mr. George Bradford, one of your
brethren, has paid a visit in Lowell, where I under-
stand his hands excited great wonderment. I can
imagine how they looked, having seen yours. Healy
Barstow has been walking round town this week,
dressed in a black velvet coat, looking very much
like a play-actor. It is said that you are to do the
travelling in Europe for the Community. Mrs.
Sparks is boarding at Nahant for her health. I hope
you will come home very soon ; we do want to see
you. You do not know how long it seems since you
went away. But if you are not coming immediately,
you must write and let us hear from you at least.
Mother takes up such a lamentation for you, and
then she scolds about you ; and Beelzebub comes into
the room and hops round it, looking for you ; and Ebe
is troubled about your working ; so you must pacify
us all. If you write, say if you want any clothes
got ready.

Your affectionate sister,

M. L. Hawthorne.

236 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

— Here ends Miss Louisa's contribution, and
Hawthorne resumes. It is probably not necessary
to remark that Beelzebub, in this connection, signi-
fies oiily the family cat; but it may be as well to ex-
plain that "Ebe" stands for Miss Elizabeth. When
Hawthorne was a baby, the sound he made in at-
tempting to pronounce his sister's name is repre-
sented by these letters; and it became her family
appellation. Hawthorne's children, in after years,
always spoke of Miss Elizabeth Hawthorne as " Aunt
Ebe."

Bkook Farm, Aug. 12, 1841.
Dearest unutterably, — Mrs. Eipley is going to
Boston to Miss Slade's wedding, so I sit down to write
a word to you, not knowing whither to direct it. My
heart searches for you, but wanders about vaguely
and is strangely dissatisfied. Where are you ? I
would that I were with yon. It seems as if all evil
things had more power over you when I am away.
Then you are exposed to noxious winds and to pes-
tilence and to death-like weariness ; and, moreover,
nobody knows how to take care of you but I. Every-
body else thinks it of importance that you should
paint and sculpture ; but it would be no trouble to
me if you should never touch clay or canvas again.
It is not what you do, but what you are, that I con-
cern myself about. And if your mighty works are to
be wrought only by the anguish of your head, and
weariness of your frame, and sinking of your heart,

COURTSHIP. 237

then I do never desire to see another. And this
should be the feeling of all your friends. Especially
ought it to be yours, for my sake. . . .

Brook Fakm, Aug. 22, 1841.
. . . When am I to see you again ? The first of
September comes a week from Tuesday next ; but I
think I shall compel it to begin on Sunday. Will
you consent ? Then, on Saturday afternoon, I will
come to you, and remain in the city till Monday.
Thence I shall go to Salem, and spend a week there,
longer or shorter according to the intensity of the
occasion for my presence. I do long to see our
mother and sisters ; and I should not wonder if they
felt some slight desire to see me. I received a letter
from Louisa a week or two since, scolding me most
pathetically for my long absence. Indeed, I have
been rather naughty in this respect ; but I knew that
it would be unsatisfactory to them and myself if I
came only for a single day, and that has been the
' largest space that I could command. . . .

Salem, Sej^t. 3, 1841.
. . . You do not expect a letter from me ; and yet,
perhaps, you will not be absolutely displeased should
one come to you to-morrow. At all events, I feel
moved to write, though the haze and sleepiness which
always settles upon me here, will be perceptible. in
every line. But what a letter you wrote to me ! —
it is like one angel writing to another angel. But,

238 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

alas, the letter has miscarried, and has been deliv-
ered to a most unworthy mortal. Now will you
exclaim against my naughtiness ! And indeed I am
very naughty. Well, then, the letter was meant for
me, and could not possibly belong to any other being,
mortal or immortal. I will trust that your idea of
me is truer than my own consciousness of myself.

I have been out only once, in the daytime, since
my arrival. How immediately and irrecoverably (if
you did not keep me out of the abyss) should I re-
lapse into the way of life in which I spent my youth !
If it were not for you, this present world would see
no more of me forever. The sunshine would never
fall on me, no more than on a ghost. Once in a
while people might discern my figure gliding stealth-
ily through the dim evening, — that would be all. I
should be only a shadow of the night ; it is you that
give me reality, and make all things real for me. If,
in the interval since I quitted this lonely old cham-
ber, I had found no woman (and you were the only
possible one) to impart reality and significance to life,
I should have come back hither ere now, with a feel-
ing that all was a dream and a mockery. Do you
rejoice that you have saved me from such a fate ?
Yes ; it is a miracle worthy even of you, to have con-
verted a life of shadows into the deepest truth by
your magic touch.

Boston, May 27, 1842.

Dearest Heart, — Your letter to my sisters was
most beautiful, — sweet, gentle, and magnanimous;

COURTSHIP. 239

such as no one but you could have written. If they
do not love you, it must be because they have no
hearts to love with, — and even if this were the case,
I should not despair of your planting the seeds of
hearts in their bosoms. They will love you, all in
good time, dearest: and we will be very happy. I
am so at this moment. I see more to admire and
love in you every day of my life, and shall see more
and more as long as I live, else it will be because
my own nature retrogrades, instead of advancing.
But you will make me better and better, tUl I am
worthy to be your husband.

Three evenings without a glimpse of you ; and I
know not whether I am to come at six or seven
o'clock, or scarcely, indeed, whether I am to come at
all. But, unless you order me to the contrary, I shall
come at seven o'clock. I saw Mr. Emerson at the
Athenaeum yesterday, and he tells me that our garden,
etc., make progress. Would that we were there !

Yours.

Salem, June 9, 1842.
Dearest, — Scarcely had I arrived here, when our
mother came out of her chamber, looking better and
more cheerful than I have seen her this some time,
and inquired about your health and well-being. Very
kindly, too. Then was my heart much lightened;
for I know that almost every agitating circumstance
of her life had hitherto cost her a fit of sickness,
and I knew not but it might be so now. Foolish me,

240 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

to doubt that my mother's love could be wise, like
all other genuine love ! And foolish again, to have
doubted your instinct, — whom, henceforth (if never
before) I take for my unerring guide and counsellor
in all matters of the heart and soul. Yet if, some-
times, I should perversely follow my own follies, do
not you be discouraged. I shall always acknowledge
your superior wisdom in the end. Now, I am hap-
pier than my naughtiness deserves. It seems that
our mother had seen how things were, a long time
ago; at first her heart was troubled, because she
knew that much of outward as well as inward fitness
was requisite to secure our peace ; but, gradually and
quietly, God has taught lier that all is good, and so
we shall have her fullest blessing and concurrence.
My sisters, too, begin to sympathize as they ought ;
and all is well. God be praised ! I thank Him on
my knees, and pray Him to make me worthy of the
happiness you bring me.

Time and space, and all other finite obstructions,
are fast flitting away from between us. We can
already measure the interval by days and hours.
What happiness ! and what awe is intermingled
with it ! — no fear nor doubt, but a holy awe, as when
an immortal spirit is drawing near to the gates of
Heaven. I cannot tell what I feel, but you know
it all.

I shall be with you on Friday at seven o'clock.
I have no more words, but a heart full of love.

YOUE OWN.

COURTSHIP. 241

Salem, June 20, 1842.
Teue and Honoeable, — You have not been out
of my mind a moment since I saw you last, — and
never will you be, so long as we exist. Can you say
as much ? Dearest, do you know that there are but
ten days more in this blessed month of June ? And
do you remember what is to happen within those ten
days ? Poor little Sophie ! E"ow you begin to trem-
ble and shrink back, and fear that you have acted too
rashly in this matter. Now you say to yourself, " Oh
that I could prevail upon this wretched person to
allow me a month or two longer to make up my
mind ; for, after all, he is but an acquaintance of
yesterday, and unwise am I to give up father, mother,
and sisters for the sake of such a questionable stran-
ger!" Ah, it is too late ! Nothing can part us now ;
for God himself hath ordained that we shall be one.
So nothing remains, but to reconcile yourself to your
destiny. Year by year we shall grow closer to each
other ; and a thousand ages hence, we shall be only
in the honeymoon of our marriage. But I cannot
write to you. The time for that species of com-
munion is past.

June 30.
Dearest, — Your sister Mary told me that it was
her opinion you and I should not be married for a
week longer. I had hoped, as you know, for an
earlier day ; but I cannot help feeling that Mary is
on the safe and reasonable side, and should you feel
that this postponement is advisable, you will find

VOL. 1. 16

242 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

me patient beyond what you think me capable of
I will even be happy, if you will only keep youi
heart and mind at peace. I will go to Concord to-
morrow or next day, and see about our affairs thera

P. S. I love you ! I love you ! I love you !

P. S. 2. Do you love me at all ?

— On the 9th of July, 1842, the marriage took
place at the house of Dr. Peabody, No. 13 West
Street, Boston. The ceremony was performed by Eev.
James Preeman Clarke, who, by a singular chance,
never afterwards met Mr. and Mrs.' Hawthorne until,
on the 19th of May, 1864, he preached the funeral ser-
mon, at Concord church, over Mr. Hawthorne's dead
body. The spectators of the wedding were very few ;
but, such as they were, they looked on with loving
and praying hearts. The imagination lingers over
this scene, with its simplicity, its deep but h'appy
emotion, its faith, its promise, and its courage. The
future that lay before the married lovers had in it
its full proportion of joy, of sorrow, of honor, and of
loss ; but there was, in the chapter of their life which
had just closed, an ethereal bloom of loveliness which
can come but once even to the pure in heart, and
which to many comes not at all.

THE OLD MANSE. 243

CHAPTER VI.

THE OLD MANSE.

In the preceding chapters little space has been
given to discussion of the merely literary aspect and
details of Hawthorne's life. A good deal might have
been said about his early successes and disappoint-
ments in this direction : how hard he worked for
publishers who paid him only with promises ; how
the " Athenaeum " and Mr. Longfellow praised him ;
how Poe criticised him ; how the " Church Eeview "
attacked him ; and more to the same effect, with the
writer's meditations and comments thereupon. But
such matters appertain less to the biographer than to
the bibliographer. They give no solidity or form
to our conception of the man. Hawthorne's works
are published to the world, and any one may read
them, and- derive from them whatever literary or
moral culture he may be susceptible of. But any
attempt to make the works throw light upon their
author is certain to miscarry, unless the student be
previously impregnated with a very distinct and un-
mistakable conception of that author's human and
natural (as distinct from his merely imaginative and
artistic) personality. The ■ books may add depth

244 HAWTnORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and minuteness to this conception, -when once it has
been attained, but they cannot be depended on to
create it beforehand. Accordingly, it is the biogra-
pher's business, so far as his abilities and materials
allow, to confine himself to putting the reader in
possession of this human aspect of his subject, and to
let the rest take care, in great measure, of itself. In
other words, he must do for the reader only so much
as the reader cannot do for himself. To do more
would be superfluous, if not presumptuous. Few men,
who have made literature the business of their lives,
have been less dependent than Hawthorne upon litera-
ture for a character. If he had never written a line,
he would still have possessed, as a human being,
scarcely less interest and importance than he does now.
Those who were most intimate with him hot only
found in him all the promise of his works, but they
found enough more to put the works quite in the back-
ground. His literary phase seemed a phase only, and
not the largest or most characteristic. In the same
way, when he was a consul at Liverpool, nobody
could have been a better consul than he ; but when
you came into his presence, the consul was lost sight
of, and the man shone out. Some men are swallowed
up by their profession, so that nothing is left of them
but the profession in human form. But, for men
like Hawthorne, the profession is but a means of
activity ; they use it, and are not used by it. Haw-
thorne's son remembers that, twenty or thirty years
ago, it seemed to him rather a regrettable thing that

THE OLD MANSE. 245

his father had written books. Why write books ?
He was a very good and satisfactory father without
that. When, afterwards, he read the books, they
struck him as being but a somewhat imperfect reflec-
tion of certain regions of his father's mind with which
he had become otherwise familiar.

In the pages which are to follow, the same gen-
eral aim and principle as heretofore will control the
biographer in his selection and treatment of ma-
terials ; but the character of the materials themselves
undergoes a certain modification. A domestic career
has been begun ; there is a wife to be loved and to
love, and there are children to be born and raised.
The narrative moves more slowly as to time; it is
more circumstantial and homogeneous ; it is, for
some years, rather contemplative than active. We
feel that stories are being written, up there in the
little study ; we catch echoes, now and then, of
the world's appreciation of them ; but we are not
called upon to give special heed to these matters.
For there are the river, and the woods, and Sleepy
Hollow ; and the Old Manse itself, with its orchard,
its avenue, and its vegetable garden ; and Mr. Emerson
passes by, with a sunbeam in his face ; and Margaret
Fuller receives rather independent treatment ; and
those odd young men, EUery Channing and Henry
Thoreau, make themselves agreeable or otherwise, as
the case may be. The man has reached a region of
repose, — temporary repose only, and complete merely
on the side of the higher nature ; for there are res

246 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

angustce domi to be dealt with, and other half-
comical, half-serious difficulties to be overcome.
Much of the history of this sojouru in the Old
Manse has already been made public in the " Note-
Books," and in the preface to the " Mosses ; " but a
note slightly more personal remains to be struck.
In preparing Hawthorne's literary remains for the
press, his wife labored under the embarrassment of
being herself the constant theme of his journalizings,
and the subject of his most loving observation and re-
flection ; and the omission of this entire element from
the record left a very perceptible gap. Even now
the omission can be only partially repaired ; but the
additions, so far as they go, are full of significance
and charm. The married lovers during several years
were in the habit of keeping a more or less con-
tinuous diary of their daily experiences, in which
first one and then the other would hold the pen, in
lovely strophe and antistrophe; and there is, more-
over, that unfailing History of Happiness (as it
might weU be called), — the letters of Mrs. Haw-
thorne to her mother. In the present chapter, for
reasons of clearness and convenience, a strict chrono-
logical sequence will occasionally be departed from •
disconnected references to the same subject will be
brought together, and other slight liberties be taken
with some of the more arbitrary arrangements of time.
And perhaps we could not begin better than with
this eloquent epithalamion — if such a title may be
given to a retrospective essay, written after the death

THE OLD MANSE. 247

of both Hawthorne and his wife — by the latter's,
sister, Miss E. P. Peabody : —

". . . The mental idiosyncrasies of Hawthorne and
his wife were in singular contrast, — a contrast which
made their union more beautiful and complete. Her
ministration was done as delicately as Ariel's ' spirit-
ing,' as was needful with respect to an individuality
so rare and alive as Hawthorne's, and a habit so re-
served. He was not morbid or gloomy in nature;
his peculiar form of shyness was rather the result of
the outward circumstance that he belonged to a fam-
ily which had done nothing (as the mother and sis-
ters of a man generally do) to put him into easy
relations with society, — into which, indeed, he never
had any natural introduction until it was in some
degree made by his wife, whose nature was very social.
But they were thirty-two and thirty-eight years old,
respectively, before they were married, and Sophia
thought it too late to attempt to break up his secluded
habits entirely. His reserved manners had come to
be a barrier against intrusion, and she felt that the
work he had to do for mankind was too important for
him to waste any time and undergo any unnecessary
sufiFering in reforming his social habits. In the her-
mitage made for him by his extreme sensibility, he
was not in the dark, but saw clearly out of it, as if he
walked among men with an invisible cap on his head.
She guarded his solitude, perhaps with a needless
extreme of care ; but it was not in order to keep
him selfishly to herself, — it was to keep him for

248 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the human race, to whose highest needs she thought
he could minister by his art, if not interrupted in
his artistic studies of men in their most profound
relations to one another and to nature. She never
had any jealousy of his study and books, as wives of
many artists and authors have had. She delighted
in the wide relations he held with the human race.
There never was a love which was at the same time
more intense and complete and personally unselfish.
It is true, the bounty of his love for her could not
but disarm, by rendering unnecessary, all disposition
to exaction on her part. She protected him by her
womanly tact and sympathy ; he protected her by his
manly tenderness, ever on the watch to ward off from
her the hurts to which she was liable from those
moral shocks given by the selfishness and cruelty she
could never learn to expect from human beings. For
though Sophia had the strength of a martyr under the
infliction of those wounds which necessarily come to
individuals by the providential vicissitudes of life,
there was one kind of thing she could not bear, and
that was, moral evil. Every cloud brought over her
horizon by the hand of God had for her a silvery lin-
ing ; but human unkindness, dishonor, falsehood, ago-
nized and stunned her, — as, in ' The Marble Faun,'
the crime of Miriam and Donatello stunned and ago-
nized Hilda. And it was this very characteristic of
hers that was her supreme charm to Hawthorne's
imagination. He reverenced it, and almost seemed to
doubt whether his own power to gaze steadily at the

THE OLD MANSE. 249

evils of human character, and analyze them, and see
their bounds, were really wisdom, or a defect of moral
sensibility. Their mutual affection was truly a moral
reverence for each other, that enlarges one's idea of
what is in man ; for it was without weakness, and
enabled her to give him up without a murmur when,
as she herself said, he came to need so much finer
conditions than she could command for him ; and thus
it was that, as she herself also said in the supreme
hour of her bereavement, ' Love abolished Death.'

"Before they met, they were already 'two self-
sufficing worlds ; ' and this gave the peculiar dignity,
without taking away the tender freshness, of their
union, — for it was first love for both of them,
though the flower bloomed on the summit of the
mountain of their life, and not in the early morning;
and it was therefore, perhaps, that it was amaranthine
in its nature. As was said by a writer in the ' Trib-
une,' at the time of Mrs. Hawthorne's death, 'the
world owes to this woman more than any one but
Hawthorne knew ; ' but it will know better as he is
better and better understood by the advancing thought
of the English and American mind."

— Happiness is not especially articulate until one
becomes a little accustomed to it ; but no words are
more weighted with tender and pathetic meaning
than those of a mother who feels the loss of a favor-
ite child ; nor is any ingenuity more touching than
that with which she endeavors to disguise her heart-

250 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

ache, lest it cast a shadow upon the child's sunshine.
The subjoined extracts from some of Mrs. Peabody's
letters to her daughter have a beautiful and simple
wistfulness that renders them valuable to literature
as well as to this biography. The first is dated with-
in six days after the wedding.

Deak Sophie, — I could fill sheets with what my
heart is full of, on several subjects ; but I am more
and more convinced that this world is not the place
to pour out the soul without reserve. In a higher
and a better, to know even as we are known will
be a part of heaven, to our disciplined race. Here
the noblest and best feelings are misunderstood, and
our safety consists in forbearing to say — certainly
to write — what it is our highest merit to feel. . . .

I never doubted that you would be most happy
in the connection you have formed ; you are kindred
spirits, and it must be so ; yet it was delightful to
read such an outpouring of entire felicity. Yet, how-
ever happy you may be in each other, you will feel
a void, if the enlarged circle of love is not occupied
with objects worthy to be there. True love increases •
our capability of loving our fellow-beings, and, in the
hour of sickness and worldly perplexity, the face of a
friend is like a ray from heaven. Probably I shall
often mention things which have already occurred to
your own mind; but you must bear it, dear. Old
housekeepers are apt to imagine they know a great
deal; but after forty years' experience I find many

THE OLD MANSE. 251

new things may be learned; and so you must not
wonder if my letters are often garnished with homely
but very important hints upon family matters.

You need give no injunctions, dear, to any of the
dear ones I am with. Their care of me is only
greater than I wish. To be useful while I live, is
my effort ; to have health and strength for it, is my
prayer. When any one reflects how much I have
been with you for thirty years, how fully we shared
each other's thoughts, how soothing in every trial
was your bright smile and ready sympathy, such an
one will give me credit for behaving heroically, as well
as gratefully for the blessings left. My hours are
fully occupied ; I housekeep, paint, sew, study Ger-
man, read, and give no room for useless regrets and
still more useless anxieties. We are all religiously
doing all we can, for ourselves and others. . . .

— The privacy of the Old Manse was at first but
little invaded, and only by friends who bestowed
something almost as good as solitude. Nevertheless,
Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne had not been many days
settled in their dwelling, when a project was mooted
to engraft upon their felicity that of another newly
married couple, — Mr. and Mrs. EUery Channing.
EUery's wife was the sister of Margaret Fuller ; and
the latter took upon herself the office of suggesting
the plan to the Hawthomes; and it was to Mrs.
Hawthorne that she addressed herself. Mrs. Haw-
thorne suppressed her own feelings in the matter

252 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

(whatever they may have been) and referred the
responsibility of decision to her husband. He,
doubtless, perceived in her a secret repugnance to
the idea, and shared that sentiment ; and so far all
was easy enough. But it was necessary for him to
write a letter to Margaret refusing her proposal ; and
here was an embarrassment. Miss Fuller was a very
clever woman, and most people stood in some awe of
her. The fact that she was somewhat deficient in
tact would increase the difficulty of dealing with her
successfully. Furthermore, her proposal had been
made in a spirit of benevolence to both the parties
involved in it, and the rejection of it must therefore
be made as considerate as it was explicit. Finally
(and foremost probably, in Hawthorne's estimation),
it was desirable to relieve his wife from any suspicion
of bearing an active part in the conclusion arrived at,
and to indicate unmistakably that the entire odium
of it — if there were any — rested upon his own
shoulders. It will be seen, therefore, that Hawthorne
was here afforded an unusually promising opportunity
of making mortal enemies of three worthy persons ;
and to emerge from the scrape with credit to himself
and without offence to them, would be a feat worthy
of a practised diplomatist and man of the world.
His management of the problem was as follows : —

Concord, Aug. 28, 1842.

Dear Margaret, — Sophia has told me of her
conversation with you, about our receiving Mr.

THE OLD MANSE. 253

EUery Chaiming and your sister as inmates of our
household. I found that my wife's ideas were not
altogether unfavorable to the plan, — which, to-
gether with your own implicit opinion in its favor,
has led me to consider it. with a good deal of atten-
tion ; and my conclusion is, that the comfort of both
parties would be put in great jeopardy. In saying
this, 1 would not be understood to mean anything
against the social qualities of Mr. and Mrs. Clian-
ning, — my objection being wholly independent of
such considerations. Had it been proposed to Adam
and Eve to receive two angels into their Paradise, as
hoarders, I doubt whether they would have been
altogether pleased to consent. Certain I am, that,
whatever might be the tact and the sympathies of
the heavenly guests, the boundless freedom of Para-
dise would at once have become finite and limited
by their presence. The host and hostess would no
longer have lived their own natural life, but would
have had a constant reference to the two angels j
and thus the whole four would have been involved
in an unnatural relation, — which the whole system
of boarding out essentially and inevitably is.

One of my strongest objections is, the weight of
domestic care which would be thrown upon' Sophia's
shoulders by the proposed arrangement. She is so
little acquainted with it, that she cannot estimate
how much she would have to bear. I do not fear
any burthen that may accrue from our own exclusive
relations, because skill and strength will come with

254 HA WTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the natural necessity ; but I should not feel myself
justified in adding one scruple to the weight. I
wish to remove everything that may impede her fuU
growth and development, — which in her case, it
seems to me, is not to be brought about by care and
toil, but by perfect repose and happiness. Perhaps
she ought not to have any earthly care whatever, —
certainly none that is not wholly pervaded with' love,
as a cloud is with warm light. Besides, she has
many visions of great deeds to be wrought on canvas
and in marble during the coming autumn and winter ;
and none of these can be accomplished unless she
can retain quite as much freedom from household
drudgery as she enjoys at present. In short, it is my
faith and religion not wilfully to mix her up with
any earthly annoyance.

You will not consider it impertinent if I express
an opinion about the most advisable course for your
young relatives, should they retain their purpose of
boarding out. I think that they ought not to seek
for delicacy of character and nice tact and sensitive
feelings in their hosts. In such a relation as they
pi'opose, those characteristics should never exist on
more than one side ; nor should there be any idea of
personal friendship, where the real condition of the
bond is to supply food and lodging for a pecuniary
compensation. They wiU be able to keep their own
, delicacy and sensitiveness much more inviolate, if
they make themselves inmates of the rudest farmer's
household in Concord, where there will be no nice

THE OLD MANSE. 255

sensibility to manage, and where their own feelings
will be no more susceptible of damage from the far-
mer's family than from the cattle in the barnyard.
There wiU be a freedom in this sort of life, which is
not otherwise attainable, except under a roof of their
own. They can then say explicitly what they want,
and can battle for it, if necessary, and such a contest
would leave no wound on either side. Now, when
four sensitive people were living together, united by
any tie save that of entire affection and confidence, it
would take but a trifle to render their whole common
life diseased and intolerable.

I have thought, indeed, of receiving a personal
friend, and a man of delicacy, into my household, and
have taken a step towards that object. But in doing
so, I was influenced far less by what "Mr. Bradford is,
than by what he is not ; or rather, his negative qual-
ities seem to take away his personality, and leave his
excellent characteristics to be fully and fearlessly en-
joyed. I doubt whether he be not precisely the rar-
est man in the world. And, after all, I have had
some misgivings as to the wisdom of my proposal to
him.

This epistle has grown to greater length than I
expected, and yet it is but a very imperfect expres-
sion of my ideas upon the subject. Sophia wished
me to write ; and as it was myself that made the ob-
jections, it seemed no more than just that I should
assume the office of stating them to you. There is
nobody to whom I would more willingly speak my

256 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

mind, because I can be certain of being thoroughly
understood. I would say more, — but here is the
bottom of the page.

Sincerely your friend,

Nath. Hawthokne.

— This finished the episode ; Miss Fuller, if she felt
any dissatisfaction, not thinking it advisable to ex-
press any, and the Channings resigning themselves
to finding quarters elsewhere. But Miss Fuller was
at this time in her apogee, and had to be doing some-
thing ; and accordingly, during the ensuing year, she
produced a book in which the never-to-be-exhausted
theme of Woman's Eights was touched upon. The
book made the rounds of the transcendental circle,
and was sufficiently discussed; and doubtless there
are disciples of this renowned woman now living who
could quote pages of it. But married women, who
had in their husbands their ideal of marital virtue, and
whose domestic affairs sufficiently occupied them, were
not likely to be cordial supporters of such doctrines
as the book enunciated. Mrs. Hawthorne -and her
mother, in letters which happen to be written on the
same day, expressed themselves on the subject as fol-
lows. I give passages from the former's epistle first :

"... Mr. Emerson's review of Carlyle in the 'Dial*
is noble, is it not ? What a cordial joy it must be to
Carlyle to find in another such worthy appreciation
of his best purposes ! In all his writings I have been
mainly impressed with his pure humanity, which has

THE OLD MANSE. 257

made me love the man and listen reverently to all he
utters, — though in chaotic phrase, like rattling thun-
der echoed among ragged hills. If ever a mortal had
a high aim, it is certainly he. What do you think of
the speech 'which Queen Margaret Fuller has made
from the throne ? It seems to me that if she were
married truly, she would ho longer be puzzled about
the rights of woman. This is the revelation of wo-
man's true destiny and place, which never can be im-
agined by those who do not experience the relation.
In perfect, high union there is no question of suprem-
acy. Souls are equal in love and intelligent com-
munion, and all things take their proper places as
inevitably as the stars their orbits. Had there never
been false and profane marriages, there would not
only be no commotion about woman's rights, but it
would be Heaven here at once. Even before I was
married, however, I could never feel the slightest
interest in this movement. It then seemed to me
that each woman could make her own sphere quietly,
and also it was always a shock to me to have women
mount the rostrum. Home, I think, is the great
arena for women, and there, I am sure, she can wield
a power which no king or conqueror can cope with.
I do not believe any man who ever knew one noble
woman would ever speak as if she were an in,ferior
in any sense : it is the fault of ignoble women that
there is any such opinion in the world."

Mrs. Peabody writes from very much the same
standpoint : —

VOL. I. 17

258 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

"Margaret Fuller's book has made a breeze, I
assure you. Seems to me 1 could have written on
the very same subjects, and set forth as strongly
what rights yet belonged to woman which were not
granted her, and yet have used language less offensive
to delicacy, and put in clearer view the only source
(vital religion) from which her true position in soci-
ety can be estimated. A consistent Christian woman
will be exactly what Margaret would have woman to
be; and a consistently religious man would readily
award to her every rightful advantage. I believe
that woman must wait till the lion shall lie down
with the lamb, before she can hope to be the friend
and companion of man. He has the physical power,
as well as conventional, to treat her like a play-
thing or a slave, and will exercise that power till
his own soul is elevated to the standard set up by
Him who spake as never man spoke. I think Mar-
garet is too personal. It is always painful to me to
hear persons dwell on what they have done and
thought, — it is taxing human sympathy too heavily.
It is still worse in a book designed for the public.
The style, too, is very bad. How is it that one who
talks so admirably should write so obscurely ? The
book has great faults, I think, — even the look of
absolu^te irreligion, — yet it is full of noble thoughts
and high aspirations. I wish it may do good ; but
I believe little that is high and ennobling can have'
other foundation than genuine Christianity."

— I find no further allusion to Margaret in any of

THE OLD MANSE. 259

the American letters or jouiiials; but fifteen years
afterwards, when she was dead, and- Hawthorne was
in Eome, he came across some facts regarding her
marriage which led him into the following interesting
and not too eulogistic analysis of her character and
career.

Extract from Boman Journal.

Mr. Mozier knew Margaret well, she having been
an inmate of his during a part of his residence in
Italy. ... He says that the Ossoli family, though
technically noble, is really of no rank whatever ; the
elder brother, with the title of Marquis, being at this
very time a working bricklayer, and the sisters walk-
ing the streets without bonnets, — that is, being in the
station of peasant-girls. Ossoli himself, to the best of

his belief, was 's servant, or had something to

do with the care of 's apartments. He was the

handsomest man that Mr. Mozier ever saw, but en-
tirely ignorant, even of his own language; scarcely
able to read at all ; destitute of manners, — in short,
half an idiot, and without any pretension to be a
gentleman. 'At Margaret's request, Mr. Mozier had
taken him into his studio, with a view to ascertain
whether he were capable of instruction in sculpture ;
but after four months' labor, Ossoli produced a thing
intended to be a copy of a human foot, but the great
toe was on the wrong side. He could not possibly
have had the least appreciation of Margaret ; and the
wonder is, what attraction she found in this boor.

260 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

this man without the intellectual spark, — she that
had always shown such a cruel and bitter scorn of
intellectual deficiency. As from her towards him,
I do not understand what feeling there could have
been ; ... as from him towards her I can understand
as little, for she had not the charm of womanhood.
But she was a person anxious to try all things, and fill
up her experience in aU directions ; she had a strong
and coarse nature, which she had done her utmost
to refine, with infinite pains ; but of course it could
only be superficially changed. The solution of the
riddle lies in this direction; nor does one's conscience
revolt at the idea of thus solving it; for (at least,
this is my own experience) Margaret has not left in
the hearts and minds of those who knew her any
deep witness of her integrity and purity. She was a
great humbug, — of course, with much talent and much
moral reality, or else she could never have been so
great a humbug. But she had stuck herself full of
borrowed qualities, which she chose to provide her-
self with, but which had no root in her. Mr. Mozier
added that Margaret had quite lost all power of
literary production before she left Eome, though
occasionally the charm and power of her conversation
would reappear. To his certain knowledge, she had
no important manuscripts with her when she sailed
(she having shown him all she had, with, a view to
his procuring their publication in America), and the
"History of the Eoman Eevolution," about which there
was so much lamentation, in the belief that it had

THE OLD MANSE. 261

been lost with her, never had existence. Thus there
appears to have been a total collapse in poor Mar-
garet, morally and intellectually; and, tragic as her
catastrophe was. Providence was, after all, kind in
putting her and her clownish husband and their
child on board that fated ship. There never was
such a tragedy as her whole story, — the sadder and
sterner, because so much of the ridiculous was mixed
up with it, and because she could bear anything
better than to be ridiculous. It was such an awful
joke, that she should have resolved — in all sincerity,
no doubt — to make herself the greatest, wisest, best
woman of the age. And to that end she set to work
on her strong, heavy, unpliable, and, in many re-
spects, defective and evil nature, and adorned it with
a mosaic of admirable qualities, such as she chose
to possess ; putting in here a splendid talent and
there a moral excellence, and polishing each separate
piece, and the whole together, till it seemed to shine
afar and dazzle all who saw it. She took credit
to herself for having been her own Eedeemer, if not
her own Creator; and, indeed, she was far more a
work of art than any of Mozier's statues. But she
was not working on an inanimate substance, like
marble or clay ; there was something within her that
she could not possibly come at, to re-create or refine
it; and, by and by, this rude old potency bestirred
itself, and undid all her labor in the twinkling of
an eye. 'On the whole, I do not know but I like
her the better for it] because she proved herself a

262 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

very woman after all, and fell as the weakest of her
sisters might.

— During the greater part of the time that the
Hawthomes were living in Concord, Dr. and Mrs.
Peabody remained in their house .in West Street,
Boston ; and the outward circumstances of their
existence lacked a good deal of being luxurious.
Though advanced in years, they were obliged to work
for their daily bread ; and it was only within a short
distance of the close of their lives that they were
able to enjoy even a partial and comparative repose.
For several years they placed their main dependence
upon what they called "the book-room," — a com-
bination of a circulating library and a book-shop, —
which they fitted up on the ground floor of their house.
This business was under the especial charge of Mrs.
Peabody; and, though always an invalid, she gave,
as might have been expected, a good account of her
stewardship. She also contrived to do occasional
work in the way of making translations of famous
European books, which yielded some profit, though
almost infinitesimal according to present standards.
Meanwhile, those instincts of hospitality and philan-
thropy, which still characterize in undiminished de-
gree the surviving members of Dr. Peabody's family,
induced them to take under their protection all
such persons as were content to live upon them
without making any return for their entertainment ;
so that the house got the name of being a sort of

THE OLD MANSE. 263

hospital for incapables. Through it all, Mrs. Peabody
maintained her cheerfulness and religious serenity.
For reasons indicated above, I have collected in
this place extracts from her letters written to her
daughter during the nine years following the latter's

My dear Sophia, — I think of you continually,
but know that you have a guardian beyond price,
who cares for you always. Your wood-pile will di-
minish rapidly this month. Do not be anxious on
our account. God takes care of us : we are neither
lazy nor extravagant ; we are honest, and faithfully
employ the talents given us, and I believe we shall
not be left to beg our bread. I have finished trans-
cribing " Hermann and Dorothea " literally, and per-
haps may, some future time, put it into purer
English. It is beautiful. It is well that, as we
must earn our bread by the sweat of our brows,
there are some labors which occupy the mind profit-
ably and keep it from preying on itself, as well
as others which give vigor to physical existence
by furnishing wholesome exercise in the open air.
Now, trafi&c of any kind has neither of these advan-
tages, and yet it must be attended to, and often by
those who are wortliy of better things. This seems
to he an evil, but who knows but high moral results
may flow from this most unattractive stream of
human action ? In one way I am sure good may
come of it, — we may .^conquer by prober effort many

264 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of our worst propensities, and resolve to be high-
minded, just, and generous, even in selling a boolj.
Hard study is a blessing to me in many ways, and I
feel indebted to it more than I can well explain,
since I must be shut up in brick walls. How you
must enjoy your woods and rivers and birds and
flowers in the summer, and in winter even the pure
snow. We shall be able to economize more than
ever the coming year, because we have less time than
ever to be lavish of hospitality. It has become an
imperative duty for us no longer, as heretofore, to
invite almost strangers to stay day after day and
week after week. My feelings would impel me to
say to all the good and to all the unfortunate. Come
and find an asylum here. But, to be just before you
are generous, I consider almost equal to the command,
" Do unto others as you would that others should do
unto you." YouE Mothek.

My. Dearest, — I have a thousand things to say,
which are silly perhaps, but mothers cannot always
be wise. When I gave you up, my sweetest con-
fidante, my ever lovely and cheering companion, I
set myself aside and thought only of the repose, the
fulness of bliss, that awaited you under the protection
and in possession of the confiding love of so rare a
being as Nathaniel Hawthorne. Still, my heart was
at times rebellious, and sunk full low when I entered
the rooms so long consecrated to you ; and I had to
reason with myself and say, " I have not lost her, but

TBE OLD MANSE. 265

have gained a noble son, and we can meet often."
I suppose you and yours will be flying to another
hemisphere some of these years ; but unless it be to
recruit health, I must hope you will find charms
enough in sober New England, where native ApoUos
and Platos spring up in your every-day walk. . . .

" I am strong in hope that my day of usefulness
will be protracted till some of our bairns can do as dear
Wellington used to say he hoped to, — place me in
an easy-chair at a comfortable fireside, to knit stock-
ings, read, and write. Why not hope this, as well as
torment one's self with fears of being a burden to any
one ? The idle and the vicious may be burdens ; but
the mother and father who have done their duty, have
a claim to the kind offices of the beings to whom
their lives have been devoted. Is it not so? Oh,
dear, what a vexation — grief, I may say — is this
want of Gold ! Mr. Hawthorne, who is writing to
make the world better, ought to see all that is doing
in the world. He ought to mingle as much as possi-
ble with the human beings he is doing so much to
cultivate and refine. ... I was glad indeed to hear
that your husband was better ; but have you not in-
fluence enough to induce him to be more saving of
his mental treasures ? The whole country as well as
his family possess that in him which caimot be re-
placed. This is simple truth, and he ought to listen
and take heed. ... If your husband knew the man
about whom we wish him to use his powerful pen,

266 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

he would feel a holy joy in tracing the character of
the incorruptible patriot, the ardent lover of freedom,
the unwearied doer of public duties, the devoted hus-
band and father, the indulgent master, the saint-like
follower of his Divine Teacher, of whose spirit he
was full. I never think of my grandfather Palmer
without enthusiasm, — I should be ashamed of myself
if I could. It is so rare to find a consistent Chris-
tian, that we ought to rejoice and be exceeding glad
when we know that such an one has lived. By writ-
ing this sketch, the knowledge of your husband's
inimitable style of composition will be more widely
diffused, and he will confer a lasting obligation on all
who love the memory of those who struggled for the
birthright of man ! . . .

" Mrs. Alcott has just come in to tell us about her
house in Concord. It is at the entrance of a wood,
two miles in a direct line to the river. She would
enjoy Mr. Hawthorne's having it more than she can
express ; thinks the house would be forever honored ;
and, though she might never be so happy as to hear
him speak, if she could sometimes see his inexpressi-
bly sweet smile, it would be an enhancement of the
value of her property only to be realized by those
who know him. — Thus she ! . . .

" Mr. Phillips, on reading ' The Procession of Life,'
which calls forth praise everywhere, said that for the
first time he comprehended the superior character of
the writer, that he thought it a great production,
and that he wished for a personal acquaintance.

THE OLD MANSE. 267

You know he is not a man who speaks unadvisedly,
but is one on whom the purity, the high moral tone,
the exquisite humor, of Mr. Hawthorne's style would
have full effect. But what crude ideas some people
have about talents, and genius, and taste, and love of
literature ! They cannot conceive them to be united
with the every-day duties of life. . . .

"I think 'The Celestial Eailroad' capital. How
skilfully he introduces the droppings of the sanc-
tuary into everything he writes, without preaching or
distraction ! And what a sweet tale that of ' The
Widows ' ! Who but Nathaniel Hawthorne could
have written it ? Who but he would have left the
scenes of restored happiness to each individual reader ?
No language can do justice to the reality in such a
case. Most sincerely do I wish that no thought of
the body, wherewithal it may be fed and clothed,
should ever stop the flight of such a mind into the
region of the infinite. Still, we do not know what
the effect of wealth and leisure might be. . . ."

— There is also the subjoined allusion to Fourier,
to which is added Mrs. Hawthorne's, reply : —

Boston, March 28, 1845.
. . . The French have been and are still corrupt,
and have lost all true ideas relative to woman. There
is a sad tendency to the same evil among us. Why
does not some undoubted man translate Fourier ?
Can the heavenly-minded W. H. Channing admire
and follow an author whose books are undermining

268 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the very foundations of social order ? Swedenborg,
you know, has been misunderstood, and his doctrine
corrupted. It is possible it may be so with Fourier's.
This subject is often discussed in the book-room, and it
is strange to me that among learned men, who are in-
terested about public morals and our civil institutions,
no one sliould take the trouble to read what Charles
Fourier wrote. Time will prove, I trust ; but many
a young mind may be ruined first. I used to wish
that I could take all my little ones and shelter them
in some nook where God and trees and flowers should
be all in all to them. But such feelings were momen-
tary. It was not for this we were created. We must
do our Father's work, — we must gird on His armor
and fight with the spirit of Evil. Ours must not be
negative virtue ; therefore our darlings must do as we
have done. We cannot hope to win an immortal
crown merely by hiding ourselves in a hermitage,
where no temptations assail, where no virtue can be
tested. All the tenderest parent can do is to watch,
pray for, guide, and guard the immortals intrusted to
them, and trust in God for the rest. Is it not so, dar-
ling? But I must not preach. My vocation — now,
at least — is buying and selling. . . ,

April 6, 1845.

... It was not a translation of Fourier that I

read, but the original text, — the fourth volume; and

though it was so abominable, immoral, irreligious,

and void of all delicate sentiment, yet George Brad-

THE OLD MANSE. 269

ford says it is not so bad as some other volumes.
Fourier wrote just after the Eevolution ; and this
may account somewhat for the monstrous system
he proposes, because then the people worshipped a
naked woman as the Goddess of Reason. But I
think that the terrific delirium that prevailed then
with regard to all virtue and decency can alone ac-
count for the entrance of such ideas into Fourier's
mind. It is very plain, from all I read (a small part),
that he had entirely lost his moral sense. To make
as much money and luxury and enjoyment out of
man's lowest passions as possible, — this is the aim
and end of his system ! To restrain, to deny, is not
suggested, except, alas ! that too great indulgence
would lessen the riches, luxury, and enjoyment.

This is the highest motive presented for not being
inordinately profligate. My husband read the whole
volume, and was thoroughly disgusted. As to Mr.
Theodore Parker, I think he is only a scholar, bold
and unscrupulous, without originality. It seems to
me that the moment any person thinks he is particu-
larly original, and the private possessor of truth, he
becomes one-sided and a monomaniac. No one can
dam up the mighty flowing stream and secure pri-
vate privileges upon it. It will be sure to break
away the impertinent obstructions and ruin the\
property. ...

— The last quotation from Mrs. Peabody's letters
which I shall make in this chapter, speaks of the

270 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

death of the painter Allston, who, it will be remem-
bered, had taken an interest in Mrs. Hawthorne's
(then Sophia Peabody's) artistic capacities.

"Mr. Allston is dead. What a light is extin-
guished ! He had a party of friends who were to
stay all night. At half-past ten, he took a most
affectionate leave of each, and Mrs. Allston went
upstairs with her guests to see them arranged for the
night. Mr. Allston went into his little room, where
he always had a small fire to warm his feet before
going to bed, and to which he always retired, probably
for devotion. After the guests were attended to, Mrs.
Allston came down to see how Mr. Allston felt, for
he had complained during the evening of a pain in
his chest. He appeared to be asleep in his chair.
She went to him, and found that the pure spirit had
departed. He was dead. There could have been no
struggle. He looked tranquil."

We may now take up the regular series of Mrs.
Hawthorne's- letters to her mother, up to the close of
the Old Manse period. It would be a pity to encum-
ber them with comment, and they need little if any
explanation. They begin in October, 1842.

"... Mr. Hawthorne's abomination of visiting still
holds strong, be it to see no matter what angel.
But he is very hospitable, and receives strangers with
great loveliness and graciousness. Mr. Emerson says
his way is regal, like a prince or general, even when
at table he hands the bread. Elizabeth Hoar re-

THE OLD MANSE. 271

marked that though his shyness was very evident,
yet she liked his manner, beeause he always faced
the occasion like a man, when it came to the point.
Of what moment will it be, a thousand years hence,
whether he saw this or that person ? If he had the
gift of speech like some others — Mr. Emerson, for
instance — it would be different, but he was not
born to mix in general society. His vocation is to ob-
serve and not to be observed. Mr. Emerson delights
in him ; he talks to him all the time, and Mr. Haw-
thorne looks answers. He seems to fascinate Mr.
Emerson. Whenever he comes to see him, he takes
him away, so that no one may interrupt him in his
close and dead-set attack upon his ear. Miss Hoar
says that persons about Mr. Emerson so generally
echo him, that it is refreshing to him to find this
perfect individual, all himself and nobody else.

" He loves power as little as any mortal I ever
knew; and it is never a question of private will
between us, but of absolute right. His conscience is
too fine and high to permit him to be arbitrary. His
will is strong, but not to govern others. He is so
simple, so transparent, so just, so tender, so magnani-
mous, that my highest instinct could only correspond
with, his will. I never knew such delicacy of nature.
His panoply of reserve is a providential shield _ and
breastplate. I can testify to it now as T could not
before. He is completely pure from earthliness. He
is under the dominion of his intellect and sentiments.
Was ever such a union of power and gentleness,

272 HAWTBORNE AND HIS WIFE.

softness and spirit, passion and reason ? I think it
must be partly smiles of angels that make the air
and light so pleasant here. My dearest Love waits
upon God like a child. . . ."

t Apeil 20, 1843.

Dearest Mother, — . . . Sunday afternoon the
birds, were sweetly mad, and the lovely rage of song
drove them hither and thither, and swelled their
breasts amaiu. It was nothing less than a tornado
of fine music. I kept saying, " Yes, yes, yes, I know
it, dear little maniacs ! I know there never was such
an air, such a day, such a sky, such a God ! I know
it, — I know it ! " But they would not be pacified.
Their throats must have been made of fine gold, or
they would have been rent with such rapture-quakes.
Mary Bryan, our cook, was wild with joy. She had
not heard any birds sing since she came from dear
Ireland. " Oh, gracious ! is n't it delicious, Mrs.
Hawthorne ? It revives my hort entirely ! " I went
into the orchard, and found my dear husband's win-
dow was open ; so I called to him, on the strength of
the loveliness, though against rules. His noble head
appeared at once ; and a new sun, and dearer, shone
out of his eyes on me. But he could not come then,
because the Muse had caught him in a golden net.
At the end of Sunday evening came EUery Channing,
who was very pleasant, and looked brighter than he
did last summer. We invited him to dine next day.
It was dark and rainy; but he came, and stayed

TEE OLD MANSE. 273

in the house with us till after tea, and was very
interesting.

Mr. Hawthorne received a letter from James
LoweU this week, in which was a proposal from Mr.
Poe that he should write for his new magazine, and
also be engraved to adorn the first number ! . . .

December 27, 1843.
. . . We had a most enchanting time- during
Mary the cook's holiday sojourn in Boston. We re-
mained in our bower undisturbed by mortal creature.
Mr. Hawthorne took the new phasis of housekeeper,
and, with that marvellous power of adaptation to
circumstances that he possesses, made everything go
easily and well. He rose betimes in the mornings,
and kindled fires in the kitchen and breakfast-
room, and by the time I came down, the tea-kettle
boiled, and potatoes were baked and rice cooked, and
my lord sat with a book, superintending. Just imagine
that superb head peeping at the rice or examining the
potatoes with the air and port of a monarch ! And
that angelica riso on his face, lifting him clean out
of culinary scenes into the arc of the gods. It was a
magnificent comedy to watch him, so ready and will-
ing to do these things to save me an effort, and at
the same time so superior to it all, and heroical in
aspect, — so unconsonant to what was about him. I
have a new sense of his universal power from this
novel phasis of his life. It seems as if there were no
side of action to which he is not equal, — at home

VOL. I. 18

274 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

among the stars, and, for my sake, patient and effec-
tive over a cooking-stove.

Our breakfast was late, because we concluded to
have only breakfast and dinner. After breakfast, I
put the beloved study into very nice order, and, after
establishing him in it, proceeded to make smooth all
things below. When I had come to the end of my
labors, my dear lord insisted upon my sitting with
him; so' I sat by him and sewed, while he wrote,
with now and then a little discourse ; and this was
very enchanting. At about one, we walked to the
village ; after three, we dined. On Christmas day we
had a truly Paradisiacal dinner of preserved quince
and apple, dates, and bread and cheese, and milk.
The washing of dishes took place in the mornings ;
so we had our beautiful long evenings from four
o'clock to ten. At sunset he would go out to exer-
cise on his wood-pile. We had no visitors except a
moment's call from good Mrs. Prescott. . . .

Febrcabt 4, 1844.
... In the papers it is said that there has not been
so cold a January for a hundred years ! I think
we are miracles to have survived that fortnight in
this house. Were we not so well acclimated, we
should probably have become piUars of ice. As it
was, our thoughts began to hang in icicles, and my
powers of endurance were frozen solid. Mary the
cook, while washing in a cloud of steam, put her
hand to her head, and found her hair all rough and

THE OLD MANSE. 275

stiff with hoar frost, — frozen steam ! In her extreme
desperation at the cold, she began to sing, and sang
as loud as she could for several days. I walked out
with my husband every day, and braved the enemy.
But, oh, our noses ! I shall certainly make muffs
for them if any more such days come. But on the
first of February there was 30° increase of tempera-
ture, which thawed our minds and made all things
seem practicable. A flock of crows, whose throats
had thawed, poured out a torrent of caws, as if they
had been nearly choked by withholding them so
long.

My husband has been reading aloud to me, after-
noons and evenings, Macaulay's " Miscellanies," since
he finished Shakspeare. Maoaulay is very acute, a
good- hater, a sensible admirer, and one of the best
simile-makers I know. His style is perfectly clear,
though by no means perfect. His humor makes his
grave topics shine quite pleasantly, but we do not
always agree with his dicta.

I suspect that Mary's baby must have opened its
mouth the moment it was born, and pronounced a
School Report ; for its mother's brain has had no
other permanent idea in it for the last year. It
wUl be a little incarnation of education systems, —
a human school.

— The "Mary" h.6re alluded to is Mrs. Haw-
thorne's sister, who married Horace Mann. She
entered so unreservedly into her husband's eduoa-

276 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

tional schemes, that the above sally of imagination
might not seem altogether beyond bounds.

On March 3, 1844, Mrs. Hawthorne's first child,
Una, was born ; and here is George S. Hillard's letter
of congratulation upon that event : —

Dear Hawthorne, — I heard yesterday, with
great joy, of the happiness which has come upop
your house and heart. I think you wiU now agree
with me that the first child is the greatest event in
life. Nothing else approaches it in its influences
upon the mind and character. May God give you
all the sweetness of my cup and none of its bitterness !
As to the name of Una, I hardly know what to say.
At first it struck ipe not quite agreeably, but on
thinking more of it I like it better. The great
objection to names of that class is that they are too
imaginative. They are to be rather kept and
hallowed in the holy crypts of the mind, than
brought into the garish light of common day. If
your little girl could pass her life in playing upon a
green lawn, with a snow-white lamb, with a blue
ribbon round its neck, all things would be in a
"concatenation accordingly;" but imagine Sophia
saying, " Una, my love, I am ashamed to see you with
so dirty a face," or, " Una, my dear, you should not
sit down to dinner without your apron." Think of
all this, before you finally decide.

The Longfellows are very well and happy, and you
will be glad to learn that there is a bud of unex-

THE OLD MANSE. 277

panded joy in store for them which will one day
ripen and expand into such another perfect flower of
bliss as now blooms upon your hearth. God bless
the poets, and keep up their line to the end of time ;
for you are a poet and a true one, though not wearing
the garb of verse. My love to Sophia, who I am
sure is wearing meekly and gently her crown of
motherhood.

Are you writing for Graham now ?

Ever yours,

Geo. S. Hillaed.

— The mother does not. seem to have shated their
friend's misgivings as to the prudence of challenging
comparison with Spenser's heroine.

April 4, 1844.

My dearest Mother, — / have no time, — as you
may imagine. I am baby's tire-woman, hand-
maiden, and tender, as well as nursing mother. My
husband relieves me with her constantly, and gets
her to sleep beautifully. I look upon him with
wonder and admiration. He is with me all the time
when he is not writing or exercising. I do not
think I shall have any guests this spring and
summer, for I cannot leave Baby a minute to enact
hostess : it is a sweet duty which must take pre-
cedence of all others.

Wednesday. — Dearest mother, little Una sleeps. —

Thursday. — Dearest mother, yesterday little Una
waked also, and I had to go to her. But she sleeps

278 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

again this morning. She smiles and smiles and
smiles, and makes grave remarks in a dovelike
voice. Her eyelashes are longer every morning, and
bid fair to be, as Cornelia said Mr. Hawthorne's were,
" a mile long and curled up at the end." Her mouth
is sweetly curved, and^ as Mary the cook prettily
says, " it has so many lovely stirs in it." Her hands
and fingers — ye stars and gods ! This is aU as true
and as much a fact as that twice three is six. Every
morning when I wake and find the darling lying
there, or hear the sound of her soft breathing, I am
filled with joy and wonder and awe. God be praised
for all the influences and teachings and inward in-
clinings that have kept for me upon the fruit of life
the down and bloom. Thanks to you, blessed mother,
for your lofty purity and delicacy of nature ; to my
father, who caused me to grow up with the idea that
guilelessuess and uprightness were matters of course
in grown-up gentlemen; to Elizabeth, who was to
my childhood and first consciousness the synonym of
goodness. Never can I forget to thank God for His
beneficence.

Father [Dr. Peabody] has done everything for us.
He has fixed my chamber-bell, mended the bellows,
mended the rocking-chair, — that unfortunate arm,
which was forever coming off. One day Mr. Haw-
thorne took hold of it, to draw it towards him ; and
as the crazy old arm came off in his hand, he threw
himself into a despairing attitude, and exclaimed, " Oh,
I will flee my country ! "•• It was indescribaWy witty;

THE OLD MANSE. 279

I laughed and laughed. Well, father has split all
the wood, taken down the partition in the kitchen,
pasted all the torn paper on the walls, picked up
the dead branches on the avenue, mended baby's
carriage, mended the garden gate, — in short, I can-
not tell you what he has not done, besides tend-
ing Una beautifully and making my fire in the
mornings.

"... Una observes all the busts and pictures, and
Papa says he is going to publish her observations on
art in one volume octavo next spring. She knows
Endymion by name, and points to him if he is men-
tioned; and she talks a great deal about Michael
Angelo's frescos of the Sibyls and Prophets, which
are upon the walls of the dining-room. At the
dinner-table she converses about Leonardo da Vinci's
Madonna of the Bas Eelief, which hangs over the fire-
place. She now waves her hand in farewell with
marvellous grace."

" Una, some time ago, began to say ' Adam ! ' a
great deal ; and lately she has taken to omitting the
first syllable. She will take a book which I have
given her for a plaything, and sit down and begin
' Dam — dam — dam,' often in dulcet tones, and then
again as loudly and emphatically as if she were
firing a cannon. I always say '^dam' to remind
her of her original pronunciation. I am anxious to
enlarge her vocabulary, that she may have some
variety of language in which to express her- mind.

280 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

But no words can express the comicality of hearing
this baby utter that naughty word with those sweet
little lips, and with such energy, and sometimes so
aptly."

"... Thank you for my sun-bpnnet. My hus-
band laughed greatly at the depth of it, and says
that if I should wear it to the village, the ruffle
would be there as soon as I turned out of our avenue;
and he asked if he might walk before me in the hot
summer days, so as to be benefited by the shade of
the front part. He says he has not the smallest ide^
of my face at the end of the scoop, — it is entirely
too far off,"

Mat, 1845.

. . . The other day, when my husband saw me
contemplating an appalling vacuum in his dressing-
gown, he said he was " a man of the largest rents in
the country, and it was strange he had not more
ready money." Our rents are certainly not to be
computed ; for everything seems now to be wearing
out all at once, and I expect the dogs will begin to
bark soon, according to the inspired dictum of Mother.
Goose. But, somehow or other, I do not care much,
because we are so happy. We

"Sail away
Into the regions of exceeding Day,"

and the shell of life is not of much consequence.
Had my husband been dealt justly by in the mat-,
ter of his emoluments, there would not have been
even this shadow upon the blessedness of our con-

THE OLD MANSE. 281

dition. But Horatio Bridge and Franklin Pierce
came yesterday, and gave us solid hope. I had never
seen Mr. Pierce before. As the two gentlemen came
up the avenue, I immediately recognized the line,
elastic figure of the " Admiral." When he saw me,
he took off his hat and waved it in the air, in a
sort of playful triumph, and his white teeth shone
out in a smile. I raised the sash, and he introduced
"Mr. Pierce." I saw at a glance that he was a person
of delicacy and refinement. Mr. Hawthorne was in
the shed, hewing wood. Mr. Bridge caught a glimpse
of him, and began a sort of waltz towards him.
Mr. Pierce followed ; and when they reappeared, Mr.
Pierce's arm was encircling my husband's old blue
frock. How his friends do love him ! Mr. Bridge
was perfectly wild with spirits. He danced and ges-
ticulated and opened his round eyes like an owl. He
kissed Una so vehemently that she drew back in ma-
jestic displeasure, for she is very fastidious about giv-
ing or receiving kisses. They all went away soon to
spend the evening and talk of business. My impres-
sion is very strong of Mr. Pierce's loveliness and
truth of character and natural refinement. My hus-
band says Mr. Pierce's affection for and reliance upon
him are perhaps greater than any other person's. He
called him " Nathaniel," and spoke to him and looked
at him with peculiar tenderness.

— Mr. Bridge, on another occasion, had happened
to call at the Old Manse when both Mrs. Hawthorne

282 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and Una were ill; and he took his departure after
leaving the following playfully ironic note, in pencil,
on the drawing-room table : —

"Mr. Bridge presents his compliments and his con-
dolence to Mrs. Hawthorne, and begs to assure her
that, out of the friendship he bears her, he can never
presume to &,pproach again a house where his pres-
ence is heralded by the sickness of the mistress. Mr.
B. is unwilling that disease shall be any longer con-
sidered as his own premonitory symptom, and with
sincere reluctance will henceforth deprive himself
of a friendly intercourse in Concord, which, though
promising great pleasure to him, brings only pain to
his friend.

" Little Una, too, seems to have entered into an
alliance with the weird sisters to keep the intruder
off, and, though famed for her gentleness and amia-
bility, cries at the very sight of her father's friend.
Truly Mr. B. is a persecuted man ; but he feared this
would be the result of Hawthorne's marriage, as it
was intimated in a former letter.

"What queer expedients Mrs. H. resorts to for
driving off her husband's bachelor friends ! A sus-
picious man would think that the lady was sham-
ming, and that the child had been pinched by its father.
But Mr. B. does not allow himself to entertain, much
less to intimate, such an idea.

"Mr. B. closes with the hope that Mrs. H. will
speedily recover her health; and, to promote that

TUE OLD MANSE. 283

desirable object, he will leave by the earliest con-
veyance.

"The Manse, Jan. 5, 1845."

— In this year Jatnes Eussell Lowell was married ;
and Mrs. Lowell wrote, from their home in Philadel-
phia, the letter which will be found below : —

Philadelphia, Jan. 16, 1845.

My dear Sophia, — I wished to write to you
before I left home ; but, in the hurry of those last
hours, I had no time, and, instead of delicate senti-
ments, could only send you gross plum-cake, which I
must hope you received.

We are most delightfully situated here in every re-
spect, surrounded with kind and sympathizing friends,
yet allowed by them to be as quiet and retired as we
choose ; but it is always a pleasure to know you can
have society if you wish for it, by walking a few steps
beyond your own door.

"We live in a little chamber on the third story,
quite low enough to be an attic, so that we feel clas-
sical in our environment; and we have one of tlie
sweetest and most motherly of Quaker women to an-
ticipate all our wants, and make us comfortable out-
wardly as we are blest inwardly. James's prospects
are as good as an author's ought to be, and I begin to
fear we shall not have the satisfaction of being so very
poor after all. But we are, in spite of this disap-
pointment of our expectations, the happiest of mor-
tals or spirits, and cling to the skirts of every passing

284 BAWTUORNE AND BIS WIFE.

hour, although we know the next will bring us still
more joy.

How is the lovely Una ? I heatd, before I left
home, that she was sunning Boston with her presence,
but I was not able to go to enjoy her bounty. James
desires his love to Mr. Hawthorne and yourself, and
sends a kiss to Una, for whom he conceived quite a
passion when he saw her in Concord. I shall not ask
you to write, for I know how much your time must
be occupied. But I will ask you to bear sometimes
in your heart the memory of

Your most happy and affectionate

Maria Lowell.

— Also belonging to this period is a letter from
Hawthorne's friend (and Una's godfather), John L.
O'Sullivan. It refers to various projects for Haw-
thorne's political advancement, which, however, came
CO nothing at the time.

New Yokk, March 21, 1845.

My dear Hawthorne, — I have written to Ban-
croft again about the Salem- P. 0., though I do not
believe Brown will be removed. Bancroft s^oke of
him as an excellent and unexceptionable man. I
did not speak of the other places you named at
Salem, because you say the emoluments are small.
I named the following consulships, — Marseilles,
Genoa, and Gibraltar. What would you say to go
out as a consul to China with A. H. Everett ? It
seems to me that in your place I should like it; and

THE OLD MANSE. 285

the trade opening there would give, I should suppose,
excellent opportunity for doing a business which
would soon result in fortune. I have no doubt Una
would be delighted to play with the Chinese pigtails
for a few years, on such a condition. If the idea
smiles at all to you, I will make more particular
inquiries about its worth, and, if satisfactory, will
apply for it, if neither of the others above-named is
accessible. At any rate, something satisfactory shall
he done for you. For the purpose of presenting you
more advantageously, I have got Duyckinck to write
an article about you in the April Democratic; and
what is more, I want you to consent to sit for a
daguerreotype, that I may take your head off in it.
Or, if Sophia prefers, could not she make a drawing
based on a daguerreotj'pe ? By manufacturing you
thus into a Personage, I want to raise your mark
higher in Polk's appreciation. The Boston Naval
Office was forestalled, — Parnienter's appointment
coming out immediately after. Bancroft suggested a
clerkship only en attendant for the Smithsonian Libra-
rianship. You underrate his disposition in the mat-
ter. I have received " P.'s Correspondence," though
not till long after its date, owing to my absence. 1
will send you the money for it in a few days!
Your friend ever faithfully,

John L. O'Sullivan.
— It had now become necessary to give up the
Old Manse, and seek another home in Salem, Mr.
Eipley resuming possession of the former abode.

286 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Sbptembbr 7, 1845.
My best Mother, — My husband is writing, and I
cannot now ask him about your suggestion for the
transfer of our furniture. But he has said he could
do everything there is to be done, and I think he
could, with instructions ; but it is rather hard for him
to fasten his thoughts upon a dish, so as to dispose of
. it in the best manner, because that is not the ten-
dency of his fancies. Nevertheless, he can by violent
wrenching twist his imagination round a plate with
the finest results. Dear mother, I assure you it is
neither heroism nor virtue of any kind for me to be
beyond measure thankful and blest to find shelter
anywhere with my husband. Unceiled rafters and
walls, and a pine table, chair, and bed would be far
preferable with him, to an Alhambra without him
even for a few months. He aiid Una are my per-
petual Paradise; and I besieged Heaven with prayers
that we might not fiud it our duty to separate,
whatever privations we must outwardly suffer in
consequence of remaining together. Heaven has
answered my prayers most bounteously. My first
idea was that we would take the old kitchen in Mr.
Manning's house, because I thought he would not
ask so much for that as for the parlor ; but Louisa
says now that he would ask as much for the kitchen
as for the parlor ; so we will have the parlor. So
now I shall have a very nice chamber, upon whose
walls I can hang Holy Families, and upon the floor
can put a pretty carpet. The three years we have

THE OLD MANSE. 287

spent here will always be to me a blessed memory,
because here all my dreams became realities. I
have got gradually weaned from it, however, by the
perplexities that have vexed my husband the last
year, and made the place painful to him. If such
an involved state of things had come upon him
through any fault or oversight on his own part
there would have been a solid though grim satisfac-
tion in meeting it. But it was only through too
great a trust in the honor and truth of others.
There is owing to him, from Mr. Ripley and others,
more than thrice money enough to pay all his debts ;
and he wa3 confident that when he came to a pinch
like this, it would not be withheld from him. It is
wholly new to him to be in debt, and he cannot
" whistle for it," as Mr. Emerson advised him to do,
telling him that everybody was in debt, and that
they were all worse than he was. His soul is too
fresh with Heaven to take the world's point of view
about anything. I regret this difficulty only for
him ; for in high prosperity I never should have ex-
perienced the fine temper of his honor, perhaps.
But, the darker the shadow behind him, the more
dazzlingly is his figure drawn to my sight. I must
esteem myself happiest of women, whether I wear
tow or velvet, or live in a log-cabin or in a palace-
" Them is my sentiments ! " . . .

— While his wife had thus been keeping up her
version of the family records, Ilawthorne, in addition

288 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

to writing the " Mosses," had occasionally varied this
imaginative work by a few pages of journal. Some
of these pages have already seen the light in the pub-
lished " Note-Books ;" many are not to be published;
there remain a few letters, and detached observations
upon his wife, arid upon some of the celebrities of
Concotd with whom he was brought in contact. The
letters were written to his wife either while he was
visiting his mother and sisters in Salem, or while
she was with her mother in Boston. The journal
extracts cover the first year of marriage, beginning
in the summer of 1842.

". . . Having made up my bunch of flowers, I return
home with them to my wife, of whom what is love-
liest among them are to me the imperfect emblems.
My imagination twines her and the flowers into one
wreath ; and when I offer them to her, it seems as if
I were introducing her to beings that have somewhat
of her own nature in them. ' My lily, here are your
sisters ; cherish them ! ' — this is what my fancy says,
while my heart smiles, and rejoices at the conceit.
Then my dearest wife rejoices in the flowers, and has-
tens to give them water, and arranges them so beau-
tifully that they are glad to have been gathered, from
the muddy bottom of the river, and its wet, tangled
margin, — from among plants of evil smell and uncouth
aspect, where the sliraj' eel and the frog and the
black mud-turtle hide themselves, — glad of being
rescued from this unworthy life, and made the orna-

THE OLD MANSE. 289

ments of our parlor. What more could the loveliest
of flowers desire ? It is its earthly triumph, which it
will remember with joy when it blooms in the Para-
dise of flowers. . . . The chief event of the afternoon,
and the happiest one of the day, is our walk. She
must describe these walks ; for where she and I have
enjoyed anything together, I always deem my pen
Unworthy and inadequate to record it."

" My wife is, in the strictest sense, my sole com-
panion, and I need no other ; there is no vacancy in
my mind, any more than in my heart In truth, I
have spent so many years in total seclusion from all
human society, that it is no wonder if now I feel all
ray desires satisfied by this sole intercourse. But
she has come to me from the midst of many friends
and a large circle of acquaintance ; yet she lives from
day to day in this solitude, seeing nobody but myself
and our Molly, while the snow of our avenue is un-
trodden for weeks by any footstep save mine ; yet
she is always cheerful. Thank God that I suffice for
her boundless heart ! "

". . . Dear little wife, after finishing my record in
the journal, I sat a long time in grandmother's chair,
thinking of many things ; but the thought of thee, the
great thought of thee, was among all other thoughts,
like the pervading sunshine falling through the boughs
and branches of a tree and tingeing every separate leaf
And surely thou shouldst not have deserted me with-
out manufacturing a sufficient quantity of sunshine
to last till thy return- Art thou not ashamed?"

VOL. I. 19

290 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

"Methinks my little wife is twiii-sister to the
Spring ; so they should greet one another tenderly, —
for they both are fresh and dewy, both full of hope
and cheerfulness ; both have bird-voices, always sing-
ing out of their hearts ; both are sometimes overcast
with flitting mists, which only make the flowers bloom
brighter ; and both have power to renew and re-create
the weary spirit. I have married the Spring ! I am
husband to the month of May ! "

"About nine o'clock (Sunday) Hillard and I set
out on a walk to Walden Pond, calling by the way
at Mr. Emerson's to obtain his guidance or directions.
He, from a scruple of his external conscience, detained
us till after the people had got into church, and then
he accompanied us in his own illustrious person. We
turned aside a little from our way to visit Mr. Hos-
mer, a yeoman, of whose homely and self-acquired
wisdom Mr. Emerson has a very high opinion. . . .
He had a free flow of talk, and not much diffidence
about his own opinions. ... I was not impressed
with any remarkable originality in his views, but they
were sensible and characteristic. Methought, how-
ever, the good yeoman was not quite so natural as he
may have been at an earlier period. The simplicity
of his character has probably suffered by his detect-
ing the impression he makes on those around him.
There is a circle, I suppose, who look up to him as
an oracle; and so he inevitably assumes the oracular
manner, and speaks as if truth and wisdom were ut-
tering themselves by his voice. Mr. Emerson has

THE OLD MANSE. 291

risked the doing him much mischief by putting him
in print, — a trial which few persons can sustain
without losing their unconsciousness. But, after all,
a man gifted with thought and expression, whatever
his rank in life and his mode of uttering himself,
whether by pen or tongue, cannot be expected to go
through the world without finding himself out ; and
as all such self-discoveries are partial and imperfect,
they do more harm than good to the character. Mr.
Hosmer is more natural than ninety -nine men out of
a hundred, and is certainly a man of intellectual and
moral substance. It would be amusing to draw a
parallel between him and his admirer, — Mr. Emer-
son, the mystic, stretching his hand out of cloud-
land in vain search for something real; and the man
of sturdy sense, all whose ideas seem to be dug out of
his mind, hard and substantial, as he digs potatoes,
carrots, beets, and turnips out of the earth. Mr. Em-
erson is a great searcher for facts, but they seem to
melt away and become unsubstantial in his grasp."

" I find that my respect for clerical people, as such,
and my faith in the utility of their office, decrease
daily. We certainly do need a new Eevelation, a
new system ; for there seems to be no life in the old
one.

"Mr. Thoreau dined with us. He is a singular
character, — a young man with much of wild, original
nature still remaining in him; and so far as he is
sophisticated, it is in a way and method of his own.
He is as ugly as sin, long-nosed, queer-mouthed, and

292 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

with uncouth and somewhat rustic, though courteous
manners, corresponding very well with such an exte-
rior. But his ugliness is of an honest and agreeable
fashion, and becomes him much better than beauty.
He was educated, I believe, at Cambridge, and for-
merly kept school in the town ; but, for two or three
years back, he has repudiated all regular modes of
getting a living, and seems inclined to live a sort of
Indian life, — I mean, as respects the absence of any
systematic effort for a livelihood. He has been for
some time an inmate of Mr. Emerson's family, and, in
requital, he labors in the garden, and performs such
other offices as may suit him, being entertained by
Mr. Emerson for the sake of what true manhood may
be in him. He says that Ellery Channing is coming
back to Concord, and that he (Mr. Thoreau) has con-
cluded a bargain in his behalf for the hire of a small
house, with land, at $56 per year. 1 am rather glad
than otherwise; but Ellery, so far as he has been
developed to my observation, is but an imperfect sub-
stitute for Mr. Thoreau. Mr. Emerson, by the way,
seems to have suffered some inconvenience from his
experience of Mr. Thoreau as an inmate. It may well
be that such a sturdy, uncompromising person is fitter
to meet occasionally in the open air, than to have as
a permanent guest at table and fireside. He is to
leave Concord, and it is well on his own account ; for,
morally and intellectually, he does not seem to have
found the guiding clew."

"Ellery Channing is one of those qijeer and clever

TEE OLD MANSE. 293

young men, whom Mr. Emerson (that everlasting re-
jecter of all that is, and seeker for he knows not
what) is continually picking up by way of a genius.
EUery, it appears, looks upon his own verses as too
sacred to be sold for money. Prose he will sell to
the highest bidder; but measured feet and jingling
lines are not to be exchanged for gold, — which, in-
deed, is not very likely to be offered for them."

— These two letters were both written from Salem :

Makoh 12, 1843.
Deae Wife, — I found our mother tolerably well ;
and Louisa, I think, in especial good condition for her ;
and Elizabeth comfortable, only not quite thawed,
They speak of you and us with an evident sense that
we are very happy indeed ; and I can see that they are
convinced of my having found the very little wife that
God meant for me. I obey your injunctions, as well
as I can, in my deportment towards them ; and though
mild and amiable manners are foreign to my nature,
still I get along pretty well for a new beginner. In
short, they seem content with your husband, and I
am very certain of their respect and affiection for his
wife.

Take care of thy little self, I tell thee. I praise
Heaven for this snow and " slosh," because it will
prevent thee from scampering all about the city, as
otherwise thou wouldst infallibly have done. Lie
abed late, sleep during the day, go to bed seasonably,
refuse to see thy best friend if either flesh or bipod

294 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

be sensible of the slightest repugnance, drive all
trouble from thy mind, and, above all things, think
continually what an admirable husband thou hast !

Mr. Upham, it is said, has resigned his pastorship.
When he returned from Concord he told the most
pitiable stories about our poverty and misery, so as
almost to make it appear that we were suffering for
food. Everybody that speaks to me seems tacitly to
take it for granted that we are in a very desperate
condition, and that a government office is the only
alternative of the almshouse. I care not for tha
reputation of being wealthier than I am ; but we
never have been quite paupers, and need not have
been represented as such.

Now, good-by. I thank God above all things that
thou art my wife. Nobody but we ever knew what
it is to be married. If other people knew it, this
dull old earth would have a perpetual glory round
about it.

— Hawthorne's debts, at this most impoverished
period of his life, were of a ridiculously small amount,
— not more than a popular magazine writer of the
present day could work off by a few days' labor. But
magazine prices were not at that time what they are
now ; and it was by no means unusual for contribu-
tors (and especially for Hawthorne) to be left with-
out any remuneration whatever. Indeed, had this not
been the case, the butcher and the grocer who had
Nathaniel- Hawthorne's. name upon their books would

THE OLD MANSE. 295

never have had to wait for their money; for he never
spent until after he had earned. However, these
indispensable personages were all enabled to receipt
their bills before their customer left Concord; and
so everybody was made happy.

His next visit to his mother's home was made in
the winter of 1844.

Salem, Dec. 20, 1844.

Sweetest Phcebe, — It will be a week to-morrow
since I left you. Our mother and sisters were re-
joiced to see me, and wish me to stay here till after
Christmas, which I think is next Wednesday ; but I
care little for festivals. My only festival is when
I have you. But I suppose we shall not get home
before the last of next week. If I had not known it
before, I should have been taught by this separation
that the only real life is to be with, you, and to share
all things, good or evil, with you. The time spent
away from you is unsubstantial, — > there is nothing
in it ; and yet it has done me good, in making me
more conscious of this truth.

Give Una a kiss, and her father's blessing. She is
very famous in Salem. We miss you and her greatly"
here in Castle Dismal. Louisa complains of the
silence of the house ; and not all their innumerable
cats avail to comfort them in the least. When Una
and three or four or five other children are grown up
and married off, you will have a little leisiire, and
may paint that Grecian picture which used to haunt
your fancy. But then our grandchildren — Una's

296 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

children and those of the others —^ will be coming
upon the stage. In short, after a woman has become
a mother, she may find rest in heaven, but nowhere
else. I have been much affected by a little shoe of
Una's, which I found on the floor. Does she walk
well yet ? YouE Husband.

— There has been a good deal of speculation as to
the precise nature of the episode which Hawthorne
used, nine years later, to give color to the culmi-
nating scene of the " Blithedale" tragedy. I tlierefore
print the record of it here, as it stands in his journal ;
anld it shall conclude this chapter. The date, it will
be noticed, is that of the first anniversary of his
marriage.

" On the night of July 9, 1843, a search for the
dead body of a drowned girl. She was about nine-
teen years old ; a girl of education and refinement,
but depressed and miserable for want of sympathy, —
her family being an affectionate one, but uncultivated,
and incapable of responding to her demands. She
was of a melancholic temperament, accustomed to
solitary walks in the woods. At this time she had
the superintendence of one of the district schools,
comprising sixty scholars, particularly difficult of
management. Well, Ellery Channing knocked at the
door, between nine and ten in the evening, in order
to get my boat to go in search of the girl's drowned
body. He took the oars, and I the paddle, and we
went rapidly down the river, until, a good distance

THE OLD MANSE. 297

below the bridge, we saw lights ou the bank, and the
dim figures of a number of people waiting for us.
Her bonnet and shoes had already been found on this
spot, and her handkerchief, I believe, on the edge of
the water ; so that the body was probably at no great
distance, unless the current (which is gentle and
almost imperceptible) had swept her down.

"We took in General Buttrick, and a young man
in a blue frock, and commenced the search ; the Gen-
eral and the other man having long poles, with hooks
at the end, and Ellery a hay-rake, while I steered the
boat. It was a very eligible place to drown one's
self On the verge of the river there were water-
weeds ; but after a few steps the bank goes off very
abruptly, and the water speedily becomes fifteen or
twenty feet deep. It must be one of the deepest
spots in the whole river ; and, holding a lantern over
it, it was black as midnight, smooth, impenetrable,
and keeping its secrets from the eye as perfectly as
mid-ocean would. We caused the boat to float once
or twice past the spot where the bonnet, etc., had
been found, carefully searching the bottom at dif-
ferent distances from the shore, but for a considerar
ble time without success. Once or twice the pole
or the rake caught in bunches of water-weed, which
in the starlight looked like garments ; and once
Ellery and the General struck some substance at the
bottom, which they at first mistook for the body,
but it was probably a sod that had rolled in from the
bank. All this time, the persons on the bank were

298 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

anxiously waitiAg, and sometimes giving us their ad-
vice to search higher or lower, or at such and such
a point. I now paddled the boat again past the
point where she was supposed to have entered the
river, and then turned it, so as to let it float broad-
side downwards, about midway from bank to bank.
The young fellow in the blue frock sat on the next
seat to me, plying his long pole.

" We had drifted a little distance below the group
of men on the bank, when the fellow gave a sudden
start. ' What 's this ? ' cried he. I felt in a moment
what it was ; and I suppose the same electric shock
went through everybody in the boat. 'Yes; I've
got her ! ' said he ; and, heaving up his pole with
difficulty, there was an appearance of light gar-
ments on the surface of the water. He made a strong
effort, and brought so much of the body above the
surface that there could be no doubt about it. He
drew her towards the boat, grasped her arm or hand,
and I steered the boat to the bank, all the while
looking at the dead girl, whose limbs were swaying
in the watei", close at the boat's side. The fellow
evidently had the same sort of feeling in his success
as if he had caught a particularly fine fish, though
mingled, no doubt, with horror. For my own part,
I felt my voice tremble a little, when I spoke, at the
first shock of the discovery, and at seeing the body
come to the surface, dimly, in the starlight. When
close to the bank, some of the men stepped into the
water and drew out the body; and then, by their

THE OLD MANSE. 299

lanterns, I could see how rigid it was. There was
nothing flexible about it ; she did not droop over the
arms of those who supported her, with her hair
hanging down, as a painter would have represented
her, but was all as stiff as marble. And it was evi-
dent that her wet garments covered limbs perfectly
inflexible. They took her out of the water and
deposited her under an oais-tree ; and by the time
we had got ashore, they were examining her by the
light of two or three lanterns.

" I never saw or imagined a spectacle of such per-
fect horror. The rigidity, above spoken of, was
dreadful to behold. Her arms had stifiened in the
act of struggling, and were bent before her, with
the hands clenched. She was the very image of a
death-agony J and when the men tried to compose
her figure, her arms would still return to that same
position; indeed, it was almost impossible to force
them out of it for an instant. One of the men put
his foot upon her arm, for the purpose of reducing
it by her side ; but in a moment it rose again. The
lower part of the body had stiffened into a more quiet
attitude ; the legs were slightly bent, and the feet
close together. But that rigidity ! — it is impossible
to express the effect of it ; it seemed as if she would
keep the same position in the grave, and that her
skeleton would keep it too, and that when she rose
at the Day of Judgment, it would be in the same
attitude.

" As soon as she was taken out of the water, the

300 HAWTUORNE AND HIS WIFE.

blood began to stream from her nose. Something
seemed to have injured the eye ; perhaps it was the
pole when it first struck the body. The complexion
was a dark red, almost purple ; the hands were white,
with= the same rigidity in their clench as in all the
rest of the body. Two of the men got water and
began to wash away the blood from her face ; but it
flowed and flowed, and continued to flow ; and an old
carpenter, who seemed to be skilful in such matters,
said that this was always the case, and that she
would continue to ' purge,' as he called it, until her
burial, I believe. He said, too, that the body would
swell, by morning, so that nobody would know her.
Let it take what change it might, it could scarcely
look more horrible than it did now, in its rigidity;
certainly she did not look as if she had gotten grace
in the world whither she had precipitated herself
but rather, her stiffened death-agony was an emblem
of inflexible judgment pronounced upon her. If she
could have foreseen, while she stood, at five o'clock
that morning, on the bank of the river, how hei
maiden corpse would have looked, eighteen hour?
afterwards, and how coarse men would strive with
hand and foot to reduce it to a decent aspect, and
all in vain, — it would surely have saved her from
the deed. So horribly did she look, that a middle-
aged man, David Buttrick, absolutely fainted away,
and was found lying on the grass at a little distance,
perfectly insensible. It required much rubbing of
hands and limbs to restore him.

THE OLD MANSE. 301

" Meantime General Buttrick had gone to give
notice to the family that the body was found ; and
others had gone in search of rails, to make a bier.
Another boat now arrived, and added two or three
more horror-struck spectators. There was a dog with
them, who looked at the body ; as it seemed to me,
with pretty much the same feelings as the rest of
us, — horror and curiosity. A young brother of the
deceased, apparently about twelve or fourteen years
old, had been on the spot from the beginning. He
Seemed not much moved, externally ; but answered
questions about his sister, and the number of the
brothers and sisters (ten in all), with composure.
No doubt, however, he was stunned and bewildered
by the scene, — to see his sister lying there, in such
terrific guise, at midnight, under an oak, on the
verge of the black river, with strangers clustering
about her, holding their lanterns over her face ; and
that old carpenter washing the blood away, which
still flowed forth, though from a frozen fountain.
Never was there a wilder scene. All the while, we
were talking about the circumstances, and about an
inquest, and whether or no it were necessaiy, and of
how many it should consist ; and the old carpenter-
was talking of dead people, and how he would as
lief handle them as living ones.

"By this time two rails had been procured, across
which were laid some boards or broken oars from the
bottom of the boat ; and the body, being wrapt in an
old quilt, was laid upon this rude bier. All of us

302 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

took part in tearing the corpse or in steadying it.
Prom the bank of the river to her father's house was
nearly half a mile of pasture-ground, on the ascent
of a hill ; and our burden grew very heavy before
we reached the door. What a midnight procession
it was! How strange and fearful it would have
seemed if it could have been foretold, a day before-
hand, that I should help carry a dead body along
that track ! At last we reached the door, where
appeared an old gray-haired man, holding a light;
he said nothing, seemed calm, and after the body was
laid upon a large table, in what seemed to be the
kitchen, the old man disappeared. This was tlie
grandfather. Good Mrs. Pratt was in the room, hav-
ing been sent for to assist in laying out the body,
but she seemed wholly at a loss how to proceed;
and no wonder, — for it was an absurd idea to think
of composing that rigidly distorted figure into the
decent quiet of the coffin. A Mrs. Lee had likewise
been summoned, and shortly appeared, — a withered,
skin-and-bone-looking woman ; but she too, though a
woman of skill, was in despair at the job, and con-
fessed her ignorance how to set about it. Whether
the poor girl did finally get laid out, I know not ;
but can scarcely think it possible. I have since been
told that on stripping the body they found a strong
cord wound round the waist and drawn tight, — for
what purpose is impossible to guess.

" ' Ah, poor child ! ' — that was the exclamation of
an elderly man, as he helped draw her out of the

THE OLD MANSE. 303

water. I suppose one friend would have saved her;
but she died for want of sympathy, — a severe pen-
alty for having cultivated and refined herself out of
the sphere of her natural connections.

" She is said to have gone down to the river at five
in -the morning, and to have been seen walking to
and fro on the bank, so late as seven, — there being
all that space of final struggle with her misery.
She left a diary, which is said to exhibit (as her
whole life did) many high and remarkable traits.
The idea of suicide was not a new one with her ; she
had before attempted it, walking up to her chin in
the water, but coming back again, in compassion to
the agony of a sister who stood on the bank. She ap-
pears to have been religious and of a high morality.

" The reason, probably, that the body remained so
near the spot where she drowned herself, was that
it had sunk to the bottom of perhaps the deepest
spot in the river, and so was out of the action of the
curreiit."

304 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFIS.

CHAPTER Vn.

SALEM.

FoUE years in his native town of Salem succeeded
Hawthorne's four years' residence in Concord. The
period is externally definable as that in which he
held the post of Surveyor in the Salem Custom
House, and wrote " The Scarlet Letter." In its more
interior aspect it was a season of ripened manhood,
of domestic happiness and sorrow, of the bringing-
up of children, of the broadening and deepening of
character. The country was exchanged for the town ;
and something symbolical, perhaps, may be divined
in the change. The man was made to feel, more
intimately than heretofore, the strength and beauty
of human sympathies ; and the lovely experience of
married happiness which he enjoyed, raised him to a
moral standpoint from which he was enabled clearly
to discern and state the nature and consequences of
unfaithfulness, which form the theme of his memo-
rable Romance.

The Hawthornes occupied, in succession, three
houses during their Salem residence. The first was
the old family mansion in Herbert Street, where
they had for fellow-inmates Madame Hawthorne

SALEM. 305

and the two sisters, Elizabeth and Louisa. This
proved inconvenient ; and they afterwards rented, for
a short time, a house in Chestnut Street. Their
third and final abode was in Mall Street; and here
there was room enough for the accommodation of
Hawthorne's mother and sisters in a separate part
of the house, so that the two families were enabled
to carry on their respective existences with no fur-
ther contact than might be voluntary on their pait
It was in this house that Madame Hawthorne died ;
and not long after that event, Hawthorne, no lon-
ger one of the obscurest men of letters in America,
but the author of one of America's most famous
novels, removed to Lenox, in the county of Berkshire,
Massachusetts.

The Salem letters and journals which constitute
the bulk of this chapter are full of references to
Hawthorne's children, — to the daughter, Una, born
in Concord, and to the son, Julian, who came into the
world two years later. Some of these references the
biographer has thought fit to retain. A human being
before he or she becomes a self-conscious individual
possesses a certain charm which every humane person
acknowledges; for the very reason that it is a natural
and spontaneous charm, instead of being the result of
character. There is something universal in it; the
doings and sayings of a child, so far as they are
childlike, are the doings and sayings of all children.
The consideration which has weight in the present
instance, however, is by no means the value to the
VOL I. 20

306 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

biography of the children themselves. That could, at
best, be but very small ; it would be limited to such
reflection of the parents' characteristics as might be
perceived or imagined in the offspring. But the atti=
tude of the father and mother towards their children,
the manner of their dealings with them, and the
calling-forth in the former of traits and phases of
nature and character which are manifested only in
response to the children's demand, — these are con-
siderations which no biographer can afford to neglect;
on the contrary, he may deem himself fortunate
when he finds such material at hand. Moreover,
Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife so merged their
own personal aims and desires in the welfare
and interests of their children, that it would be
impossible to give an intelligible picture of their
domestic career, were the children to be blotted out
of it.

The writer offers this explanation less out of a
desire to shield his own modesty than in order to
protect the vicarious delicacy and fastidiousness of
a certain class of readers ; and, in the hope that his
attempt has not been unsuccessful, will proceed with-
his narrative.

Early in the new year Mrs. Hawthorne wrote to
her mother: —

Salem, Herbert St., January, 1846.

. . . Una's force is immense. I am glad to see
such will, since there is also a fund of loveliness.
No one, I think, has a right to break the will of a

SALEM. 307

child, but God ; and if the child is taught to submit
to Him through love, all other submission will follow
with heavenly effect upon the character. God never
drives even the most desperate sinner, but only in-
vites or suggests througb the events of His provi-
dence. I remember my own wilfulness, and how I
used to think, when quite a child, that God was
gentle and never frowned upon me, and that I would
try more and more to be gentlfe to everybody in
gratitude to Him, though they were not gentle to me.
Una has her father's loveliness of nature, added to
what little I possessed ; and so I hope her task will
be less difficult.

I have made my husband a new writing-gown, —
one of those palm-leaf Moscow robes, — his old one
being a honeycomb of holes. He looks regal in it.
Purple and fine linen become him so much that I
cannot bear to see him tattered and torn. And now
I have almost arranged his wardrobe for a year to
come, so that he can begin all over new again. He
never lets me get tired. He arrests me the moment
before I do too much, and he is then immitigable;
and I cannot obtain grace to sew even an inch more,
even if an inch more would finish my work. I have
such rich experience of his wisdom in these things,
that whatever may be the inconvenience, I gratefully
submit.

We have not yet made any arrangements for the
summer. On many accounts it would be inconven-
ient to remain in this house. Madame Hawthorne

308 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and Louisa are too much out of health to take care of
a child, and I do not like to have Una in the con-
stant presence of unhealthy persons. We have never,
let her go into Madame Hawthorne's mysterious
chamber since November, partly on this account, and
partly because it is so much colder than the nursery,
and has no carpet on it. We cannot go to Boston to
live, for it would not suit my husband's arrange-
ments, and I would rather live in a tub than where
he is not. . . .

— One of the present biographer's earliest recol-
lections is of his father's palm-leaf dressing-gown, and
of the latter's habit of wiping his pen upon the red
flannel lining of it. At length his wife made a cloth
pen-wiper in the form of a butterfly, and surrepti-
tiously sewed it on in the blackest centre of the
ink-stains, much to Mr. Hawthorne's gratification and
amusement. Here is another letter, bearing date
March 22, 1846: —

Dearest Mother, — I am glad you approve
of our plan of a temporary residence in Boston.
There is only one solitary drawback, and this is the
occasional absence of my husband, should he enter
his official station before we return to Salem. But
he will only be absent in the morning, so that I shall
see him as much as now. As for Una, she will throw
a light on the sunshine for you this summer. Every
day she has greater command of expression. Of late,

SALEM. 309

a nice sense of propriety has found utterance in her.
Last evening, after I had been picking down the wick
of a lighted lamp, she said with the most tender and
protecting air, " Has oo burned oosef, mamma ? Oo -
must take tare and not burn oosef, betause it is
not proper to bum oosef." At table she says, "A
little water, if oo please, papa; and be tareful not
spill, betause it is not proper to spill water on the
tloth, papa."

— The appointment to the "ofi&cial station" came
the next day. ,

March 23.

This morning we had authentic intelligence that
my husband is nominated, by the President himself,
for Surveyor of the Custom House. It is now cer-
tain, and so I tell it to you. Governor Fairfield wrote
the letter himself. The salary is twelve hundred
dollars.

Will you ask father to go to Earle's and order for
Mr. Hawthorne a suit of clothes : the coat to be of
broadcloth, of six or seven dollars a yard ; the panta-
loons of kerseymere or broadcloth of quality to cor-
respond ; and the vest of satin, — all to be black ?

— An inscrutable destiny had decreed that Mr.
Hawthorne's next child should be born in Boston, and
accordingly the summer and autumn of this year
were spent in a house in Carver Street in that city.
Afterwards the family went back to Salem, and lived

310 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

awhile in the Chestnut Street dwelling. Towards th&
beginning of the winter Mrs. Hawthorne wrote : —

Salem, Nov. 17, 1846.

. . . My husband sees the actual bearings of
things with wonderful precision, though some w^ould
suppose him "of imagination all compact." But
those of whom Shakspeare spoke were probably as
many-sided as Mr. Hawthorne ; for people who fail
in imagination are apologies for men, like the poor
wronged horses with side-blinders. If 1 had a
hundred thousand of the dead Dudley L. Pickman's
fifteen hundred thousand dollars, I would do several
things for my friends. But instead of a hundred
thousand dollars, we shall not have a cent over our
expenses this year, both because we had to spend
more in Boston, and because Custom House fees have
been unusually small this summer, and government
is abominably remiss in paying the "'constructed,
fees " due the officers.

As to Baby, his cheeks, eyes, and limbs affirm enor-
mous well-being. He weighs twenty-three pounds,
which is within two pounds of Una's weight when
she was eighteen months old, — and he is not quite,
five months old. His mighty physique is not all
fat, but he is modelled on a great plan in respect to
his frame. Una looks like a fairy golden-hair be-
side him : she is opaline in lustre and delicacy.

I wish you would tell Mr. Cheney that Mr. Haw-
thorne was never so handsome as now, and he must
come directly and draw him.

SALEM. 311

Yesterday we went to Mrs. Forrester's to see an
old book once belonging to our distinguished ances-
tor William Hathorne, 1634. Eacbel Forrester is
making out a genealogical tree of the Hawthorne
race. In the evening my husband and I spent an
hour and a half at Mr. Howes', with Mr. Emerson ;
while Louisa Hawthorne and Dora kept watch here.
It is the first time we have spent the evening out
since Una was born. . . .

— Here is a passage which throws light upon Mr.
Hawthorne's taste in the matter of female attire : —

April 23, 1847.

. . . The dark purple mousseline which I wore
in Boston I have had to give up ; for my husband all
at once protested that he could not see me in it any
longer, and that he hated it beyond all endurance.
He begged me to give it to Dora and to pay her for
accepting it! Dora made it, you know, and admired
it exceedingly, and needed it very much, and was
made quite happy by possessing it. I only regret it
because a certain beloved Fairy sent it to me from
Fairy Land ; but this is a secret, and you must not
ask me any questions about it. Mr. Hawthorne does
not like to see me wear dark materials, and he is
truly contented only when I shine in silk.

We have not a house yet. That house in Bridge
Street is unattainable. We may have to stay here
during the summer, after all. Birds do visit our
trees in Chestnut Street, and Una talks incessantly

312 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

about flowers, birds, and fields. She is a perfect lit-
tle Idyl of the Spring, — a Pastoral Song. . . .

— The new house was not discovered until six oi
seven months later ; but its suitableness, when found,
seems to have compensated for the delay. The men-
tion of the study (in Mrs. Hawthorne's subjoined
description of it) suggests the remark that Haw-
thorne did a good deal of literary work in Salem in
addition to "The Scarlet Letter." It was in the
Mall Street house that " The Snow Image " and
some of the other tales included in the volume bear-
ing that title, were written. Still, the productiveness
of these years is not to be compared with that of the
period following the publication of his first great
Eomance.

Salem, Sept. 10, 1847.

How glad you will be, dear mother, to hear that
we are to have the Mall Street house, and for $200 !
We shall move this month, and Una will have the
splendid October to live out of doors on a smiling
earth. There could not be anything more convenient
for us in almost all respects. The middle parlor I
am going to live in, because it will save going up
and down stairs, both for me and my handmaiden,
who will be close at hand in her kitchen across the
entry ; and because it will save much wood to have
no separate nursery, and because there is no other
room for a nursery unless I take the drawing-room
or the guest-chamber in the third story. The little

SALEM. 313

room next the parlor will hold all the rubbish of a
nursery, so that I can keep the parlor very nice, —
and this parlor overlooks the yard and garden, so
that I can watch Una all the time she is out of doors.
Our chamber is to be the room I have named the
drawing-room, because it will be so mightily con-
venient to have all on one floor. The house is single
in depth, and so we shall bask in sunshine all the
winter. The children will have a grand race-course
on rainy days from the end of the chamber to the
end of the pantry. My husband's study will be high
from all noise, and it will be to me a Paradise of
Peace to think of him alone and still, yet within my
reach. He has now lived in the nursery a year
without a chance for one hour's uninterrupted
musing, and without his desk being once opened !
He — the heaven-gifted Seer — to spend his life be-
tween the Custom House and the nursery ! I want
him to be with me, not because he must be, but only
when he is just in the mood for all the scenes of
Babydom. In the evening he is always mine, for
then he never wishes to write.

By this arrangement I expect to have a very easy
time, and also to have some Time. Our drawing-
room will be above the chamber ; but it will be, at
present, unfurnished, because we have nothing to put
into it, and cannot now afford to buy any furniture.
I wish we could chance to get furniture as cheaply
as Mary did at some auction, yet so pretty and new.
But we cannot get any now.

314 HAWTHORNE AND HTS WIFE.

It will be very pleasant to have Madame Haw-
thorne in the house. Her suite of rooms is wholly
distinct from ours, so that we shall only meet when
we choose to do so. There are very few people in
the world whom I should like or would consent to
have in the house even in this way; but Madame
Hawthorne is so uninterfering, of so much delicacy,
that I shall never know she is near excepting when I
wish it ; and she has so much kindness and sense and
spirit that she wiU be a great resource in emergencies.
Elizabeth is an invisible entity. I have seen her but
once in two years ; and Louisa never intrudes. Be-
ing responsible persons, also, I can leave one of the
children with them, when I take the other out to
walk ; and it is barely possible that I may take a real
walk with my husband again while in the body,
and leave both children at home with an easy mind.
It is no small satisfaction to know that Mrs. Haw-
thorne's remainder of life will be glorified by the
presence of these children and of her own son. I am
so glad to win her out of that Castle Dismal, and from
the mysterious chamber into which no mortal ever
peeped, tilltJna was born, and Julian, — for they alone
have entered the penetralia. Into that chamber the
sun never shines. Into these rooms in Mall Street it
blazes without stint. . . . Sophia.

~ In picturesque contrast with the matter-of-fact
conditions of existence in the old New England
town, is the following picture of Italy, from the pen

SALEM. 315

of George William Curtis, which had reached them
during the summer, and which is too pleasant and
characteristic to be omitted.

Salerno, May 4, 1847.
My dear Friend, —Yesterday T went to Ptestum,
and had a Grecian day. When I am at beautiful
places here in Italy, I am attended by troops of in-
visible friends, and all day yesterday I was thinking
of you ; so while the Mediterranean rolls and plunges
under my window in this little town below Naples,
I can look upon tlie dim, dark line, fancy you upon
the other shore, and send this shout across, which, in
telling you of the rare delight which I experienced
yesterday, will tell you how constantly you are re-
membered in a country which is only more beautiful
with every new day.

I left Naples with Burril and two other young art-
ists last Friday, for an excursion of some two or three
weeks among the mountains upon the seashore, where
Salvator Eosa studied, and in whose magnificent
heights and ravines and arching rocks, through which
the sea sleeps far away, the eye constantly detects
the kindred of the bold landscapes it has admired
of that most picturesque of picture-makers. Intri-
cate mountain paths wind over these ravines, in
whose bases, as at home, foam and gurgle silver swift
streams, and whose opening vista is broad and calm
upon steep pointed hills, whose highest summits are
square with convents and castles. Along these paths
creep the dark-haired, gypsy-like women, bearing

316 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

burdens upon their heads, so heavy that I cannot lift
them. These weights must injure the brain, so that
whole races deteriorate. The toiling processions
pause at the small square stone shrines of the Ma-
donna ; and some lay a few flowers gathered from the
mountain-side before the mild-featured portrait of the
Virgin, others fall upon their knees and say an Ave
Maria; the men raise their hats as they pass, and
the half-conscious expression of reliance upon and
relations with an unseen beauty and bounty is very
beautiful. The Italians are too poetic a people to
acknowledge or enjoy a religion which is not alto-
gether picturesque and impressive to the imagination.
And how much the Catholic Church is so, one does
not realize until he sits here in the very spray of
the fountain.

The mountains are a continual succession of nests,
like those in Northwestern Massachusetts, and the
town where we were lies on a plain as fertile as the
Connecticut banks, with a green of spring more lus-
trous and intense than we see in New England.
From the little town of Cava we came here on Sun-
day morning, riding upon a road which is scooped
out of a mountain which slopes into the sea, — for
the whole coast here is of that character. All day
Sunday I loitered along the shore ; and at daybreak
yesterday morning we were off for Paestum, which is
some twenty-five miles south of Salerno. We drove
over a wide plain between the mountains and the
sea, which as we came into Calabria was very gloomy

SALEM. 317

and dreary. At first there were a few vineyards, ar-
ranged differently from those in Tuscany. There the
vines are trained over short yawning-boughed trees ;
here they are festooned in long garlands from tree to
tree. We reached Psestum about nine o'clock. It
was one of the oldest Italian cities known to history.
Augustus visited its remains as antiquities ; and the
three temples were long forgotten, buried alive in
the desolation of the country, until they were dis-
covered, a century since, by a young Neapolitan
artist. They are near the great road and in plain
sight ; but the people around are so miserably igno-
rant and wretched, that they would be as much
interested and surprised by the mountains or the sea
as by structures which seemed coeval and of equal
majesty with them. The ancient town was always
unhealthy. Its walls were but two and a half miles
in circumference; and of the whole city only three
temples, an arched gateway, a few rods of grass-grown
wall, and some fragments of stone called an amphi-
theatre, alone remain. But the temples are the old-
est and most perfect ruins in Europe. Two of theni
stand side by side, the other an eighth of a mile dis-
tant. The middle one is called of Neptune, under
whose protection the city is supposed to have been,
and whose Grecian name it bore, — Poseidon. The
two others are called of Ceres, and a Basilica. The
temple and the arch are in the grandest and simplest
and purest taste ; I have never before seen buildings
which stood in a proper breadth and grandeur of

318 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

space. The sea lies a mile away over the plain ; on
the other side are stem mountains, their bases
smoothly green with the rounding tufts of olive
groves. The plain in many parts is uninhabitable
from the stagnant waters which breed the most
deadly miasmas. Yet it is matted around the tem-
ples with the rankest luxuriance of weeds and plants,
which lace and choke each other, covered with
the most profuse variety of deeply colored flowers.
Everywhere it is desolate and sad. A young man
who had been there for a few days gave me mournful
accounts of the poverty and misery of the people,
who are all beggars, and who contract horrible dis-
eases from the famine and malaria. In early June
the proprietors who own the land retire to the moun-
tains for the summer, leaving those who cannot
afford to go to the mercy of the deadly atmosphere
and the most griping want. All the children came
begging, with prematurely old faces, heavy, sick eyes,
and an unnatural prominence of the stomach which
was horrible. Two little girls moaned to me, one of
whom had only a battered nightgown and a heavy
woollen wrapper to protect her head and body from
the sun, which yesterday, in the first days of May,
was very intense. I saw several children eating a
root which looked and smelt like a rank weed ; and
I realized the misery of Ireland, except that there
are thousands, and here a few dozens. Droves of
cattle and flocks of sheep and goats passed silently
and heavily by, followed by the taciturn, wondering

SALEM. 319

peasant, who stopped and looked curiously upon the
strangers ; and in the late afternoon an old beggar
sat under the arch of the gateway, and displayed a
picture of the Blessed Mary, in whose name he gasped
for charity.

We lingered the whole day among the ruins, in
the temples, or lying a little way from them on beds
of the most honey-breathed clover, which made the
air sweet enough for all the gorgeous blossoms that
hung and nodded among it. I have never seen any
building so exquisite as the Temple of Neptune. It
is like a strain of music ; and the satisfaction in look-
ing upon it was complete and rapturous, like that of
seeing finest flowers and pictures and sunsets and
fruits and statues. It stands so firm and free in the
air, an unimpaired witness of the Grecian grandeur
in art. I have not seen anything that inspired in me
more reverence for human genius ; and I could well
fancy that Time would not prey upon a form so deli-
cately perfect, which draws upon the flowery plain,
midway between the mountains and the sea, lines as
aerial as their own. It defies Nature and her wither-
ing years. Birds were singing in and around it, and
wheeling above it in long sweeping lines, which
seemed transfixed in the temple's flowing grace. We
must feel that the Greeks are yet our masters, in
those arts and aims which are still the best; and
could you have seen that temple in the sunny silence
of the fresh May morning, I am sure that you would
have thrilled with the consciousness that your ideas

320 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

of Grecian grace and culture were buds only, when
measured by this flower.

Paestum was famous in history and poetry for its
roses, and I plucked a few buds, which I hope will
be well enough preserved for me to offer Mrs. Haw-
thorne when I return to America. But how return
from a life which is so constantly new and charming ?
I left Rome three weeks since, only comforted because
I promised myself to return, and found Naples sunny
and sauntering, quite as beautiful although so differ-
ent, — having no association to interest, but spacious
and sunny, with an unending series of pictures upon
its bay ; for the bay of Naples is as beautiful as its
fame. Its lines are long and grand, — mountain and
sea lines; and you have lived too long upon the
seashore not to know that it is dower enough for
any situation. Naples is a lazy Italian Paris upon
these sunny shores. There is a great appearance
of business, but it is only the bustle of laziness
riding to its enjoyment. Upon the shore the
streets are wide, and the Eoyal Villa or Promenade
stretches for half a mile upon the water, tastefully
and carefully arranged, with fine copies of the
noblest statues so placed under trees and among
flowers that their beauty is greater, and art is dig-
nified by their harmonious blending with the line
of the waves and clouds and trees. Handsome
women and children walk and play among the trees,
and it is by far the finest public walk I have seen
in Italy.

SALEM. 321

During the last part of my Eoman residence I be-
came much acquainted with and fascinated by a boy
of some nine or ten years, named John Eisley, M'ho
is an American, and who, with his father and younger
brother, has acquired great fame in Europe as a gym-
nast. They play at all the great theatres ; and while
I have often seen wonderful feats of strength and
skill, I have never seen any human motion, not ex-
cepting Fanny Ellsler's dancing, so flowingly graceful
as this boy's. I went constantly to see them, partic-
ularly him, in Eome, and could not resist knowing
him. We walked a great deal together. I saw him
constantly,and found him noble and affectionate, with
all the elements of the finest manly character. Whether
he will be such a man as he is boy, I doubt ; for his
father, although a perfect physical man, is not refined
or gentle, and necessarily has a great influence upon
my boy. During the tiine, too, I felt the full fasci-
nation of the heads of Antinous in the Vatican, and
realized the pure deep love he could have inspired.
I speak of Eisler because they return to America
during the summer, and after one tour through the
United States will retire from the stage; and I hoped
that Una might be old enough to realize her fairy
love in his beautiful motions. Margaret Fuller
reached Eome about a fortnight before 1 left. She
seems well, and it was very pleasant to hear her
stories of the famous men she has seen in France and
England, • — because I see no men and she sees them
always so well. I liked her more than I ever did.

roi.. I. 21

322 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

I hope to find her on my return to Eorae.if Southern
Italy does not charm us too long. Cranch, also, I left
in Eome. Did you know that he is a father of a
month's standing, and that his son bears my name ?
Mr. Emerson's poems have reached these benighted
shores ; but I find that he has published all the best,
except the " Threnody." Ellery Channing's I have
not seen. In the dearth of newspapers I gradually
drift away from all knowledge of what is going on
in the book way at home; but beyond the confines
of newspaper reading lie many good things. On
Vesuvius I saw the grandest daybreak and sunrise.
I go on no mountain-tops now without remembering
Wachusett. Pompeii, too, is unspeakably solemn
and imposing. We think at home that we know
something of these things, but it is only the imagina-
tion of mountain prospects from the valley below.
Ascend into this Italian heaven, and you shall find
all shackles of men and customs fall away like
clouds at sunrise. The want of the public opinion
which is the safeguard at home is the security of
satisfaction here.

Give much love to Mrs. Hawthorne and Una.

G. W. CUETIS.
Nath. Hawthorne, Esq., Salem, Mass.

— Life now went on smoothly for a time, from a
worldly as well as from a spiritual point of view. The
Surveyor's salary was sufficient unto the day, if not

SALEM. 323

unto the future ; and the surroundings were congenial.
Change of air is uniformly beneficial; and, after a
season in the rarefied atmosphere of Emerson and
Margaret Fuller, it was wholesome to seek temporary-
relaxation on the levels of ordinary humanity. Mrs.
Hawthorne writes (November, 1847) : —

". . . My husband began retiring to his study on
the 1st of November, and writes every afternoon.
Have you seen the most exquisite of reviews upon
' Evangeline,' — very short, but containing all ? Evan-
geline is certainly the highest production of Mr.
Longfellow.

" Julian was seventeen months old yesterday, and
walked to the Common on his little feet, with Dora,
while Una had gone to walk with her father. They
met, and I went to the gate and saw them returning
together, Julian taking hold of his father's and Una's
hands, and Una shining with joy at taking the first
walk with Julian. ' Oh, am I not happy ? I am, —
I am ! ' as the Peri sang when she opened Heaven's
gate with a tear ; (my husband says, ' That is, she
tore it open ! ') Julian idolizes his father, and will
not come to me when he is in the room. Una is full
of surprising stories. The other day she told one
about a little girl who was naughtier and naughtier,
and finally, as a culmination of wickedness, ' struck
God ! ' I could not help thinking how many people
' struck God.'

" We have been surprised by a visit from EUery
Channing. He stayed but two hours, and was as

324 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

entertaining and inexplicable as ever, making himself
welcome by his wonderful smile. He said that Mr.
Emerson had become a man of the world more, and
that he was not so easy of access as formerly/'

— About this time the family journal, begun in
Concord, seems to have turned up again ; but its pages
are now devoted almost exclusively to chronicling the
exploits of the two children. Hawthorne himself,
q^uite as often as his wife, acted the part of reporter ;
and it would be instructive to contrast the style and
the quality of the insight of the two observers. The
mother sees goodness and divinity shining through
everywhere ; the father's attitude is deductive and
moralizing. After following them through all the
vicissitudes of a day, for example, there comes this
passage : —

"Salem, J 0/ 8 o'clock, March, 1848. — I have just
been for a walk round Buffum's corner, and return-
ing, after some half an hour's absence, find Una
and Julian gone to bed. Thus ends the day of
these two children, — one of them four years old,
the other some months less than two. But the days
and the years melt away so rapidly that I hardly
know whether they are still little children at their
parents' knees, or already a maiden and a youth, a
woman and a man. This present life has hardly
substance and tangibility enough to be the image of
eternity. The future too soon becomes the present,
which, before we can grasp it, looks back upon us as
the past. It must, I think, be only the image of an

SALEM. 325

image. Our next state of existence, we may hope,
will be more real, — that is to say, it may be only
one remove from a reality. But, as yet, we dwell in
the shadow cast by time, which is itself the shadow
cast by eternity."

— During the ensuing summer Mrs. Hawthorne
made a visit of a few weeks to her mother in Boston,
taking the children with her; and while she was
away, her husband wrote her the two following
letters : —

Salem, Sukvbtoe's Office, June 19, 1848.

Only Belovedest, — I received thy letter, and
was as much refreshed by it as if it had been a
draught of ice-water, — a rather inapt comparison, by
the way. Thou canst not imagine how lonely our
house is. I wish, some time or other, thou wouldest
let me take the two children and go away for a few
days, and thou remain behind. Otherwise thou canst
have no idea of what it is. And after all, there is a
strange bliss in being made sensible of the happiness
of my customary life by this blank interval.

Tell my little daughter Una that her dolly, since
her departure, has been blooming like a rose, — such
an intense bloom, indeed, that I rather suspected her
of making free with a brandy- bottle. On taxing her
with it, however, she showed no signs of guilt or con-
fusion, and I trust it was owing merely to the hot
weather. The color has now subsided into quite a
moderate tint, and she looks splendidly at a proper
distance, though, on close inspection, her skin appears

326 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

rather coarse. She has contracted an unfortunate
habit of squinting, and her mouth, I am sorry to say,
is somewhat askew. I shall take her to task on these
matters, and hope to produce a reformation. Should
I fail, thou must take her in hand. Give Una a kiss,
and tell her I love her dearly.

Thine ownest Husband.

Salem, July 5, 1848.

Unspeakably Belovedest, — Thy letter has just
been handed to me. It was most comfortable to me,
because it gives such a picture of thy life with the
children. I could see the whole family of my heart be-
fore my eyes, and could hear you all talking together.

I went to town, and got home here between eleven
and twelve o'clock at night. I went into the little
room to put on my linen coat, and, on my return to
the sitting-room, behold ! a stranger there, — whom
dost thou think it might be ? — it was my sister
Elizabeth ! I did not wish to risk frightening her
away by anything like an exhibition of wonder; and
so we greeted each other kindly and cordially, but
with no more empressement than if we were constantly
-in the habit of meeting. It being so late, and I so
tired, we did not have much talk then ; but she said
she meant to go to walk this afternoon, and asked
me to go with her, which I promised to do. Perhaps
she will now make it her habit to come down and
see us occasionally in the evening.

The other night, I dreamt that I was at Newton,

SALEM. 327

in a room with tliee and with several other people ;
and thou tookst occasion to announce that thou hadst
now ceased to be my wife, and hadst taken another
husband. Thou madest this intelligence known with
such perfect composure and sang-froid, — not particu-
larly addressing me, but the company generally, — that
it benumbed my thoughts and feelings, so that I had
nothing to say. But, hereupon, some woman who
was there present, informed the company that, in this
state of affairs, having ceased to be thy husband, I
had become hers, and, turning to me, very coolly
inquired whether she or I should write to inform my
mother of the new arrangement ! How the children
were to be divided, I know not. I only know that
my heart suddenly broke loose, and I began to ex-
postulate with thee in an infinite agony, in the midst
of which I awoke. But the sense of unspeakable
injury and outrage hung about me for a long time,
and even yet it has not quite departed. Thou
shouldst not behave so when thou comest to me in
dreams.

Oh, Phoebe, I want thee much. Thou art the only
person in the world that ever was necessary to me.
Other people have occasionally been more or less
agreeable ; but I think I was always more at ease
alone than in anybody's company, till I knew thee.
And now I am only myself when thou art within my
reach. Thou art an unspeakably beloved woman.
How couldst thou inflict such frozen agony upon me
in that dream ?

328 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

If I write any more, it would only be to express
more lovings and longings ; and as they are impos-
sible to express, I may as well close.

f Thy Husband.

-^ There is a tradition in the family that the ex-
traordinary seclusion of "Aunt Ebe," mentioned above,
was due to the following grievous misunderstanding.
Una had been in the habit of passing an hour or two
of each day in her aunt's room, the child being a
great favorite with that lady. On one occasion, how-
ever, when her mother was about sending her up
as usual, Una said, "T don't want to go to Aunt
Ebe any more ! " " Wliy not ? " her mother in-
quired. " Because," Una replied, " Aunt Ebe makes
me naughty. She gives me candy ; and when I tell
her you don't let me have candy, she says, ' Oh,
never mind ; your mother will never know ! ' " This
alarming report led to investigations and inquiries,
the upshot of which was a suspension of Una's visits,
and the total disappearance from mortal view of
Aunt Ebe. In process of time, however, the breach
was happily mended, as we have seen.

The next letter is to Una from her father, contain-
ing more news of the dolly previously mentioned.
It should, perhaps, be explained that the splendor
of dolly's complexion, and the other modifications
in her physiognomy, were the result of Mr. Haw-
thorne's practices upon her with his wife's palette and
brushes. He often used to amuse himself and the

SALEM. 329

children by painting little faces for tliem ; and it was
always his way to make the cheeks of these visages as
ruddy as vermilion would allow.

Salem, June 7, 1848.

My dear little Una, — I have been very much
pleased with the letters which you have sent me ;
and I am glad to find that you do not forget me, for
I think of you a great deal. I bring home a great
many beautiful flowers, — roses and poppies and lilies
and bluebells and pinks and many more besides, —
but it makes me feel sad to tliink that my little Una
cannot see them. Your dolly wants to see you very
much. She si!s up in my study all day long, and has
nobody to talk with. I try to make her as comfort-
able as I can, but she does not seem to be in very good
spirits. She has been quite good, and has grown very
pretty, since you went away. Aunt Louisa and Dora
are going to make her a new gown and a new bonnet.

I hope you are a good little girl, and are kind to
your little brother, and Horace, and Georgie, and tha
baby. You must not trouble mamma, but must do
all you can to help her.

Dora wishes to see you very much. So do Grand-
mamma and Aunt Ebe and Aunt Louisa. Aunt Ebe
and I went to walk together, a day or two ago, and
the rain came and wet us a little.

Do not you wish to come home and see me ? I
think we shall be very happy when you come, for
I am sure you will be a good little girl. Good-by.
Your affectionate Father.

330 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

— The summer and autumn passed away without
incident ; but there is a dim impression on the mind
of one of the children of having heard a story read
. to him about a certain miraculous snow image, which
he was, for a long time, firmly convinced that he and
his sister had made in their own yard. Be that as it
may, the subjoined letter shows that Hawthorne was
at work about something ; and " The Snow Image "
was among the results of his labor. It was first pub-
lished in a " Memorial Volume " to Mrs. Osgood, and
afterwards, I believe, was issued by itself with colored
illustrations. " Elizabeth's Book," spoken of below,
was brought out the next year, under the title of
".^Esthetic Papers." The article finally contributed
to it by Hawthorne was that called " Main Street."
The story alluded to in the first paragraph of his
letter was probably "Ethan Brand." It was too lurid
for Miss Peabody's sestheticism,

Salem, December, 1848.
My dear Mother, — I shall send with this letter
my husband's article for Elizabeth's book. What
is the name of the book? My husband says that
if this paper will not suit the book, he will make
some other use of it if you will send it back. He
wishes the note at the end of the manuscript to be
placed at the beginning of the printed text as a pref-
ace ; and he thinks it had better be upon a separate
fore-leaf. It is a tremendous truth, written, as he
often writes truth, with characters of fire, upon an

SALEM. 331

infinite gloom, — softened so as not wholly to terrify,
by divine touches of beauty, — revealing pictures of
nature, and also the tender spirit of a child.

What good news from France ! What a pleasant
surprise it must have been to that worthy Monsieur
who was imprisoned for a political offence and con-
demned to be executed, to find himself all at once
made Governor ! There seems to be a fine fresh air
in France just now, and I hope it will extend through
the atmosphere of Europe. It is a great day when
kings are, after all, found to be nothing but helpless
men as soon as the people feel them to be so ; and it
is very pretty when the people do not hurt the kings,
but merely make them run. Since Prince Metter-
nich has resigned, I conceive that monarchy is in its
decline.

Julian rides very far on his hobby-horse, — round
the whole earth, — and then dismounts, loaded down
with superb presents for us all, — for his father, golden
books, golden pens, golden horses, and all appropriate
gifts for a scholar and a gentleman ; for me, golden
work-baskets, golden needles, and such things. In
these golden dreams he reminds me of my brother
Wellington, who used to pour golden showers upon
his friends. He goes to Boston a great deal to see
you ; but I suppose you do not often perceive him.

— I find this allusion to "Main Street" and to
the "Esthetic"' volume in a letter from Mrs. Pea-
body to her daughter : —

332 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Boston, 1849.
My DEAR Sophy, — In our "Evening Traveller" is
a very excellent notice of Elizabeth's book by the
editor. Speaking of " Main Street," he says : " No
one but Hawthorne could have written it. It is
perfectly graphic. If there were an artist of genius
enough to transfer it to canvas, it would make a
panorama of inestimable worth." Miss Lucy Osgood
gave an oration about it in our book-room yesterday,
in her usual emphatic manner, declaring she never
was so charmed. We have good hope that the book
will sell, and those who have it are already express-
ing a wish to have another. One gentleman has
subscribed for three numbers of the next volume. If
this edition aU sells, she will make $400 clear. . . .

— The time was now approaching when a bit of
shrewd political manoeuvring on the part of persons
professing to be his friends was to oust Hawthorne
from the Surveyorship, and bring forth " The Scarlet
Letter." Meanwhile, from the pages of the family
journal, I extract the following curious study of the
children, — one out of many which he wrote there.

Salem, Jamuwy, 1849. — It is one of Una's charac-
teristics never to shut the door. Yet this does not
seem exactly to indicate a loose, harum-scarum dispo-
sition; for I think she is rather troubled by any want
of regularity in matters about her. She sometimes
puts the room in order, and sets things to rights.

SALEM. 333

very effectively. When she leaves anything loose, it
is owing to a hasty, headlong mood, intent upon the
end, and rushing._at once towards it. It is Julian's
characteristic, on the other hand, always to shut the
door, whatever hurry he may be in. It does not seem
to interfere with the settled purpose wherewith he
pursues his object, although, indeed, he is not so
strenuous in his purposes as Una; and it seems to
cost him little or no sacrifice of feeling to give them
up. "Well," he says benignly, after being reasoned
or remonstrated with, and turns joyfully to something
else. Nevertheless, he is patient of difficulties, and
unweariable in his efforts to accomplish his enter-
prises,— as, for instance, in building a house of blocks,
where he renews the structure again and again, how-
ever often it may tumble down, only smiling at each
new catastrophe; when Una would have blazed up
in a passion, and tossed her building materials to the
other side of the room. Her mother thinks that her
not shutting the door is owing to laziness. She has
a great fund of laziness, like most people who move
with an impetus.

Her beauty is the most flitting, transitory, most
uncertain and unaccountable affair, that ever had a
real existence; it beams out when nobody expects it;
it has mysteriously passed away when you think your-
self sure of it. If you glance sideways at her, you
perhaps think it is illuminating her face, but, turning
full round to enjoy it, it is gone again. When really
visible, it is rare and precious as the vision of an

334 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

angeL It is a transfiguration, — a grace, delicacy, or
ethereal fineness, — which at once, in my secret soul,
makes me give up all severe opinions that I may have
begun to form about her. It is but fair to conclude
that on these occasions we see her real soul. When
she seems less lovely, we merely see something ex-
ternal. But, in truth, one manifestation belongs to
her as much as another; for, before the establishment
of principles, what is character but the series and
succession of moods?

The sentiment of a picture, tale, or poem is sel-
dom lost upon her ; and when her feelings are thus
interested, she will not bear to have them interfered
with by any ludicrous remark or other discordance.
Yet she- has, often, a rhinoceros-armor against senti-
ment or tenderness ; you would think she were mar-
ble or adamant. It seems to me that, like many
sensitive people, her sensibilities are more readily
awakened by fiction than realities.

Julian and Una are now running to and fro across
the room. There never was a gait more expressive
of childish force and physical well-being than his;
no faintness, weakness, weariness, about it. Una has
vigor, too, but it is extremely dependent on the state
of her spirits or her nerves; and unless her mind be
right, she will be tired, perhaps, the moment she is
out of bed ; or, if there is anything to excite her, she
may be in the highest physical force after aU. the toils
of a weary day. Julian's vigor" is, in a much greater
degree, what is natural and proper to his body. . . .

SALEM. 335

— In the "English Note-Books," in 1855, Haw-
thorne wrote that he was much moved while reading
the manuscript of " The Scarlet Letter " to his wife.
" But I was then," he adds, " in a very nervous state,
having gone through a great diversity and severity of
emotion, while writing it." In fact, several calamities
befell at this time, as if in sinister atonement for the
quiet felicity of so many years. First of all, came
his unexpected official decapitation, and the conse-
quent necessity of concentrating his whole imagina-
tive energy upon his new book, — the success of which,
of course, he was very far from anticipating. The
obligation to write for one's bread is (for a sensitively
organized man, with a family dependent upon him)
likely to be productive of considerable anxiety of
mind; but these conditions were not, it appears, severe
enough by themselves for the birth of " The Scarlet
Letter." Midway in its composition, Madame Haw-
thorne was taken dangerously iU, — she was above
seventy years of age, — and, after a struggle of a few
weeks, she died. Domestic embarrassments, arising
from insufficient pecuniary means, followed ; and in
the autumn the entire household was prostrated by
illness, — Mr. Hawthorne's disease being an almost
intolerable attack of earache, lasting without in-
termission for several days, during which he was
obliged to take the whole charge of the children.
Matters might have become still worse, had not Miss
E. P. Peabody chanced to hear of the family's con-
dition ; when she immediately, at no small personal

336 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

loss and inconvenience, hastened to the scene of dis-
aster, and by her exertions succeeded in substantially
alleviating it. Such were the straits and turmoils
amidst which the most terse and concentrated Eo-
mance of that generation was conceived and writ-
ten ; but, despite all hindrances, moral and physical,
it was in the printer's hands within six months from
the time of its commencement.

Eegarding the political intrigue which turned Haw-
thorne out of his position, it is not necessary to say
much. A Mr. TJpham, whose name has already ap-
peared in these pages, and some other persons who
had always avowed the utmost friendly solicitude for
Hawthorne, drew up a petition praying that a certain
individual be appointed to a certain ofi&ce, namely,
the Salem Surveyorship ; and to this petition they
obtained the signatures of a number of men of Haw-
thorne's own party, by the simple device of sup-
pressing the fact that Hawthorne was himself the
incumbent of the Surveyorship in question. When
the truth came out, they protected themselves by cast-
ing reflections upon Hawthorne's political and even
upon his private character. One may smile, now, at
the final issue of all these evilly meant designs ; but
it is none the less refreshing to read such a letter as
this which Dr. Peabody wrote on the subject : —

Boston, June 12, 1849.
Dear Sophie, — Yours announcing a startling dis-
closure was received to-day about ten o'clock. I was

SALEM. 337

truly astonished. About the close of the session of
our Legislature, I was at the State House, and fell in
with Mr. Upham. I asked him if he thought Haw-
thorne would be turned out. He was quite cosey, and
said he thought nothing would be done about it. In
looking back upon the interview, I now have an im-
pression revived that there was a sort of mystification
in his manner. But what I now write for is to sug-
gest that nothing should be done hastily. That is, I
would collect all the evidence I could about the doc-
ument signed and sent on. If possible, I would get
the document, or get some one in Washington to pro-
cure it or inquire about it and see it, so that he could
make affidavit. After getting all the testimony, and
finding out all the names upon the paper, I would, if
the case will authorize it, commence a suit for dam-
ages. A false statement which deprives a man of his
living is a libel and an actionable offence. If I did
not do that, I would make the welkin ring, and expose
all the names connected with the affair. Mr. Haw-
thorne can defy the world to prove that he ever wrote
a political article : if I have a right impression, he
can defy them to prove that he ever cast a political
vote ; perhaps he has not voted in any case. He will
find Whigs enough to enlist in his cause, and it will
be nuts to politicians on his side to make capital out
of it. I should like to have Mr. Upham asked if he
prays nowadays, and what sort of a prayer he made
after he put his name to that document. I should
like to ask him if he ever heard of the Ninth Com-
TOt,. I. 22

338 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

mandment. Tell Mr. Hawthorne to be busy, but not
to fire till he gets his battery well manned and charged,
and then he will make a Buena Vista conquest.
With remembrances as due,

Your father, N. P.

— Six weeks later, Mrs. Peabody discourses on the
same subject in this manner : —

Boston, July 28, 1849.

My DEAR Sophy, — I hope a letter will come to-
day; I want to know how Madame Hawthorne is.
I feel as if her illness is of a kind to cause much
alarm. If you should leave Salem, I hope you will
find some cottage not far from Boston ; for, charming
as are sheltering trees and verdant fields, a literary
man has a wider scope for the exercise, or rather for
profit from the exercise, of his mind in the city than
in the country.

Miss Burley has just returned from Salem. She
was very desirous that your husband should come
out with the whole truth, at all risks and notwith-
standing all delicacies. She said she believed that it
was better for all, even for the criminals, that there
should be no hushings-up. We told her that we
believed Mr. Hawthorne would appeal in behalf of
his character next winter. She was earnest to
know if something could not be done by him earlier.
She said she never knew such things delayed with-
out becoming more complicated and giving rise to
more dif&culties. Mr. Upham might get possessed

SALEM. 33S»

of political power which he had no moral right to
have. Mr. Everett ought to be undeceived. Since
Mr. Hawthorne had publicly denied the first charges,
which were of things morally innocent, this acqui-
escence under more grave charges might seem, to
people at a distance, to imply confession. Mr. Haw-
thorne's reputation belonged to his country, and
ought not to be allowed to rest under any imputa-
tion. Eeputation was a subtle good, which did
not bear bad breath. You will know Miss Burley's
warm-hearted interest in all that concerns you ; but
your husband- will act according to his own sense of
right ; and there certainly was much weight in what
he said of the danger in which some of his friends in
office would be involved, by coming forward in his
cause, if he acted immediately relative to his removal.
You know in whom you trust, and will, I doubt
not, be guided by His wisdom and goodness. . . .

— In spite of Miss Burley, Hawthorne refused to
enter upon a vindication of his private character ; on
the contrary, he treated with imperturbable indif-
ference, not to say levity, all efforts to arouse him on
that score, both at this epoch and in similar cases
afterwards. Sometimes he would put off his ad-
visers with grotesque threats of the revenge he
proposed to take upon his enemies ; but the hardest
blow he ever actually dealt, in this kind, was to
introduce one of them as the leading character in a
certain Eomance of his. There he stands for all

340 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

time, — subtle, smooth, cruel, unscrupulous ; per-
fectly recognizable to all who knew his real char-
acter, but so modified as to outward guise that no
one who had met him merely as an acquaintance
would ever suspect his identity.

On the day he received the news of his discharge,
Hawthorne came home several hours earlier than
usual ; and when his wife expressed pleasure and
surprise at his prompt reappearance, he called her
attention to the fact that he had left his head behind
him. " Oh, then," exclaimed Mrs. Hawthorne, buoy-
antly, " you can write your book ! " for Hawthorne
had been bemoaning himself, for some time back, at
not having leisure to write down a story that had
long been weighing on his mind. He smiled, and
remarked that it would be agreeable to know where
their bread and rice were to come from while the
story was writing. But his wife was equal to the
occasion. Hawthorne had been in the habit of giving
her, out of his salary, a weekly sum for household
expenses ; and out of this she had every week con-
trived secretly to save something, until now there was
quite a large pile of gold in the drawer of her desk.
This drawer she forthwith with elation opened, and
triumphantly displayed to him the unsuspected treas-
ure. So he began "The Scarlet Letter" that after-
noon ; and blessed his stars, no doubt, for sending him
such a wife.

In July, Madame Hawthorne fell ill, and her
symptoms were such as to cause serious anxiety.

SALEM. 341

Her daughters were neither of them available as
nurses, and the duty of attending on her devolved,
therefore, exclusively on Mrs. Hawthorne. To her
husband, consequently, was left the charge of the
two children. As the latter required constant
supervision, the Eomance had to be practically
discontinued for the time. Day after day, throughout
the hot and sunny summer weather, Hawthorne sat
in the nursery, or stationed himself at the window
overlooking the yard, and watched them play and
prattle before him; settling their little disputes,
sympathizing with their little squabbles, listening to
their voices, their laughter, and their tears; while,
all the time, in the chamber above, his mother lay
upon what all knew to be her death-bed. And upon
that dark background of emotion the airy and care-
less gambols of the children showed like a bright,
fantastic embroidery ; strangely contrasted, and yet
more strangely harmonious, for the reigning motive
of all their various games was the reproduction, in
fun and frolic, of the tragedy enacting upstairs. The
anguish and the mirth of life have seldom been more
strikingly intertwined together.

At length, when the hour of his mother's departure
was evidently near at hand, he sought to relieve the
dreary pain of suspense by having recourse to the old
family journal. Here he wrote down, from hour to
hour, the features of the scene that passed before him.
In all his writings there is, perhaps, no passage more
impressive than this which follows ; so simple is it,

342 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

SO spontaneous, so tragic. And there is nothing,
certainly, which casts so searching a light upon the
inner region of his nature.

July 29, 1849, Suriday, half-pcist nim o'clock, A. M.
— A. beautiful, fresh summer morning ! All my
journals of the children, hitherto, have been written
at fireside seasons, when their daily life was spent
within doors. Now it is a time of open doors and
windows, when they run in and out at will, and
their voices are heard in the sunshine, like the song
of birds. Our metes and bounds are rather narrow ;
but still there is fair room for them to play under the
elms, the pear-tree, and the two or three plum-trees
that overshadow our brick avenue and little grass-
plot. There is air, too, as good almost as counliry
air, from across the North River; and so oiir little
people flourish in the unrestrained freedom which
they enjoy within these limits. They are inactive
hardly for a moment throughout the day, living a life
as full of motion as the summer insects, who are
compelled to crowd their whole existence into this
one season.

This morning, however, my journal begins with
trouble; for Una is shut up in the drawing-room, and
crying bitterly for her mamma, who is compelled
to be in grandmamma's sick-chamber. Julian looks
very sad and dolorous, and puckers up his little face,
in sympathy with his sister's outcries; and, being
himself on the point of bursting into tears, I tell him

SALEM. 343

to go to the drawing-room door and release Una from
her imprisonment. So he departs on his mission,
and forthwith returns, leading Una by the hand, with
the tears all over her discolored face, but in peaceful
mood. I kiss her forehead, and the sun shines out
again, with a bright rainbow in the sky.

By and by, however, she begins to make complaint
about her hair, which has not been combed this
morning, everybody being busy with grandmamma^
At last comes in Dora, and takes her into the little
room, where I hear her busily prattling about various
matters while Dora combs her hair. Julian, who has
been sitting on the floor, playing a sort of tune by
pulling a string across a bar of iron, gets up and runs
into the little room to talk with Dora and Una. His
mother making a momentary flitting appearance, he
requests to go up and see grandmamma with her;
being refused, he asks for a kiss, and, while receiving
it, still offers up a gentle and mournful petition to be
allowed to go with his mother. As this cannot be,
he remains behind, with a most woful countenance
and some few quiet tears. The shower, however, is
averted by Dora's telling him a story, while she con-
tinues to' dress Una's hair. Julian has too much
tenderness, love, and sensibility in his nature; he
needs to be hardened and tempered. I would not
take a particle of the love out of him ; but methinks
it is highly desirable that some sterner quality should
be interfused throughout the softness of his heart,
else, in course of time, the hard intercourse of the

344 HA WTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

world, and the many knocks and bruises he will
receive, will cause a morbid crust of callousness to
grow over his heart ; so that, for at least a portion of
his life, he will have less sympathy and love for his
fellow-beings than those who began life with a much
smaller portion. After a lapse of years, indeed, if he
have native vigor enough, there may be a second
growth of love and benevolence ; but the first crop,
with its wild luxuriance, stands a good chance of
being blighted.

"Well, father!" cries Una, coming out of the little
room with her hair nicely combed, and looking into
the glass with an approving glance. This is not one
of her beautiful days, nevertheless ; but it is highly
possible that some evanescent and intangible cause
may, at any moment, make her look lovely, for such
changes come and go as unaccountably as the changes
of aspect caused by the atmosphere in mountain
scenery. A queer comparison, however, — a family
of mountains on one side and Una's little phiz on
the other.

Una is describing grandmamma's sickness to Ju-
lian. " Oh, you don't know how sick she is, Julian ;
she is sick as I was when I had scarlet fever in
Boston." What a contrast between that childish dis-
ease and these last heavy throbbings — this funeral
march — of my mother's heart ! Death is never
beautiful but in children. How strange ! For them
Nature breaks her promise, violates her pledge, and,
like a pettish child, destroys her own prettiest play-

SALEM. 345

things ; whereas the death of old age is the consum-
mation of life, and yet there is so much gloom and
ambiguity about it that it opens no vista for us into
Heaven. But we seem to see the flight of a dead
child upward, like a butterfly's.

Julian has been dressed for a walk; and, surmounted
by a very broad-brimmed straw hat, which makes
him look not unlike a mushroom, goes off with Dora,
while Una stands with her feet on the cross-pieces of
the gate to watch their departure. She is infinitely
adventurous, and spends much of her time, in this
summer weather, hanging on that gate, and peeping
forth into the great, unknown world that lies beyond.
Ever and anon, without giving us the slightest notice,
she is apt to take a flight into the said unknown;
and when we go to seek her, we find her surrounded
by a knot of children, with whom sh« has made
acquaintance, and who gaze at her with a kind of
wonder, recognizing that she is not altogether like
themselves.

She has been up to see her grandmamma, and
spent a good while in the chamber, fanning the
flies from grandmamma's face. She describes grand-
mamma's sickness to Julian, while he fides on his
hobby-horse. "It would be very painful for little
Julian to see," she says to him, " for she is very sick
indeed, and sometimes she almost cries ; but she is
very patient with her sickness." " Why, Una," an-
swers Julian, " if I were to go to her, I would stroke
her, and she would be very quiet."

346 EA WTHOENE AND HIS WIPE.

Julian assumes the character of mamma, and ad-
dresses Una as Julian; and talks very pathetically
about how he should feel "if little Julian were to
faint away and go to God." In the midst of this
scene they are both suddenly transformed into two
other characters, — Una into a lady, and Julian into
a "coacher," or hackman; then for a fitful moment or
two they become themselves again. If their outward
shapes corresponded with their imaginations, they
would shift to and fro between one semblance and
another, faster than even Proteus did. They live
themselves into everything that passes under their
notice, thereby showing what strong impressions are
made on their young and fresh susceptibilities.

Half-past two, p. M. — They are playing with a hen,
— a black crested hen, which very often comes into
the yard. Of all playthings, a living plaything is
infinitely the most interesting to a child. A kitten,
a horse, a spider, a toad, a caterpillar, an ant, a fly, —
anything that can move of its own motion, — imme-
diately has a hold on their sympathies. The dread
of creeping things appears not to be a native instinct;
for these children allow caterpillars to crawl on
their naked flesh without any repugnance. Julian
has obtained possession of the hen, and seems almost
in the mind to put her into the street, but cannot
prevail with himself so to do. However, he permits
Una to put her through the fence, and they both
stand looking at the hen, who chases an insect in the
sunny street. Scarcely has she gone, when Julian

SALEM. 347

opens the gate, runs in pursuit, and comes back
triumphantly with the abominable fowl in his arms.
Again the hen is gone; and Julian stands bemoaning
himself at the gate ; and both children hang on the
gate, looking abroad, and themselves having some-
what the aspect of two birds in a cage. They come
back and sit down on the door-step, and Una com-
forts Julian at great length for the loss of the hen,
concluding as follows : " So now little Julian should
not cry for the hen, when he has so many good things
that God gives him."

At about five o'clock I went to my mother's
chamber, and was sTiocked to see such an alteration
since my last visit. I love my mother; but there
has been, ever since boyhood, a sort of coldness of
intercourse between us, such as is apt to come be-
tween persons of strong feelings if they are not man-
aged rightly. I did not expect to be much moved at
the time, — that is to say, not to feel any overpower-
ing emotion struggling just then, — though I knew
that I should deeply remember and regret her. Mrs.
Dike was in the chamber ; Louisa pointed to a chair
near the bed, but I was moved to kneel down close
by my mother, and take her hand. She knew. me,
but could only murmur a few indistinct words ;
among which I understood an injunction to take care
of my sisters. Mrs. Dike left tlie chamber, and then
I found the tears slowly gathering in my eyes. I
tried to keep them down, but it would not be ; I kept
filling up, till, for a few moments, I shook with sobs.

348 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

For a long time I knelt there, holding her hand ; and
surely it is the darkest hour I ever lived. After-
wards I stood by the open window and looked
through the crevice of the curtain. The shouts,
laughter, and cries of the two children had come up
into the chamber from the open air, making a strange
contrast with the death-bed scene. And now, through
the crevice of the curtain, I saw my little Una of the
golden locks, looking very beautiful, and so full of
spirit and life that she was life itself And then I
looked at my poor dying mother, and seemed to see
the whole of human existence at once, standing in
the dusty midst of it. Oh, what a' mockery, if what I
saw were all, — let the interval between extreme youth
and dying age be filled up with what happiness it
might ! But God would not have made the close so
dark and wretched, if there were nothing beyond ; for
then it would have been a fiend that created us and
measured out our existence, and not God. It would
be something beyond wrong, it would be insult, to
be thrust out of life and annihilated in this miser-
able way. So, out of the very bitterness of death, I
gather the sweet assurance of a better state of
being.

At one moment little Una's voice came up, very
clear and distinct, into the chamber, — " Yes, she is
going to die." I wish she had said, " Going to God,"
which is her idea and usual expression of death ; it
would have been so hopeful and comforting, uttered
in that bright young voice. She must have been

SALEM. 349

repeating or enforcing the words of some elder person
who had just spoken.

July 30, half-past ten o'clock. — Another bright
forenoon, warmer than yesterday, with flies buzzing
through the sunny air. Mother still lives, but is
gradually growing weaker, and appears to be scarcely
sensible. Una takes a strong interest in poor mother's
condition, and can hardly be kept out of the cham-
ber,— endeavoring to thrust herself in at the door
whenever it is opened, and continually teasing me
to be permitted to go up. This is partly intense
curiosity of her active mind; partly, I suppose, natu-
ral affection. I know not what she supposes to be
the final result to which grandmamma is approach-
ing. She talks of her being soon to go to God, and
probably thinks that she will be taken away bodily.
Would to God it were to be so ! Faith and trust
would be far easier than they are now. But, to re-
turn to Una, there is something that almost frightens
me about the child, — I know not whether elfish or
angelic, but, at all events, supernatural. She steps so
boldly into the midst of everything, shrinks from
nothing, has such a comprehension of everything,
seems at times to have but little delicacy, and anon
shows that she possesses the finest essence of it, —
now so hard, now so tender; now so perfectly un-
reasonable, soon again so wise. In short, I now and
then catch an aspect of .her in which I cannot believe
her to be my own human child, but a spirit strangely
mingled with good and evil, haunting the house

350 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

where I dwell. The little boy is always the same
child, and never varies in his relation to me.

Three o'clock, P. M. — Julian is now lying on his
couch in the character of sick grandmamma, while
Una waits on him as Mrs. Dike. She prompts him in
the performance, showing a quite perfect knowledge
of how it should aJl be: "Now, stretch out your
hands to be held." "Will you have some of this
jelly ? " Julian starts up to take the imaginary jelly.
"No; grandmamma lies still." He smacks his lips.
" You must not move your lips so hard" " Do you
think Una had better come up ? " " No." "You feel ■
so, don't you ? " His round curly head and rosy face,
with a twinkling smile upon it, do not look the
character very well. Now Una is transformed into
grandmamma, and Julian is mamma, taking care
of her. She groans, and speaks with difficulty, and
moves herself feebly and wearisomely; then lies per-
fectly still, as if in an insensible state ; then rouses
herself and calls for wine ; then lies down on her
back with clasped hands; then puts them to her
head. It recalls the scene of ■ yesterday to me with
frightful distinctness; and out of the midst of it little
Una looks at me with a smile of glee. Again, Julian
assumes the character. "You're dying now," says
Una ; " so you must lie still." " I shall walk, if I 'm
dying," answers Julian ; whereupon he gets up and
stumps about the room with heavy steps. Meantime
Una lies down on the couch, and is again grand-
mamma, stretching out her hand in search of some

SALEM. . 351

tender grasp, to assure herself that she is still on
the hither side of the grave. All of a sudden, Julian
is Dr. Pearson, and Una is apparently mamma, re-
ceiving him, and making excuses for not ushering
him into the sick-chamber. Here ensues a long talk
about the patient's condition and symptoms. Una
tells the doctor plainly that she thinks we had better
have Dr. Cummins ; whereupon Dr. Pearson replies,
" We can't have any more talking ; I must go." The
next instant Una transforms him into Dr. Cummins,
— one of the greatest miracles that was ever per-
formed, this instantaneous conversion from allopathy
to homoeopathy.

— Here the record stops. Madame Hawthorne's
death occurred the next day ; and we can only con-
jecture what may have been the thoughts and the
emotions which visited Hawthorne's soul in the
interval. His wife wrote on the 1st of August to Mrs.
Peabody, announcing the death ; and the sentence in
which she alludes to her husband is the only direct
testimony as to his condition.

Wednesday, Aug. 1, 1849.
My deaeest Mother, — Mrs. Hawthorne died
yesterday afternoon, after four or five days of pain, re-
lieved by intervals of unconsciousness. I am weary,
weary, weary, heart and head. I have watched
through all the days (not nights), keeping off flies,
holding her in my arms as she sat up for breatli.

352 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and sympathizing far too deeply and vividly with her
children and with herself to escape unscathed. My
husband came near a brain fever, after seeing her for
an hour ; and while all our hearts were aching with

sorrow and care, Mrs. has been like some marble-

souled fiend. But of that I cannot speak now or per-
haps ever. I hope Gob will forgive her, but I do not
see how He can ! Elizabeth and Louisa are desolate
beyond all words. We all have lost an angel of ex-
cellence, and in mind and person an angel, — oh, such
a loss ! She looks so heavenly sweet, calm, happy,
peaceful, that I cannot see death in her now ; I only
Aear death as I stand over her, — for what else can
such silence be ?

At the last she had no suffering, — for eight hours
no suffering, — but gradually faded as day fades ;
no difference momentarily, but hourly a change. I
thought I could not stay through the final hour, but
found myself courageous for Louisa's and Elizabeth's
sakes ; and her disinterested, devoted life exhaled in
a sigh, exquisitely painful to hear when we knew it
was the last sigh, — but to her not painful

I am too tired to rest yet.

Sophia.

The funeral takes place to-raorrow at four o'clock.

— Arrangements were now made looking towards a
removal from Salem to the fresh air and surroundings
of Berkshire, where Hawthorne might finish his Eo-
mance at a distance from the house now gloomy with

SALEM. 353

sad associations. As it turned out, however, this
change was not effected until the spring of the follow-
ing year, after " The Scarlet Letter " was an accom-
plished fact. A month after Madame Hawthorne's
departure, Mrs. Hawthorne was able to write cheer-
fully as follows : —

Salem, Sept. 2, 1849.

. . . We are all very well and in brave spirits.
The prospect of " mountaneous air " (as a gentleman
here called it the other day) already vivifies our blood.
To give up the ocean caused rather a stifling sensa-
tion; but I have become used to the idea of moun-
tains now, — the next best breath. I think it probable
that Louisa and Elizabeth Hawthorne will remain in
Salem at least till summer of next year, and this
would simplify our life very much in the first strug-
gle for bread ; for they cannot help us possibly, — we
only must help them. Louisa is not in strong health
enough to do anything, and it would be a pain to me
to see her making any efforts ; and Elizabeth is not
available for every-day purposes of pot-hooks and
trammels, spits and flat-irons. I intend to paint at
least three hours a day, while my husband takes cog-
nizance of the children ; as he will not write more
than nine hours out of the twelve, and his study can
be my studio as well.

Mr. O'SuUivan sent us $100 of his debt the other
day, and we have access to another hundred if we
want it before we earn it. So do not be anxious for
us in a pecuniary way. Mr. Hawthorne writes im-

VOL. I. 28

354 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

mmsely. I am almost frightened about it. But he is
well now, and looks very shining.

The children have been acting Flaxman's outlines.
The other day Una happened to hurt Julian uninten-
tionally ; he cried out, and she threw herself on her
knees before him as he sat on the sofa, and in a tragic
and sounding tone exclaimed, " 'T is not unknown to
thee, Eoyal Apollo, that I have done no deed of base
injustice !" I had no idea she so well comprehended
that scene.

I am glad you like " The Great Stone Face." Mr.
Hawthorne says he is rather ashamed of the mechan-
ical structure of the story, the moral being so plain
and manifest. He seemed dissatisfied with it as a
work of art. But some persons would prefer it pre-
cisely on account of its evident design. And Ernest
is a divine creation, — so grand, so comprehensive, and
so simple. . . .

— It is curious to note how (in pursuance of the

proverb), when things had reached their worst, they

began to mend, in all directions at once. Here is

what was doubtless a gratifying letter from Hillard,

written a month or two before " The Scarlet Letter "

was heard of : —

Boston, Jan. 17, 1850.

My dear Hawthorne, — It occurred to me and

some other of your friends that, in consideration of

the events of the last year, you might at this time be

in need of a little pecuniary aid. I have therefore

collected, from some of those who admire your gen-

SALEM. 3BI)

ius and respect your character, the enclosed sum of
money, which I send you with my warmest wishes
for your health and happiness. I know the sensitive
edge of your temperament ; but do not speak or think
of obligation. It is only paying, in a very imperfect
measure, the debt we owe you for what you have
done for American Literature. Could you know the
readiness with which every one to whom I applied
contributed to this little offering, and could you have
heard the warm expressions with which some accom-
panied their gift, you would have felt that the bread
you had cast upon the waters had indeed come back
to you.

Let no shadow of despondency, my dear friend,
steal over you. Your friends do not and will not
forget you. You shall be protected against " eating
cares," which, I take it, mean cares lest we should
not have enough to eat.

My check, you perceive, is made payable to your
order. You must therefore endorse it. I presume
that you can get it cashed at some of the Salem banks.
With my affectionate remembrances to your wife.
Ever faithfully yours,

Geo. S. Hillaed.

— And here is another note, not less agreeable and
characteristic, from the poet Whittier : —

Amesbukt, Feb. 22, 1850.
y. Hawthorne, Esq.

Dear FiiiEND, — I have just learned with regret
and surprise that no remittance has been sent thee

356 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

for thy admirable story in the " Era." Dr. B. wrote
me, in receipt of it months ago, that he had directed
his agent in Boston to pay thee.

The pecuniary affairs of the " Era " are in the hands
of Dr. B. ; but I was unwilling to leave the matter
unadjusted, and hasten to forward the amount. It is,
I feel, an inadequate compensation.

I am glad to hear of thy forthcoming book. It is
spoken of highly by the publishers. God bless and
prosper thee 1

Truly thy friend,

John G. "Whittier.

— The Salem period closes with this foreglimpse,
in a letter from Mrs. Hawthorne, of a visit from
Miss Bremer, who was at that time in America : —

" I heard of a charming prospect about seeing
Miss Bremer, from Lydia Chase. I am sure I should
feel honored by a visit from her. She will not mind
a ragged carpet, a nursery parlor, and all the inevi-
table inconveniences of our present mdnci^e. I am
sure the children would be drawn to her. Lydia said
she was to dine with her, and come and make us a
call in the afternoon. We cannot give her a room,
just now, to be comfortable in ; but to have a call
from her would be delightful."

LENOX. 357

CHAPTEE VIII.

LENOX.

, Bidding good-by forever to literary obscurity and
to Salem, Hawthorne now turned his face towards the
mountains. The preceding nine months had told
upon his health and spirits ; and, had " The Scarlet
Letter " not achieved so fair a success, he might have
been long recovering his normal frame of mind. But
the broad murmur of popular applause, coming to
his unaccustomed ears from all parts of his native
country, and rolling in across the sea from academic
England, gave him the spiritual refreshment born of
the assurance that our feUow-creatures think well of
the work we have striven to make good. Such assur-
ance is essential, sooner or later, to soundness and
serenity of mind. No man can attain secure repose
and happiness who has never found that what moves
and interests him has power over others likewise.
Sooner or later he will begin to doubt either his own
sanity or that of all the rest of the world.

But, for Hawthorne, " The Scarlet Letter " perma-
nently disposed of this danger. It dealt with a sub-
ject of universal interest in such a way as to command
universal sympathy. From the time that it was pub-

358 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

lished, Hawthorne became a sort of Mecca of pilgriraa
with Christian's burden upon their backs. Secret
criminals of all kinds came to him for counsel and
relief The letters he received from spiritual invalids
would have made a strange collection. Some of them
he showed to his wife ; but most of them he withheld
even from her, and all of them he destroyed. Had
such a pilgrimage occurred before he wrote his great
Eomance, one might have thought that he had availed
himself therein of the material thus afforded him.
But such practical knowledge of the hidden places of
the human heart comes only to those who have proved
their right to it by independent spiritual intuition.
Greainess is the only magnet of the materials upon
which greatness is based.

Although, therefore, Hawthorne was below his
usual mark of vigor when he came to Lenox, there
■was an inner satisfaction at his heart which would
surely make him well again. In fact, the two or
three years which lay next before him comprised his
period of greatest literary activity. During those
years he produced five books, four of which, at least,
were masterpieces in their several ways. His men-
tal faculties never reached a higher state of efficiency
than at this epoch, when he had just passed his forty-
first year ; though, on the other hand, his physical en-
ergies perhaps never fully recovered from the shock
and strain of that last year of Salem. In after life he
was more easily affected than before by external ac-
cidents and circumstances, sucb as weather, fatigue,

LENOX. 359

noise, climate ; the boundless elasticity of youth was
gone. He still, however, retained a solid basis of
health and muscular strength up to the time of his
daughter's nearly fatal illness in Eome, in 1858. His
daughter recovered ; but her illness proved fatal, in
the end, to him. His countenance, like his mind,
sent forth a mellower but graver light than that of
youth ; and there was a melancholy cadence in the
tones of his voice, — the melancholy of a strong, com-
posed, but no longer buoyant spirit.

" The Scarlet Letter " had been published by the
firm of Ticknor & Co. Wiley and Putnam had
failed some time before, and George Putnam (a rela-
tive of Mrs. Hawthorne) had made the best repa-
ration in his power for the small sum owing to
Hawthorne, by disposing of the stock and plates of
such of his works as were in the firm's possession, to
the above-named publishers. The book enjoyed the
distinction of stimulating the thieving propensities
of several English booksellers ; and Henry Chorley,
of the " Athenaeum," was as much pleased with it as
if he had manufactured its author himself. Haw-
thorne did not, at first, think so well of the book as
of his subsequent ones; or rather, to use his own
words, he did not think it a book natural for him
to write. But there is reason to believe that, towards
the end of his Ufe, he modified this opinion. What
the work lacked in breadth and variety, was more
than compensated in other ways. As has been
already intimated, it produced its effect even upon

360 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

its own author, when the latter first read the manu-
seript to his wife. It may be as well, however, iu
this place, to correct an error into which a biogra-
pher of Hawthorne has fallen, in one of the three
painstaking treatises upon his subject which he has
thus far published. It is there stated that when
Mrs. Hawthorne asked her husband (before the book
was concluded) how it was going to end, he an-
swered that he did not know. The idea of a man
who could conceive " The Scarlet Letter," being un-
decided, up to the last moment, as to whether or not
Hester and Arthur Dimmesdale were going to elope
together, is, when one comes to consider it, not a
little startling and suggestive. Why should he have
been at the pains of writing the story, had he contem-
plated the possibility of the alternative catastrophe?
The anecdote, nevertheless, is true enough, save and
except in one important particular ; and that is, that
it has been connected with the wrong story. The facts
are as follows. When Hawthorne was writing " Eap-
Pacini's Daughter," in the " Old Manse," he read the
as yet unfinished manuscript to his wife. " But how
is it to end ? " she asked him, when he laid down
the paper; "is Beatrice to be a demon or an angel ?"
"I have no idea!" was Hawthorne's reply, spokea
with some emotion. In this case, however, as will
appear iipon reflection, no artistic necessity was in-
volved. Whether the heroine turned out good or
evU, the moral of the tale would remain substantially
the same ; and, moreover, it was a question open to

LENOX. 361

discussion, especially to one of Hawthorne's quality
of mind, whether the poison which had permeated the
girl's physical system might not be but the symbol of
a still more terrible poison in her souL He iinally
chose the brighter alternative; but there may still
be a difference of opinion as to whether, from the
merely artistic standpoint, the story loses or gains
thereby.

It is scarcely worth while, as a general thing, to
correct'errors like the above, however constantly they
may occur; and I have made an exception of this
instance only because the mistake cast a doubt upon
Hawthorne's possession of the intelligence of an aver-
age human being. Mr. George William Curtis has
doubtless been surprised to find himself figuring as
Hawthorne's companion in the adventure with the
drowned girl in Concord Eiver ; the fact being, accord-
ing to Hawthorne's own account, given above, that
EUery Channing was the person who called him up
on that occasion. But it might just as well have
been Mr. Curtis, as far as Hawthorne or the drowned
girl is concerned ; and, for aught I care, posterity may
decide that it was. The night was dark; and the
point is of no consequence.

The little red house which Hawthorne occupied
while in Lenox is said to be still standing. It af-
forded better accommodation than one would have
supposed from its outside, and it commanded a view
of mountain, lake, and valley that might have made
good many deficiencies. Attached to it, moreover,

362 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

•was a large two-storied hencoop, populous witli hens,
— an inexhaustible resource to the children. The
hens all had their proper names, and were tamer
than the pig in an Irish cabin. There were cows in
the neighboring farmyard; and a barn with a hay-
loft, which trenched very closely upon the delights of
Paradise. Then there was the long declivity towards
Tanglewood and the lake ; and in winter, Hawthorne
and the children used to seat themselves one behind
another upon the big sled, and go down in headlong
career through the snow-drifts, — as is related, in the
" Wonder Book,'' of Eustace Bright and his little peo-
ple. Even the incident of the collision with the
stump, hidden beneath the snow, actually happened
precisely as set down in the book, as well as many
other humorous and delightful episodes. A little way
up the road lived Mr. and Mrs. Tappan, the owners
of the little red house, and its next-door neighbors ;
in the other direction, at a greater distance, was the
abode of Luther Butler, who supplied the family with
milk, and who, in the mind of one of Hawthorne's
children, was for several years identified with the
personage who threw his inkstand at the Devil and
founded the Lutheran heresy. In Pittsfield, a few
miles away, dwelt Herman Melville; Mr. G. P. K.
James (not by any means the father of the present
novelist, as has been rashly af&rmed by an anno-
tator) had a residence in the vicinity; and Fanny
Kemble often rode up to the door on her strong black
horse, and conversed, in heroic phrases, with the in-

LENOX. 363

mates of the red house. On one occasion she asked
the smallest of the party whether he would like to
have a ride ; and, on his answering emphatically in
the affirmative, she swung him up astride the pom-
mel of her saddle, and galloped off with him. The
wild delight of that gallop will never be forgotten by
him who experienced it. On their return, Fanny
reined in her steed with one hand, and, grasping
her cavalier with the other, held him out at arm's
length, exclaiming, " Take your boy ! — Julian the
Apostate!"

Soon after their arrival at their new quarters, Mrs.
Hawthorne wrote to her mother as follows : —

". . . "We had begun to be really homesick after
such a long overturn of our penates, and I felt that I
should never do anything and never feel rested till
we were in our own house ; and Mr. Hawthorne was
SO' perfectly weary and worn with waiting for a place
to be, to think, and to write in, that at last he gave
up entirely and was so indisposed that I was quite
distressed. He took cold because so harassed in
spirit; and this cold, together with brain-work and
disquiet, made a tolerable nervous fever. His eyes
looked like two immense spheres of troubled light ;
his face was wan and shadowy, and he was wholly
uncomfortable. He is now better, but not so vigorous
yet as in former days, before the last year began.
Still, he is reviving fast, and I expect soon to see him
as in Concord. Mr. Tappan kept remarking that he en-
joyed very much Mr. Hawthorne's illness, and finally

364 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

he rendered his reason. It was that he had con-
ceived that Mr. Hawthorne could not he affected by-
mortal evils. He was glad to find him mortal in some
respects. For several days the wounded Bird of Jove
remained caged upstairs, and Mr. Tappan and two
men took the opportunity to plough up the land on
both sides of our house for us. This was an unex-
pected benefit, and it was no empty favor."

The summer was not Hawthorne's favorite season
for writing, and it was not until the end of August
that he had sufficiently digested the plan of "The
House of the Seven Gables " to begin upon it. The
witch element in this romance necessitated the scene
■being laid in Salem, though the " Custom House "
sketch which had prefaced his former work was not
taken in good part by some persons whose existence,
save for that reminder thereof, would long ago have
passed from human memory. Not all his fellow-
incumbents, however, maintained a hostile attitude
towards him, as may appear from this letter written
by one of the personages mentioned in the essay in
question, under the title of the Naval Officer.

Salem, March 23, 1860.
My dear Hawthorne, — I feel an inexplainable
delicacy in addressing you, for I am altogether inca-
pable of describing the sensations which seem to sway
and control me in connection with my subject. I
have just concluded the reading of " The Scarlet
Letter," and am perfectly spellbound in view of the

LENOX. 365

true and vivid picture of human life which is pre^
sented in its pages. I can no more tell you of the
mighty influence this romance produced on me, than
a child can explain a flash of lightning. I *an only
estimate the power and beauty of the production by
its effect on my imperfect and humble powers of
judgment. I have never throughout my life been so
highly excited in reading a book, as this afternoon by
" The Scarlet Letter." My mind has been taken cap-
tive, and carried through its scenes, as though I actu-
ally lived in its time and participated in its events.
I should not have told you of this but that I thought
it might possibly give you some little satisfaction.
However this may be, I know you will accept this
tribute in the spirit that has dictated it, — that of the
sincerest friendship and good-will.

I have spent many hours in your society, probably
for the first and only time on this side the grave.
May Heaven bless you wherever fate or choice may
lead you, and may your children and yoiir children's
children be blessed, and share the fame your towns-
men may deny to you. But what matters it what
Salem may do ? — the world and all time must feel
the power of your mighty and mysterious genius. I
do not speak to flatter. I hate flattery and hypoc-
risy as I do the pains of hell. Write me, if you feel
like it: I should be very highly pleased to have a
line from you. I thank you for your notice of me in
your introduction, although in so close proximity to
"Joe." The "Old Inspector" was faithfully por-

366 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

trayed, and, as I understand, the galled jade winces,
and wishes he was young for your sake !
Yours truly,

John D. Howard.

— It will be more to the present purpose, however,
to consider the following description of their home
and mode of life, furnished to her mother by Mrs.
Hawthorne : —

Lenox, June 23, 1850.

My dearest Mother, — I absolutely long to tell
you more of our life. We are so beautifully arranged
(excepting the guest-chamber), and we seem to have
such a large house inside, though outside the little
reddest thing looks like the smallest of ten-feet
houses. Mr. Hawthorne says it looks like the
Scarlet Letter. Enter our old black tumble-down
gate, — no matter for that, — and you behold a nice
yard, with an oval grass-plot and a gravel walk all
round the borders, a flower-bed, some rose-bushes, a
raspberry-bush, and I believe a syringa, and also
a few tiger-lilies ; quite a fine bunch of peonies,
a stately double rose-columbine, which grows in
memory of Elizabeth, because her favorite flower;
and one beautiful Balsam Fir tree, of perfect pyram-
idal form, and full of a thousand melodies. We
have planted flowers, besides ; but they are slow to
grow. All these will bloom in memory of Mary
Mann. The front door is wide open. Enter and
welcome. Here sits our little Julian on the floor,

LENOX. 367

making a ship out of a cane, a cannon, and a piece of
stick, — "a ship," he says, " in which we are all to
go to England to destroy the land " (meaning to dis-
cover), for he is a new Columbus. At a mahogany
stand sits your daughter, scribbling this history.
Eound this pretty little hall stand four cane-bottomed
chairs, my flower-table, — which ♦survived transpor-
tation, — Julian's wee centre-table, and, at the fire-
place, father's beautiful blind-fireboard. On the tiny
mantelpiece reposes the porcelain lion and lamb,
and a vase filled with lovely flowers. On the floor
is the purple and gold-colored carpet, on the walls a
buff paper; over the mantel hangs the divine Ma-
donna del Pesce. Over the flower-table I have put
Crawford's sculpture, " Glory to God in the Highest."
Generally the little chairs are in this room, in which
the children sit while I read about Christ, in the
morning. And this reminds me of an occurrence
which I meant to tell you. One day they asked me
to read about Christ. Una got up out of her chair
for something, and Julian took possession. Una com-
plained very much. Her father said, " What did
Christ say ? — if a man take your cloak, give him
your coat also. Do you know what he meant ? "
Una responded with an inward voice, " Yes, I know."
She soon rose and gave Julian the chair, which he
received with a radiant smile, having caught light
from the radiance of the angel now descended, but
immediately resigned again, feeling that he too must
act well in such a presence. Do you think no

368 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

glory was added to the sunshine by this scene, so
trivial in appearance, but so universal in its influ-
ence ? These children are wonderful revealers of
truth and beauty. In everything of worth that I
read them, they cause me somehow to comprehend
it better.

On the right-hand side of the hall is a door. Will
you enter the drawing-room ? Between the front
windows stands the beautiful antique ottoman, the
monument of Elizabeth's loving-kindness, covered
with woven flowers. In the corner at that side
stands crosswise the fairy tea-table, — a Hawthorne
heirloom, — and on an embroidered mat upon it lies
my pretty white gTeyhound. In the other corner, on
the same side, stands Apollo, whose head I have tied
on ! Diagonally opposite Apollo stands the ancient
carved chair, with its tapestry of roses. Opposite
the ottoman is the card-table, with the alabaster vase,
and over the vase hangs Correggio's Madonna. Ea-
phael's Transfiguration is over the ottoman. Opposite
the door you have entered stands the centre-table;
on it are books, the beautiful India box, and the
superb India punch-bowl and pitcher, which Mr.
Hawthorne's father had made in India for himself.
In another corner stands the ancient Manning chair
with its worked cover. The scarlet-tipped chair wan-
ders about the room. The black haircloth rocking-
chair was much abused in moving, and one of the
rockers is off. It has not yet been mended; and
when it is mended, the hall is to be its place. Over

LENOX. 369

the centre-table hangs Endymion, and over the fire-
place, Leonardo da Vinci's Madonna au Bas-relief
You cannot think how pretty the room looks, though
with such a low stud that I have to get acclimated
to it, and still fear to be crushed.

Opposite the ottoman is another door. Entrez,
Madame ma m^re, s'il vous plait. This is the
dining-room, covered with nice straw-carpet. Be-
tween the windows looking upon the lake hangs the
great looking-glass, over the Pembroke dining-table.
On the right, against the wall of the staircase, stands
the bookcase, surmounted with the bronzed vase.
Mahogany chairs stand round about. Here is a door
leading into the bath-room. On one wall are nailed
up the "Petit Soldat Orphelin," and the two pictures of
Psyche about to bathe and about to be dressed. Ou
another, stretches out the magnificent Tuba-Eheda.
On the other side of the stairway another door leads
into our charming little boudoir. The window com-
mands the lake and the rich interval of meadow,
with its beautiful groups of trees, and beyond, the
, mountains. Ojpposite the window is the couch,
covered with red patch. Over the couch I have
nailed Claude's landscape of the Golden Calf, of
which I mended the torn corner, and it looks very
handsomely with the soiled margin cut off. Oppo-
site the door, over the small centre-table, hangs Sal-
vator Eosa's Forest, in a fine light ; on each side of it
the lovely Comos, and over it, Loch Lomond, — all
making a beautiful pyramid. Opposite these are
VOL. r. 24

370 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

book-shelves, with books fit to take up in such a
room. Under the shelves stands the great portfolio.
On the shelves is the Caryatid, and upon a bracket
in one corner, Antinous. Sit down upon the couch,
and you will see such a landscape out of the window
as will charm pei"petually ; for the motion of light
and shadow among the mountains and on the lake
varies the scene all the time. The summer hazes are
of exquisite beauty. Sometimes clouds hang low
upon the mountain-sides in beautiful shapes. Next
summer we intend to have a flower-garden beneath
the window of the boudoir, and there we mean to
plant only fragrant flowers, which will send up an
incense of sweet odors in the evening. WiU you go
upstairs ? The old Brussels stair-carpet looks quite
respectably. On the wall at the head of the stairs I
have nailed Michael Angelo's frescos of prophets
and sibyls, joining all together and making a cover-
ing for the wall. On the right is Mr. Hawthorne's
study, which can boast of nothing but his presence in
the morning and the. picture out of window in the
evening. It has in it his secretary, my long ottoman, .
re-covered with red, and the antique centre-table,
which lost one foot on its journey from Salem to
Lenox. It stands quite even without its foot, and so
remains for the present. Now please to step across
into our golden chamber. The golden couch is so
absurdly huge in the low, shelving chamber, that it
looks more as if it could hold the room than the
room it. But with the new straw-carpet, and the

LENOX. 371

bright tint of the furniture, and the lovely outlines
and snowy counterpane, and the perennial picture of
lake and mountain, and the soon-to-be-hung-up snowy
full muslin curtains, it makes a pretty show. My
looking-glass squeezes just in between the windows
Along the entry is the red straw-carpet to the guest-
chamber. Come along it, dear mother, father, brother,
sisters ; but do not look into the guest-chamber,
with its very ugly bare floor, full of knots, and its
bedstead full of confusion, but pass by and go into
the little lady Una's chamber. On the left, as you
enter, stands her bed, covered with a white counter-
pane. Upon the wall opposite her eyes I have put
one of Eaphael's angels, a head large as life, and
beneath it that pretty engraving of Dawn. Near the
window is a superb tree in lithograph.

I began this letter in the morning, and it is now
between seven and eight. The children have been
long abed, so that you can see in Una's little room
the little mistress of it in happy sleep.

I suppose father would like to hear about our house-
hold economy. We give only three cents a quart
for the best of milk, and we have it of Luther Butler.
Butter is fourteen cents a pound, and eggs eleven
and twelve cents a dozen ; potatoes, very good ones,
two shillings a bushel. The most superb buckwheat
at half the price we gave at the East, — sixty-two
cents for twenty-four pounds ; wood, three and four
dollars a cord ; charcoal, eight cents a bushel ; veal, six
cents a pound ; mutton, five cents ; beef, nine cents.

372 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Monday P.M. — This is one of Berkshire's golden
afternoons, with the most invigorating air. We have
been having a splendid hen-coop patched up, being
nothing less than the shed attached to the house.
On the front of this shed Justus Wetmore Barnes
nailed slats in a rude style enough, with so little
idea of beauty that Mr. Hawthorne says he shall
put a placard up, signifying that it is not his work.
The shed is in two stories, with an opening between ;
so the hens will have sumptuous accommodation,

Mr. Hawthorne will grow corn for them.

Sophia.

— Her letters at this time were freq^uent and fuU.
Here is one of her glowing eulogiums on her
husband : —

. . . Mr. Hawthorne said this morning that he
should like a study with a soft, thick Turkey carpet
upon the floor, and hung round with full crimson
curtains so as to hide all rectangles. I hope to see
the day when he shall have such a study. But it
will not be while it would demand the slightest
extravagance, because he is as severe as a stoic
about all personal comforts, and never in his life
allowed himself a luxury. It is exactly upon him,
therefore, that I would like to shower luxuries, be-
cause he has such a spiritual taste for beauty. It
is both wonderful and admirable to see how his taste
for splendor and perfection is not the slightest temp-
tation to him ; how wholly independent he is of what

LENOX. 373

he would like, all things being equal. Beauty and

the love of it, in him, are the true culmination of the

good and true, and there is no beauty to him without

these bases. He has perfect dominion over himself

in every respect, so that to do the highest, wisest,

loveliest thing is not the least effort to him, any

more than it is to a baby to be iimoceut. It is his

spontaneous act, and a baby is not more unconscious

in its innocence. I never knew such loftiness, so

simply borne. I have never known him to stoop

from it in the most trivial household matter, any

more than in a laiger or more public one. If the

Hours make out to reach him in his high sphere,

their wings are very strong. But I have never

thought of him as in time, and so the Hours have

nothing to do with him. Happy, happiest is the

wife, who can bear such and so sincere testimony to

her husband after eight years' intimate union. Such

a person can never lose the prestige which commands

and fascinates. I cannot possibly conceive of my

happiness, but, in a blissful kind of confusion, live

on. If I can only be so greats so high, so noble, so

sweet, as he in any phase of my being, I shall be

glad. I am not deluded nor mistaken, as the angels

know now, and as aU my friends will know, in open

vision !

The other afternoon at the lake, when papa was
lying his length along beneath the trees, Una and
Julian were playing about, and presently Una said,
"Take care, Julian; do not run upon papa's head.

374 HAWTHORNE 4ND HIS WIFE.

His is a real head, for it is full of thought." " Yes /'
responded Julian, with the unconscious wisdom of
four years old, " it is thought that makes his head."
We found a lovely new place that day. We found
Indian council-chambers, boudoirs, and cabinets in the
wood, and a high, dignified bank on the edge of the
lake ; and as we sat above, and were confined to a
small view of the really tumultuous waves, we could
easily imagine ourselves at Lake Superior. The chil-
dren talked about the echo, and one of them finally
, settled the subject by remarking, " God says the echo."
How children — all children not crushed bj'' artifice —
resolve everything with the great, innate, all-satisfying
idea of God !

A Mr. Ehninger, a young artist, has been here, who
has made an illustration of " The Scarlet Letter." He
was once a fashionable youth of New York, but dis-
covered in himself a taste for art ; he has been in Eu-
rope and studied design very faithfully, and is soon
to return to perfect himself in color. He has been
an ardent admirer of Mr. Hawthorne's books, and has
made several designs in illustration of them. The
"Scarlet Letter" illustration was very remarkable.
It is very large. It is the first scene of Hester com-
ing out of the prison door. The figure of Hester is
very majestic, noble, and stately, with a face of proud,
marble beauty. On one side is a group of old women,
whose faces are relieved by the sweet apparition of a
child standing just at Hester's feet. On- the other
side are the officers. The drawing is not finished,

LENOX. 375

but is full of beauty, power, and expression as far as
it goes. When I first conducted Mr, Ehninger to
our house, I said, "Here is our little red shanty."
" The Temple of Art and the Muses ! " enthusiastically
exclaimed he, lifting his hat. It is certainly very
pretty to see homage rendered to one's husband for
immortal endowments.

Sophia.

— And here is a description of a typical day during
their first winter : —

". . . This superb winter's morning, when to live
seems joy enough ; even the hens are in such an ani-
mated state of spirits that Una keeps running in with
eggs ! There have been no winter horrors of great
cold and storm here, as we were led to expect; when
we look back, we find that opaline mists on the moun-
tains are our strongest impression of the scene out
of doors. The children have lived upon the blue nec-
tared air all winter, and papa said the other day he
did not believe there were two other children in New
England who had had such uninterrupted health and
freedom from colds. Such clear, unclouded eyes, such
superb cheeks, as come in and out of the icy atmos-
phere! such relish for dry bread, such dewy sleep,
such joyful uprisings, such merry gambols under pails
of cold water ! They wake at dawn. From the guegt-
chamber comes the powerful voice, 'I want to get
up!' From a more distant room, 'Bon-jour, mamma!
bon-jour, papa ! ' whereupon papa rises and makes a
fire in the bath-room, when down rush the two birds.

376 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

In two minutes more they lift up dripping from a
flood of fresh water, saying, 'Oh, how nice!' and 'How
I am refreshing ! ' Then comes the vigorous rubbing
before the warm fire, and the dressing, and then the
leaping, running, springing about the room. Mamma
seizes Julian (for Una attends to her own toilet) to
brush his wet hair; but it is hard enough to keep
him still, for who can hold a fountain ! When all is
done, papa goes out to feed the hens. After break-
fast he disappears in his study, mamma sits down to
her work-basket, and the children generally go out ;
or sometimes they sit side by- side while I give them
oral lessons in French, arithmetic, history, and geog-
raphy. At noon papa descends from his study,
instead of at night; and this causes great rejoicing
throughout his kingdom. We sit down to dine (the
children to sup) in a golden glow of sun-setting ; and
after this ceremony is always my particular hour for
reading aloud to the children. About six they go to
bed, each in a separate chamber, very happy, full of
messages of ' love, respects, and thanks ! ' and then
they fall asleep, and we hear no more of them till the
next dawn. Now follows our long, beautiful evening,
which we richly enjoy. My husband has read aloud
to me ever since he finished his book. 'David Cop-
perfield ' he has read. I never heard such reading. It
is better than any acting or opera. Now he reads De
Quincey. I don't know whether I told you that I
bought some black velvet and put a new cover on my
brother George's desk, and Kitty scrubbed all the brass

LENOX. 377

bright, and I made the mahogany clean of ink and
polished it, so that it looks very handsomely ; and it
was upon this desk that Mr. Hawthorne wrote ' The
House of the Seven Gables.' . . ."

— Herman Melville (" Omoo," as they called him,
in allusion to one of his early romances) soon became
familiar and welcome there ; and, not seldom, strange
visitors made their appearance, to pay homage to the
Eomancer's genius and to stare at him, at all of whom
Mrs. Hawthorne looked in turu, with a penetrating
and amused glance ; as, for example, —

". . . This morning ' Mr. Omoo ' arrived ; and soon
after I went to the door to a knock, and there stood a
clerical-looking gentleman, with white cravat and dark
eyes, and very dainty in his fingers. He asked for
Mr. Hawthorne, — said he did not know him, but had
taken the liberty to introduce himself. I took him
into the boudoir, where Mr. Melville was. He then
said he had a lady in the carriage who would very
much like to come in, but did not, because she did
not know there was a Mrs. Hawthorna Mr. Haw-
thorne and I went out, therefore, and escorted her in.
She was a New York lady, rather handsome, with yet
a hard, pitiless face. The children did not like her.
It was diverting to me to see how the Professor (as
she called, the Eeverend gentleman) and she herself
devoured my husband with their eyes, as if they were
determined to take a picture of him away with them.
When Julian appeared, the lady made no hesifcatiob

378 HAWTHORNE ANB HIS WIFE.

iu taking him by the hand and calling him ' Superb '
right to his face; and then she remarked that he
was ' the image of his father ' {seriatim, ' You are su-
perb, Mr. Hawthorne ' !). They did not stay very
long ; and after they went away, Mr. Melville was very
agreeable. . . ."

— As throwing light upon her own character, and
also because it is desirable to preserve, as much as
possible, the continuity of her letters, I insert here
two more of Mrs. Hawthorne's most characteristic
epistles.

My dearest Mother, — Your birthday approaches.
The prospects of aU seem brightening in the way of
externals, and I love to J;hink of you sitting quietly
in your great chair, and brooding over our joys, and
good hopes, and successes. I trust you realize the
blessing you have been to us, in the way of high prin-
ciple and sentiment, and lofty purity of heart, and
elegance of taste, — to say nothing of a motherly ten-
derness which has never been surpassed in God's uni-
verse, and seldom equalled. To me especially this
unspeakable tenderness has been a guard-angelic. In
earliest childhood I remember some portions of my
life only in moments when, at some crisis of excite-
ment or trouble, you said to me softly, " My love."
The tone, the words, used to pour balm and comfort
ovei my whole being. Then I did not know how to
thank you ; but now I know well enough, and I re-
member it when my child is in the same mood, and I

LENOX. 379

also say to her " My love ! " and with the same effect.
Alas for those who counsel sternness and severity
instead of love towards their young children ! How
little they are like God, how much they are like Solo-
mon, whom I really believe many persons prefer to
imitate, and think they do well. Infinite patience,
infinite tenderness, infinite magnanimity, — no less
will do, and we must practise them as far as finite
power will allow. Above all, no parent should feel
a pride of power. This, I doubt not, is the great
stumbling-block, and it should never be indulged.
From this comes the sharp rebuke, the cruel blow,
the anger. A tender sorrow, a most sympathizing
regret, alone should appear at the transgression of a
child, who comes into the world with an involuntary
inheritance of centuries of fallen Adams to struggle
with. Yet how immitigable is the judgment and
treatment of these little misdemeanors often ! When
my children disobey, I am not personally aggrieved,
and they see it, and find therefore that it is a disin-
terested desire that they should do right that induces
me to insist. There is all the difference in the world
between indulgence and tenderness. If the child
never sees any acceptance of wrong-doing, but unal-
terably a horror and deep grief at it, certainly love
and forgiveness can do no harm. In you I always
felt there was sorrow for anything amiss I did ; and
very, very early I perceived that the influence of that
silent regret was far more powerful with me than any
rebuke of any other person. And how forever sweet

380 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

it is to me to think that I imagined being a jnother
was synonymous with being disinterested ! Silently,
nna wares almost to myself, but very consciously now,
I remember quite small evidences of this : at table,
what an impression of elegance and spirituality you
made upon my mind, by never being preoccupied with
your own plate and food, so that I used to think
mothers lived without eating as well as without sleep-
ing. I saw you were taken up with supplying others
with what they wished for, before they had time to
find out themselves. "What elegant manners!" I
used to feel, and so resolved to do so too. There was
a beautiful ideal in your mind ; I saw it j that was
my mother ! . . .

— The "Elizabeth" in the next passage is, of
course. Miss E. P. Peabody.

"... Who, I pray, is D. C. ? Is he one of the
many lame, halt, forlorn, poverty-stricken mortals,
whom you and Elizabeth, in the infinite scope of your
pity, sympathy, and hospitality, take in from the
highways, because they have no other roof to cover
them ? — because you are so rich, and have so much
leisure, and so much room, and so much linen and
sumptuous fare, to bestow ? I think that if you are
obliged to leave your great menagerie, general hospi-
tal, Universal Sun, and final depot, then this dismal
world, with its throngs of miserable ones, had better
strike sail in the vast sea of space and sink, to rise no
more, into some horrid vacuum. I declare, if all the

LENOX. 381

nations of the earth — of each of which Elizabeth has
certainly befriended and aided in sore distress one
representative at least — do not come to kneel, like
Flaxman's ' Aria/ and devoutly thank her, with tears
of gratitude, I shall think there is no grace in Chris-
tendom. As I sit and look on these mountains, so
grand and flowing in the illimitable, aerial blue, be-
yond and over, I seem to realize with peculiar force
that bountiful, fathomless heart of Elizabeth, forever
disappointed, but forever believing; sorely rebuffed,
yet never bitter ; robbed day by day, yet giving again
from an endless store; more sweet, more tender,
more serene, as the hours pass over her, though they
may drop gall instead of flowers upon this unguarded
heart. . . ."

— " The House of the Seven Gables " was written
in about five months, which indicates pretty close
application, even leaving out of account its extraor-
dinary excellence as an achievement of thought and
art; but Hawthorne himself seems to have considered
that he worked rather slowly. While he was en-
gaged upon it, Mr. Emerson wrote to him in behalf
of a new magazine which was in contemplation.

Concord, December, 1850.

My deae Hawthorne, — Mr. George Bradburn,
better known, I think, in the sectarian and agitation
than in the literary world, desires to try his luck in
solving that impossible problem of a New England
magazine. As I was known to be vulnerable, that is,

382 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

credulous, on that side, 1 was attacked lately by Hil-
dreth (of U. S. History) and urged to engage in it. I
told him to go to Lowell, who had been for a year
meditating the like project; that I wished a magazine,
but would not think of an experiment and a failure ;
that if he would assure himself, before he began,
of ths co-operation of Hawthorne, Cabot, Thoreau,
Lowell, Parker, Holmes, and whatever is as good,
— if there be as good, — he should be sure of
me. So I promised nothing. A few days ago (hav'
ing heard nothing further for three weeks), I had a
letter from Theodore Parker desiring me to write to
you and ask your interest and co-operation in Mr.
Bradburn's magazine, and to assure you that all
articles are to be paid for. So I hope, since they
proceed so gently, you will not be taught to deny
them, but will let them lay siege to your heart with
their soft approaches. A good magazine we have not
in America, and we are all its friends beforehand. If
they win you, I shall think a great point is gained.
Yours affectionately,

R W. Emerson.

— But Hawthorne, having once experienced the
scope and freedom of the novel, had ceased to measure
himself out in the short lengths of magazine stories ;
the rather as his experience of that sort of publica-
tion had not been, from the pecuniary point of view,
very felicitous. He stuck to his Romance, accord-
ingly; and presently his wife was able to write:—

LENOX. 383

January 27, 1851.
. . . "The House of the Seven Gables" was fin-
ished yesterday. Mr. Hawthorne read me the close,
last evening. There is unspeakable grace and beauty
in the conclusion, throwing back upon the sterner
tragedy of the commencement an ethereal light, and
a dear home-loveliness and satisfaction. How you
wUl enjoy the book, — its depth of wisdom, its high
tone, the flowers of Paradise scattered over all the
dark places, the sweet wall-flower scent of Phoebe's
character, the wonderful pathos and charm of old
Uncle Venner. I only wish you could have heard
the Poet sing his own song, as I did; but yet the
book needs no adventitious aid, — it makes its own
music, for I read it all over again to myself yesterday,
except the last three chapters. . . .

— And three weeks later : —

February 12, 1851.

Mr. Hawthorne goes to the village for his proofs.
They began to come last Saturday; and when he
finds one or more, he remains at the post-of&ce and
corrects them, and puts them directly back into the
mail. The book is stereotyped, and the printer.? are
going on very fast. The publishers wish to get it out
by March. They say they have already orders from
all parts for it. . . .

— In fact, the demand was large; and good reports
of the book soon began to come in from all quarters.
A review, somewhat extravagant in its terms, was

384 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

published ia the " Literary World," and was enclosed
to Hawthorne by Longfellow in this cordial note : —

Nahant.

My dear Hawthorne, — I suppose some other
friend has already sent you the enclosed notice of
yourself and your writings ; but it is good enough to
have two copies of it. I have rarely seen a more
appreciating and sympathizing critic ; and though I
do not endorse all he says about others, I do endorse
all he says about you.

I hear that you are delightfully situated in Berk-
shire. I hope you are as fully aware of your own
happiness, and are enjoying the liberty and air of
the mountains, as we are those of the seaside.

A letter from you would be very welcome ; a visit,
still more so. With kind remembrances to you and
your wife from me and mine.

Ever truly,

H. W. L.

— Something of the character of this notice may
be gathered from the following passage in a letter of
Mrs. Peabody's : —

"... I carried the 'Literary World' to Aunt
Eawlins. She agreed in the main with the reviewer,
but thought he had injured the subject by saying
too much. 'No man of common-sense,' she said,
■would seriously name Mr. Hawthorne, deserving as
he is of respect and admiration, in the same day with
Shakspeare. Shakspeare ! the greatest man that ever
lived; great in everyway, — in science, in knowledge

LENOX. 385

of human nature, in poetic fire, in historic knowledge,
in taste, in imagination, — to compare any one to
Shakspeare argues ignorance, and only injures the
friend he is attempting to serve.' So said that
lady."

— It is certainly not necessary to the vindication
of Hawthorne's fame to bracket him with Shakspeare ;
and to the man himself the idea must have appeared
too absurdly monstrous to be understood otherwise
than as covert satire, or at least as the ravings of
well-meaning imbecility. Shakspeare might not have
been able to treat the subjects which Hawthorne
treated, with more insight and power than he ; but,
on the other hand, it is certain that Hawthorne could
not, under any circumstances, have written a page of
any one of Shakspeare's better-known plays. Such
comparisons, however, are not worth the ink that
traces them. The single .pure ray of the American
Eomancer's genius is just as precious, in itself, as any
one of the thousand-hued emanations of the great
Poet of the world; for both are truth.

A far more sagacious and poignant discussion of
the subject was contributed by Herman Melville in a
letter, part of which has already appeared in print.

PiTTSFiBLD, Wednesday morning.

Mt dear Hawthorne, — Concerning the young

gentleman's shoes, I desire to say that a pair to fit him,

of the desired pattern, cannot be had in all Pitfcsfield,

— a fact which sadly impairs that metropolitan pride

VOL. r. 25

386 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

I formerly took in the capital of Berkshire. Hence-
forth Pittsfield must hide its head. However, if a
pair of lootees will at all answer, Pittsfield will be very
happy to provide them. Pray mention all this to
Mrs. Hawthorne, and command me.

"The House of the Seven Gables: A Eomance.
By Nathaniel Hawthorne. One vol. 16mo, pp. 344."
The contents of this book do hot belie its rich, clus-
tering, romantic title. With great enjoyment we
spent almost an hour in each separate gable. This
book is like a fine old chamber, abundantly, but still
judiciously, furnished with precisely that sort of furni-
ture best fitted to furnish it. There are rich hangings,
wherein are braided scenes from tragedies! There
is old china with rare devices, set out on the carved
buffet ; there are long and indolent lounges to throw
yourself upon ; there is an admirable sideboard, plen-
tifully stored with good viands ; there is a smell as
of old wine in the pantry ; and finally, in one corner,
there is a dark Httle black-letter volume in golden
clasps, entitled "Hawthorne: A Problem." It has de-
lighted us ; it has piqued a re-perusal ; it has robbed
us of a day, and made us a present of a whole year
of thoughtfulness ; it has bred great exhilaration and
exultation with the remembrance that the architect
of the Gables resides only six miles off, and not
three thousand miles away, in England, say. We
think the book, for pleasantness of running interest,
surpasses the other works of the author. The cur-
tains are more drawn; the sun comes in more; geniali-

LENOX. 387

ties peep out more. Were we to particularize what
most struck us in the deeper passages, we would
point out the scene where Clifford, for a moment,
would fain throw himself forth from the window to
join the procession; or the scene where the judge
is left seated in his ancestral chair. Clifford is full
of an awful truth throughout. He is conceived in
the finest, truest spirit. He is no caricature. He is
Clifford. And here we would say that, did circum-
stances permit, we should like nothing better than to
devote an elaborate and careful paper to the full con-
sideration and analysis of the purport and significance
of what so strongly characterizes all of this author's
writings. There is a certain tragic phase of humanity
which, in our opinion, was never more powerfully
embodied than by Hawthorne. We mean the trage-
dies of human thought in its own unbiassed, native,
and profounder workings. We think that into no
recorded mind has the intense feeling of the usable
truth ever entered more deeply than into this man's.
By usable truth, we mean the apprehension of the
absolute condition of present things as they strike
tiie eye of the man who fears them not, though they
do their worst to him, — the man who, like Eussia
or the British Empire, declares himself a sovereign
nature (in himself) amid the powers of heaven, hell,
and earth. He may perish ; but so long as he exists
he insists upon treating with all Powers upon an
equal basis. If any of those other Powers choose
to withhold certain secrets, let them ; that does not

388 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE

impair my sovereignty in myself; that does not make
me tributary. And perhaps, after all, there is no
secret. We incline to think that the Problem of the
Universe is like the Freemason's mighty secret, so
terrible to all children. It turns out, at last, to con-
sist in a triangle, a mallet, and an apron, — nothing
more ! We incline to think that God cannot explain
His own secrets, and that He would like a little infor-
mation upon certain points Himself. We mortals
astonish Him as much as He us. But it is this Being
of the matter; there lies the knot with which we
choke ourselves. As soon as you say Me, a God, a
Nature, so soon you jump off from your stool and
hang from the beam. Yes, that word is the hang-
man. Take God out of the dictionary, and you would
have Him in the street.

There is the grand truth about Nathaniel Haw-
thorne. He says NO ! in thunder ; but the DevU
himself cannot make him say yes. For aU men who
say yes, lie; and all men who say no, — why, they are
in the happy condition of judicious, unincumbered
travellers in Europe; they cross the frontiers into
Eternity with nothing but a carpet-bag, — that is to
say, the Ego. Whereas those yes-gentry, they travel
with heaps of baggage, and, damn them ! they will
never get through the Custom House. What's the
reason, Mr. Hawthorne, that in the last stages of
metaphysics a fellow always falls to swearing so ? I
could rip an hour. You see, I began with a little
criticism extracted for your benefit from the " Pitts-

LENOX. 389

field Secret Eeview," and here I have landed in
Africa.

Walk down one of these mornings and see me.
No nonsense; come. Eemember me to Mrs. Haw-
thorne and the children.

H. Melville.

P. S. The marriage of Phoebe with the daguerreo-
typist is a fine stroke, because of his turning out to
be a Maule. If you pass Hepzibah's cent-shop, buy
me a Jim Crow (frqsh) and send it to me by Ned
Higgins.

— Meanwhile Hawthorne had been writing as fol-
lows to his sister Elizabeth : —

Lenox, March 11, 1851.
Dear E., — I wish you or Louisa would write
to us once in a while, without waiting for regular
responses on our part- Sophia is busy from morning
till night, and I myself am so much occupied with
pen and ink that I hate the thought of writing
except from necessity. My book will be out about
the 20th instant, and I have directed two copies to
be sent to the care of Mr. Dike. You can dispose
of them both as you like ; but I should think it best
to let him have one. The book, I think, has more
merit than " The Scarlet Letter ; " but it will hardly
make so much noise as that. All the copies to which
I am entitled (only six) of the new edition of "Twice-
Told Tales " have been sent here. If possible, I will
keep one for you till I come to Salem, or till Louisa

390 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

or you come here. At any rate, I will bring you a
proof copy of the portrait, which is finely engraved.
I am terribly bothered with literary people, who send
me their books and expect mine in return.

I trust that you have been at work on the transla-
tion of Cervantes' Tales. It appears to me that there
can be hardly any doubt of success and profit from it.

It is my purpose to come to Boston (and of course
to Salem) some time in June. Until then, I cannot
possibly leave home, as our cottage is very lonely,
and it would not be safe to go without leaving some-
body here to take care of the family. So I mean to
take advantage, for that purpose, of a projected visit
from Dr. Peabody. We have spent a very pleasant
winter; and upon the whole, I think that the best
time for living in the country is the winter. I hope
tliat one of you two will come to see us, after my
return. The children would be delighted, and it
would afford Sophia great pleasure.

Write me what you think of " The House of the
Seven Gables."

Yours affectionately, K H.

— In the spring of the year, James Eussell Lowell
sent this careful and cordial definition of his views
upon the subject : —

Cambridge, April 24, 1851.

Mt dear Hawthoene, — I have been so delighted
with "The House of the Seven Gables" that I cannot
help sitting down to tell you so. I thought I could

LENOX. 391

not forgive you if you wrote anything better than
" The Scarlet Letter ; " but I cannot help believing it
a great triumph that you should have been able to
deepen and widen the impression made by such a
book as that. It seems to me that the " House " is
the most valuable contribution to New England his-
tory that has been made. It is with the highest art
that you have typified (in the revived likeness of
Judge Pyncheon to his ancestor the Colonel) that in-
timate relationship between the Present and the Past
in the way of ancestry and descent, which historians
so carefully overlook. Yesterday is commonly looked
upon and written about as of no kin to To-day, though
the one is legitimate child of the other, and has its
veins filled with the same blood. And the chapter
about Alice and the Carpenter, — Salem, which would
not even allow you so much as Scotland gave Burns,
will build you a monument yet for having shown that
she did not hang her witches for nothing. I suppose
the true office of the historian is to reconcile the pres-
ent with the past.

I think you hardly do justice (in your preface to
"Twice-Told Tales") to your early reception. The
augury of a man's popularity ought to be looked for
in the intensity and not the vulgarity of his apprecia-
tion. However, I shall take to myself a dividend of
the blessing you vouchsafe to the earlier acolytes ; for
I became a disciple in my eighteenth year, which, as
Mabel says of day before yesterday, is " Oh, e-e-ever
eo long ago ! "

392 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

" The House of the Seven Gables " (or " Gabbles,"
as a foreign friend of mine calls it, converting it into
a kind of new tower of Babel) is, I suppose, the old
Curwin House in Salem. If so, I flatter myself with
a vague sort of ancestral credit in the book, and brag
everywhere of my descent from the widow of the very
Curwin who built it (I believe), and whose (the wid-
ow's) maiden name was Hathorne.

Waiting for the next, I remain

As ever your sincere friend,

J. R. Lowell.

— The hypothesis as to the identity of the Curwin
House with that of the Seven Gables brings to mind
a controversy as stale as Egyptian mummy and as
interminable as breathing. Did, or did not, the
House of the Seven Gables have a prototype ? Were,
or were not, Zenpbia and Margaret Fuller one and
the same person? For my part, I should be loath
to deprive of any part of their chosen occupation the
worthy people who prosecute such inquiries ; and
although I am in possession of indubitable evidence
on both of the above points (as well as on a dozen
other and similar ones), the promulgation of which
would forever set all conceivable doubts at rest, I
shall, for that very reason, forbear to say one word
on either side. Let the controversy go on, and the
innocent controversialists be happy.

Sometimes letters came to Hawthorne from persons
entirely unknown to him, save for that one utterance

LENOX. 393

of gratitude and appreciation ; and such letters have
a value to an author as great sometimes, in its way,
as the applause of friends and rivals. There is more
likelihood of sincerity, and less of self-interest, in the
former case than in the latter, always provided, of
course, that the unknown admirer does not betray a
desire for an " autograph." Out of many tributes of
this kind I select the following : —

Haetfoed, Conn., April 10, 1851.
Mk. Hawthorne, — An invalid, I dare address you;
for I say, though my dearest author in the world is
very wise, he will not disdain my heartfelt, grateful
words. As a sick child will be petted, so, nothing
fearing, I write to you ; for indeed I must tell you
how much I thank you — no, that I cannot ; yet you
have afforded so many pleasant hours to me, — one
wee one among the thousands. All the long after-
noon with grim Cousin Hepzibah and sunshiny Phoebe
in the dark gabled house I have been so happy (Phoebe,
so like my best friend Genie !), have quite forgotten
pain ; and though mother says, " Your cheeks are
flushed, put away the book ! " it is all for pure, deep
joy, I am sure. May that joy you give to every one
return to you fourfold ! May God bless you forever
and ever !

Ever your humble, loving admirer,

Sallie Litchfield,

394 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

— This is rather sickly-sentimental, and it is more
than easy to laugh at it ; but Hawthorne would have
worked just as hard, and been just as glad, to give
genuine pleasure to Sallie Litchfield as to Lowell,
Melville, or Emerson, — the last of whom, by the
way, was never able to complete the perusal of any
of Hawthorne's stories.

In May, 1851, Mrs. Hawthorne's second daughter
was born ; and about a month before that event she
wrote as follows to her mother : —

Lenox, April 13, 1851.
My dearest Mother, — The precious words I
received from you last evening went to my inmost
heart, and I must answer them. How much in little
you say ! I am so glad you feel serenely about my
little " flower," for it was a very great grievance to
me not to tell you of such an expected happiness ;
but I did not want you to be anxious, and I thought
it would save your fear if I should not let you know
anything tiU I could write you that I had multiplied
my powers of loving you by a whole new soul in a
new form. I am in perfect health, and, now that
you are recovering from your attack, again in perfect
happiness. After such a winter and spring as I have
passed, of tranquil and complete joy, with mountain
air and outlines to live upon, I do not see how this
new Hawthome-bud can be otherwise than a lovely
and glad existence.

Your child. Sophia

LENOX. 395

— Tlie birth of the new baby, and other matters,
are touched upon in this letter from Hawthorne to
bis sister Louisa.

Lenox, May 20, 1851.

Dear L., — You have another niece. She made
her appearance this morning at about three o'clock,
and is a very promising child, kicking valiantly
and crying most obstreperously. Her hair, I un-
derstand, is very much the tinge of Una's. Sophia
is quite comfortable, and everything is going on
well.

Judging by your long silence, you will not take
much interest in the intelligence, nor in anything
else which concerns us. I should really like to hear
from you once or twice in the course of a twelve-
month. Dr. Peabody (who is now here) says that
you called in West Street, some time ago ; this is our
latest news of you. How did you like " The House
of the Seven Gables " ? Not so well as " The Scarlet
Letter," I judge, from your saying nothing about it.
I receive very complimentary letters from poets and
prosers, and adoring ones from young ladies; and
I have almost a challenge from a gentleman who com-
* plains of me for introducing his grandfather. Judge
Pyncheon. It seems there was really a Pyncheon
family formerly resident in Salem, and one of them "
bore the title of Judge, and was a Tory at the time
of the Eevolution, — with which facts I was entirely
unacquainted. I pacified the gentleman by a letter,

396 HAWTHORNE -AND HIS WIFE.

Have you seen a horrible wood engraving of me,
which, with as horrible a biography, has been circu-
lating in the magazines and newspapers ?

I am a little worn down with constant work (for
I cannot afford any idle time now), but am pretty
well, and expect to be greatly refreshed by my visit
to the sea.

Affectionately,

Nath. Hawthorne.

P. S. Ticknor & Co. want to publish a volume
of my tales and sketches not hitherto collected.
If you have any, or can obtain them, pray do so.
Can you make me a black silk stock, to be ready
when I come ? To whom is Dora married, and how
is she making out ?

— After finishing "The House of the Seven Gables,"
Hawthorne allowed himself a vacation of about four
months; and there is every reason to suppose that
he enjoyed it. He had recovered his health, he had
done his work, he was famous, and the region in
which he dwelt was beautiful and inspiriting. At
all events, he made those spring days memorable to
his children. He made them boats to sail on the lake,
and kites to fly in the air; he took them fishing
and flower-gathering, and tried (unsuccessfully for
the present) to teach them swimming. Mr. Melville
used to ride or drive up, in the evenings, with his
great dog, and the children used to ride on the dog's

LENOX. 397

back. In short, the place was made a paradise for
the small people. In the previous autumn, and still
more in the succeeding one, they all went nutting,
and filled a certain disused oven in the house with
such bags upon bags of nuts as not a hundred chil-
dren could have devoured during the ensuing winter.
The children's father displayed extraordinary activity
and energy on these nutting expeditions ; standing
on the ground at the foot of a tall walnut-tree, he
would bid them turn their backs and cover their eyes
with their hands ; then they would hear, for a few
seconds, a sound of rustling and scrambling, and,
immediately after, a shout, whereupon they would
uncover their eyes and gaze upwards ; and lo ! there
was their father — who but an instant before, as it
seemed, had been beside them — swaying and soar-
ing high aloft on the topmost branches, a delightful
mystery and miracle. And then down would rattle
showers of ripe nuts, which the children would dili-
gently pick up, and stuff into their capacious bags.
It was all a splendid holiday ; and they cannot re-
member when their father was not their playmate,
or when they ever desired or imagined any other
playmate than he.

Nevertheless, he must sometimes have benefited
other people with his companionship, unless he inva-
riably refused invitations like this : —

Dear Mk. Hawthobne, — I write you a few lines
in case I should not find you at home to-day, in

398 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

order to ask you to come over on Tuesday next with
your two young people. We are going to have a
little haymaking after the olden fashion, and a sylla-
bub under the cow ; hoping not to be disturbed by
any of your grim old Puritans, as were the poor folks
of Merrymount. By the way, you do not do your-
self justice at all in your preface to the " Twice-Told
Tales," — but more on that subject anon from
Yours truly,

G. P. E. James.

— But it was with Herman Melville that Haw-
thorne held the most familiar intercourse at this time,
both personally and by letter. Subjoined are two
characteristic disquisitions by the author of " Moby
Dick;" but Hawthorne's answers, if he wrote any,
were unfortunately destroyed some years ago.

PiTTSFiELD, June 29, 1851.

My dear Hawthorne, — The clear air and open
■window invite me to write to you. For some time
past I have been so busy with a thousand things that
I have almost forgotten when I wrote you last, and
whether I received an answer. This most persua-
sive season has now for weeks recalled me from cer-
tain crotchety and over-doleful chimeras, the like of
which men like you and me, and some others, form-
ing a chain of God's posts round the world, must be
content to encounter now and then, and fight them
the best way we can. But come they will, — for in
the boundless, trackless, but still glorious wild wilder-

LENOX. 399

ness through which these outposts run, the Indians
do sorely abound, as well as the insignificant but still
stinging mosquitoes. Since you have been here, I
have been building some shanties of houses (con-
nected with the old one) and likewise some shanties
of chapters and essays. I have been ploughing and
sowing and raising and printing and praying, and
now begin to come out upon a less bristling time,
and to enjoy the calm prospect of things from a fair
piazza at the north of the old farmhouse here.

Not entirely yet, though, am I without something
to be urgent with. The " Whale " is only half
through the press ; for, wearied with the long delays
of the printers, and disgusted with the heat and dust
of the Babylonish brick-kiln of New York, I came
back to the country to feel the grass, and end the
book reclining on it, if I may. I am sure you will
pardon this speaking all about myself; for if I say so
much on that head, be sure all the rest of the world
are thinking about themselves ten times as mucli.
Let us speak, though we show all our faults and
weaknesses, — for it is a sign of strength to be weak,
to know it, and out with it ; not in set way and
ostentatiously, though, but incidentally and without
premeditation. But I am falling into my old foible, —
preaching. I am busy, but shall not be very long.
Come and spend a day here, if you can and want to ;
if not, stay in Lenox, and God give you long life.
When I am quite free of my present engagements, I
am going to treat myself to a ride and a visit to you.

400 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Have ready a bottle of brandy, because I always feel
like drinking that heroic drink when we talk onto-
logical heroics together. This is rather a crazy let-
ter in some respects, I apprehend. If so, ascribe it,
to the intoxicating effects of the latter end of June
operating upon a very susceptible and peradventure
feeble temperament. Shall I send you a fin of the
" Whale " by way of a specimen mouthful ? The
tail is not yet cooked, though the hell-fire in which
the whole book is broiled might not unreasonably
have cooked it ere this. This is the book's motto
(the secret one), Hgo non haptiso te in nomine —
but make out the rest yourself. H. M.

My DEA.R Hawthorne, — I should have been rum-
bling down to you in my pine-board chariot a long
time ago, were it not that for some weeks past I have
been more busy than you can well imagine, — out of
doors, — building and patching and tinkering away in
all directions. Besides, I had my crops to get in, —
corn and potatoes (I hope to show you some famous
ones by and by), — and many other things to attend
to, all accumulating upon this one particular season.
I work myself; and at night my bodily sensations are
akin to those I have so often felt before, when a hired
man, doing my day's work from sun to sun. But I
mean to continue visiting you until you tell me that
my visits are both supererogatory and superfluous.
With no son of man do I stand upon any etiquette or
ceremony, except the Christian ones of charity and

LENOX. 401

honesty. I am told, my fellow-man, that there is an
aristocracy of the brain. Some men have boldly
advocated and asserted it. Schiller seems to have
done so, though I don't know much about him. At
any rate, it is true that there have been those who,
while earnest in behalf of political equality, still ac-
cept the intellectual estates. And I can well per-
ceive, I think, how a man of superior mind can, by
its intense cultivation, bring himself, as it were, into
a certain spontaneous aristocracy of feeling, — exceed-
ingly nice and fastidious, — similar to that which, in
an English Howard, conveys a torpedo-fish thrill at
the slightest contact with a social plebeian. So, when
you see or hear of my ruthless democracy on all sides,
you may possibly feel a touch of a shrink, or some-
thing of that sort. It is but nature to be shy of a
mortal who boldly declares that a thief in jail is as
honorable a personage as Gen. George Washington.
This is ludicrous. But Truth is the silliest thing un-
der the sun. Try to get a living by the Truth — and
go to the Soup Societies. Heavens ! Let any cler-
gyman try to preach the Truth from its very strong-
hold, the pulpit, and they would ride him out of his
church on his own pulpit bannister. It can hardly
be doubted that all Eeformers are bottomed upon the
truth, more or less ; and to the world at large are not
reformers almost universally laughing-stocks ? Why
so ? Truth is ridiculous to men. Thus easily in my
room here do I, conceited and garrulous, revere the
test of my Lord Shaftesbury.
TOL. I. 26

402 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

It seems an inconsistency to assert unconditional
democracy in all things, and yet confess a dislike to
all mankind — in the mass. But not so. — But it 's
an endless sermon, — no more of it. I began by say-
ing that the reason I have not been to Lenox is this, —
in the evening I feel completely done up, as the phrase
is, and incapable of the long jolting to get to your
house and back. In a week or so, I go to New York,
to bury myself in a third-story room, and work and
slave on my " Whale " while it is driving through the
press. That is the only way I can finish it now, — I
am so pulled hither and thither by circumstances.
The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood
in which a man ought always to compose, — that, I
fear, can seldom be mine. Dollars damn me ; and
the malicious Devil is forever grinning in upon me,
holding the door ajar. My dear Sir, a presentiment
is on me, — I shall at last be worn out and perish,
like an old nutmeg-grater, grated to pieces by the
constant attrition of the wood, that is, the nutmeg.
What I feel most moved to write, that is banned, —
it will not pay. Yet, altogether, write the other way
I cannot. So the product is a iinal hash, and aU my
books are botchps. I 'm rather sore, perhaps, in this
letter ; but see my hand ! — four blisters on this palm,
made by hoes and hammers within the last few days.
It is a rainy morning ; so I am indoors, and all work
suspended. I feel cheerfully disposed, and therefore
I write a little bluely. Would the Gin were here !
If ever, my dear Hawthorne, in the eternal times that

LENOX. 403

are to come, you and I shall sit down in Paradise, in
some little shady corner by ourselves ; and if we shall
by any means be able to smuggle a basket of cham-
pagne there (I won't believe in a Temperance Heaven),
and if we shall then cross "our celestial legs in the
celestial grass that is forever tropical, and strike our
glasses and our heads together, till both musically
ring in concert, — then, 0 my dear fellow-mortal,
how shall we pleasantly discourse of all the things
manifold which now so distress us, — when all the
earth shall be but a reminiscence, yea, its final dis-
solution an antiquity. Then shall songs be com-
posed as when wars are over; humorous, comic
songs, — " Oh, when I lived in that queer little hole
called the world," or, " Oh, when I toiled and sweated
below," or, " Oh, when I knocked and was knocked
in the fight" — yes, let us look forward to such
things. Let us swear that, though now we sweat,
yet it is because of the dry heat which is indispen-
sable to the nourishment of the vine which is to
bear the grapes that are to give us the champagne
hereafter.

But I was talking about the "Whale." As the
fishermen say, "he's in his flurry" when I left him
some three weeks ago. I 'm going to take him by
his jaw, however, before long, and finish him up in
some fashion or other. "What 's the use of elaborat-
ing what, in its very essence, is So short-lived as a
modern book ? Though I wrote the Gospels in this
century, I should die in the gutter. — I talk all about

404 HA WTHORNE AND mS WIFE.

myself, and this is selfishness and egotism. Granted.
But how help it ? I am writing to you ; I know
little about you, but something about myself. So I
write about myself, — at least, to you. Don't trouble
yourself, though, about writing; and don't trouble
yourself about visiting ; and when you do visit,
don't trouble yourself about talking. I will do all
the writing and visiting and talking myself. — By
the way, in the last " Dollar Magazine " I read " The
Unpardonable Sin.'' He was a sad fellow, that
Ethan Brand. I have no doubt you are by this time
responsible for many a shake and tremor of the
tribe of " general readers." It is a frightful poetical
creed that the cultivation of the brain eats out the
heart. But it 's my prose opinion that in most cases,
in those men who have fine brains and work them
well, the heart extends down to haras. And though
you smoke them with the fire of tribulation, yet, like
veritable hams, the head only gives the richer and
the better flavor. I stand for the heart. To the
dogs with the head ! I had rather be a fool with a
heart, than Jupiter Olympus with his head. The
reason the mass of men fear God, and at bottom dis-
like Him, is because they rather distrust His heart,
and fancy Him all brain like a watch. (You per-
ceive I employ a capital initial in the pronoun
referring to the Deity ; don't you think there is a
slight dash of fluilkeyism in that usage ?) Another
thing. I was in New York .for four-and-twenty
hours the other day, and saw a portrait of K. H.

LENOX. 405

And I have seen and heard many flattering (in a
publisher's point of view) allusions to the " Seven
Gables." And I have seen "Tales," and "A New
Volume " announced, by 'S. H. So upon the whole,
I say to myself, this N. H. is in the ascendant. My
dear Sir, they begin to patronize. All iFame is
patronage. Let ime be infamous: there is no pat-
ronage in that. What "reputation" H. M. has is
horrible. Think of it ! To go down to posterity is
bad enough, any way; but to go down as a "man
who lived among the cannibals " ! When I speak of
posterity, in reference to myself, I only mean the
babies \vho will probably be born in the moment
immediately ensuing upon my giving up the ghost.
I shall go down to some of them, in all likelihood.
" Typee " will be given to them, perhaps, with their
gingerbread. I have come to regard this matter of
Fame as the most transparent of all vanities. I read
Solomon more and more, and every time see deeper
and deeper and unspeakable meanings in him. I
did not think of Fame, a year ago, as I do now.
My development has been all within a few years
past. I am like one of those seeds taken out of the
Egyptian Pyramids, which, after being three thou-
sand years a seed and nothing but a seed, being
planted in English soil, it developed itself, grew to
greenness, and then fell to mould. So I. Until I
was twenty-five, I had no development at all. From
my twenty-fifth year I date my life. Three weeks
have scarcely passed, at any time between then

406 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and now, that I have not unfolded within myself.
But I feel that I am now come to the inmost leaf of
the bulb, and that shortly the flower must fall to the
mould. It seems to me now that Solomon was the
truest man who ever spoke, and yet that he a little
managed the truth with a view to popular conser-
vatism; or else there have been many corruptions
and interpolations of the text. — In reading some
of Goethe's sayings, so worshipped by his votaries', I
came across this, " Idve in the all." That is to say,
your separate identity is but a wretched one, — good;
but get out of yourself, spread and expand yourself,
and bring to yourself the tinglings of life that are
felt in the flowers and the woods, that are felt in
the planets Saturn and Venus, and the Fixed Stars.
What nonsense ! Here is a fellow with a raging
toothache. " My dear boy," Goethe says to him,
" you are sorely afflicted with that tooth ; but you
must live in the all, and then you will be happy ! "
As with all great genius, there is an immense deal
of flummery in Goethe, and in proportion to my own
contact with him, a monstrous deal of it in me.

H. Melville.

P. S. " Amen !" saith Hawthorne.

N. B. This " all " feeling, though, there is some
truth in. You must often have felt it, lying on
the grass on a warm summer's day. Your legs seem
to send out shoots into the earth. Your hair feela
like leaves apon your head. This is the all feeling.
But what plays the mischief with the truth is that

LENOX. 407

men wiU insist upon the universal application of a
temporary feeling or opinion.

P. S. You must not fail to admire my discretion
in paying the postage on this letter.

— Mr. Melville was probahly quite as entertaining
and somewhat less abstruse, when his communications
were by word of mouth. Mrs. Hawthorne used to
tell of one evening when he came in, and presently
began to relate the story of a fight which he had seen
on an island in the Pacific, between some savages, and
of the prodigies of valor one of them performed with
a heavy club. The narrative was extremely graphic ;
and when Melville had gone, and Mr. and Mrs. Haw-
thorne were talking over his visit, the latter said,
" Where is that club with which Mr. Melville . was
laying about him so ? " Mr. Hawthorne thought
he must have taken it with him ; Mrs. Hawthorne
thought he had put it in the corner ; but it was not to
be found. The next time Melville came, they asked
him about it ; whereupon it appeared that the club
was still in the Pacific island, if it were anywhere.

In June, Hawthorne began the "Wonder-Book,"
which is less known than it ought to be ; for in sim-
plicity and eloquence of style, and in lovely wealth
of fancy and imagination, it is equal to anything
he produced. Before the book was in the printer's
hands, the children could repeat the greater part of
it by heart, from hearing it read so often, — as had
before been the case with " The Snow Image," — and

40a HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

even now, entire passages linger in their memory. It
was written rapidly, and with great enjoyment on the
author's part ; being the only book he ever published
which has not a gloomy page in it, though even here
— in "The Chimsera," for example — there are the
springs of quiet tears. But the humor, throughout,
is exquisite ; and though the sentiment often mounts
to heaven, like Bellerophon's winged steed, it never
outsoars the comprehension of the simplest child.

The book was finished in the first week of July,
1851 ; and Hawthorne again wrote to Louisa as fol-
lows : —

Lenox, July 10, 1851.

Dear L., — If yon have any of the magazine arti-
cles, mentioned in my last, I wish you would have
them sent to B., as he is going to send a package
to me within a week or two. The cravat, if ready,
might be sent too ; but perhaps it would be better to
keep it till I come, for fear of its being jammed.

I have been too busy, lately, to write. The truth
is, the pen is so constantly in my fingers that I
abominate the sight of it. I have written a book for
children, two or three hundred pages long, since the
first of June. Sophia is likewise too busy to write
even to her own family. By the by, it was not she,
but myself, who wrote to Mrs. Poote.

Sophia will probably go to West Newton in the
course of two or three weeks (some time in August,
at all events) to see her mother. She will take the
baby and Una, and leave Julian here under my charge
If you want to see the baby before next year, you

LENOX. 40a

must make arrangements to do it then. The Boston
establishment is broken up, so that you cannot see
her there ; and unless Miss Eawlins Pickman should
ask her to Salem, I see no way but for you to go to
West Kewton. You can get out there and back any
hour in the day.

The baby flourishes, and seems to be the brightest
and strongest baby we have had. She grows prettier,
but cannot be called absolutely beautiful. Her hair,
T think, is a more decided red than Una's. As for
Una, she is as wild as a colt, and freckled and tanned
so that you would hardly know her. Julian has
grown enormous, but otherwise looks pretty much
the same as he used to do.

Three or four editions of my two romances have
been published in London at prices varying from one
shilling to five shillings. Mrs. Kemble writes that
it has produced a greater sensation than any book
since " Jane Eyre," and advises that I take out my
copyrights there.

I think we shall remoA^e to Mrs. Kemble's cottage
in the course of the autumn ; for this is certainly the
most inconvenient and wretched little hovel that I
ever put my head in. Mrs. Kemble's has not more
rooms, but they are larger, and perfectly convenient.
She offers it to me, ready furnished, for the same
price that I pay here. Last year she offered it for
nothing, but I declined the terms. I shall regret the
prospect from the windows of this house (for it is
the most beautiful in Berkshire), but nothing else.

I have received a letter from Elizabeth (a good

410 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

while ago, however), and should have answered it if I
had had time. Send this to her. I want much to see
her, and talk over her plans and prospects, and should
come eastwards for that purpose, if for nothing else.
Possibly I may come immediately after Sophia's re-
turn ; but I rather think I may put it off till after
our removal. Affectionately, E". H.

P. S. If the articles are in magazines or volumes,
you had better cut them out, in order to get them
within smaller compass. I do not intend to publish
anything from the " American Magazine." N. H.

— Mrs. Hawthorne and her two daughters now
set forth on their journey to their relatives in the
East, leaving Hawthorne and his son, and the old
negro cook, Mrs. Peters, — a stern and incorruptible
African, and a housekeeper by the wrath of God, —
to get along together for three weeks, as best they
might. It must have been weary work, sometimes,
for Hawthorne, though for the little boy it was one
uninterrupted succession of halcyon days. A detailed
narrative of their adventures was written, day by day,
by the father, and would make a volume of upwards
of a hundred pages, — as unique and quaint a little
history as was ever seen. I have brought together
a few representative extracts, taken from here and
there.

Twenty Days with Julian and Bunny.

Lenox, July 28, 1851. — At seven o'clock, A. M.,
■wife, Una, and Eosebud took their departure, leaving
Julian and me, and Mrs. Peters (the colored lady who

LENOX. 411

does our cooking for us), and Bunny, the rabbit, in
possession of the Eed Shanty. Bunny does not turn
out to be a very interesting companion, and makes
me more trouble than he is worth. There ought to
be two rabbits, in order to bring out each other's
remarkable qualities, if any there be. Undoubtedly,
they have the least feature and characteristic promi-
nence of any creature that God has made. With no
playfulness, as silent as a fish, inactive, Bunny's life
passes between a torpid half-slumber, and the nib-
bling of clover-tops, lettuce, plantain leaves, pig-weed,
and crumbs of bread. Sometimes, indeed, he is seized
with a little impulse of friskiness ; but it does not
appear to be sportive, but nervous. Bunny has a
singular countenance, like somebody's I have seen,
but whose, I forget. It is rather imposing and aris-
tocratic, at a cursory glance ; but, examining it more
closely, it is found to be laughably vague. I am
strongly tempted of the Evil One to murder him
privately; and I wish with all my heart that Mrs.
Peters would drown him.

Julian had a great resource in my jack-knife, which,
being fortunately as dull as a hoe, I have given him
to whittle with. So he made what he called a boat,
and covered the floor of the boudoir with chips, twice
over ; and finds such inexhaustible amusement, that
I think it would be cheaply bought with the loss of
one or two of his fingers. . . .

29^A.. — A cool, breezy morning, with sunshine
glimpsing through sullen clouds, which seemed to

412 HAWTHORNE AND IIIS WIFE.

hang low, and rest on the ridges of the hills that bor-
der the valley. After breakfast, we took Bunny out
of doors, and put him down on the grass. Bunny
appears to most advantage out of doors. His most
interesting trait is the apprehensiveness of his nature;
it is as quick and as continually in movement as an
aspen leaf. The least noise startles him, and you
may see his emotion in the movement of his ears; he
starts, and scrambles into his little house, but in a
moment peeps forth again and begins nibbling the
grass and weeds, — again to be startled and as quickly
reassured. Sometimes he sets out on a nimble little
run, for no reason, but just as a dry leaf is blown
along by a puff of wind. I do not think that these
fears are any considerable torment to Bunny; it is
his nature to live in the midst of them, and to inter-
mingle them, as a soijt of piquant sauce, with every
morsel he eats. It is what redeems his life from
dulness and stagnation. Bunny appears to be un-
easy in broad and open sunshine; it is his impulse
to seek shadow, — the shadow of a tuft of bushes, or
Julian's shadow, or mine. He seemed to think him-
self rather too conspicuous — so important a personage
as he is — in the breadth of the yard, and took vari-
ous opportunities to creep into Julian's lap. At last,
the northwest wind being cool to-day, and especially
so when one of the thousand watery clouds intercepts
the sun, we aU three came in. This is a horrible,
horrible, most hor-ri-ble climate ; one knows not, for
ten minutes together, whether he is too cool or too

LENOX. 413

warm; but he is always one or the other, and the
constant result is a miserable disturbance of the
system. I detest it ! I detest it ! ! I detest it ! ! !
I hate Berkshire with my whole soul, and would joy-
fully see its mountains laid flat. Be it recorded that
here, where I hoped for perfect health, I have for the
first time been made sensible that I cannot with
impunity encounter Nature in all her moods. . . .

After dinner (roast lamb for me and boiled rice for
Julian), we walked down to the lake. On our way,
we waged war with the thistles, which represented
many-headed hydras and dragons, and on tall mul-
leins, which passed for giants. One of these latter
offered such sturdy resistance, that my stick was
broken in the encounter; and so I cut it off of a
length suitable to Julian, who thereupon expressed
an odd entanglement of sorrow for my loss and joy
for his own gain. As I lay on my back, looking up-
wards through the branches of the trees, Julian spent
nearly a quarter of an hour, I- should think, beating
down a single great muUein-stalk. He certainly does
evince a persevering purpose, sometimes". We strolled
through the woods, among the tall pillars of those
primeval pines, and thence home along the margin
of a swamp, in which I gathered a sheaf of cat-tails.
The heavy masses of cloud, lumbering about the sky,
threw deep black shadows on the sunny hillsides, so
that the contrast between the heat and the coolness of
the day was thus visibly expressed. The atmosphere
was particularly transparent, as if all the haze was

414 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

collected into these dense clouds. Distant objects
appeared with great distinctness; and the Taconic
j'ange of hills was a dark blue substance, — not
cloud-like, as it often is. The sun smiled with mel-
low breadth across the rippling lake, — rippling with
the northwestern breeze. Julian was never out of
spirits, and is certainly as happy as the day is long.
He is happy enough by himself; and when I sympa-
thise, or partake in his play, it is almost too much,
and he .nearly explodes with laughter and delight.

Little Marshall Butler has been to inquire whether
" the bird " has come yet. I have seldom suffered
more from the presence of any individual than from
that of this odious little urchin. Julian took no more
notice of him than if he had not been present, but
went on with his talk and occupations, displaying an
equanimity which I could not but envy. He abso-
lutely ignores him ; no practised man of the world
could do it better, or half so well. After forging
about the room and examining the playthings, Mar-
shall took himself off. . . .

ZQth. — Bilnny has grown quite familiar, and comes
hopping to meet us, whenever we enter the room, and
stands on his hind legs to see whether we have any-
thing for him. Julian has changed his name (which
was Spring) to Hindlegs. One finds himself getting
rather attached to the gentle little beast, especially
when he shows confidence and makes himself at
home. , . .

We walked to the village for the mail, and on our

LENOX. 415

way back we met a wagon in which sat Mr. G. P. E.
James, his wife and daughter, who had just left their
cards at our house. Here ensued a talk, quite pleas-
ant and friendly. He is certainly an excellent man ;
and his wife is a plain, good, friendly, kind-hearted
woman, and his daughter a nice girl. Mr. James
spoke of " The House of the Seven Gables " and of
"Twice-Told Tales," and then branched off upon
English literature generally.

Proceeding homeward, we were overtaken by a cav-
alier on horseback, who saluted me in Spanish, to
which I replied by touching my hat. But, the cava-
lier renewing his salutation, I regarded him more
attentively, and saw that it was Herman Melville !
So we all went homeward together, talking as we
went. Soon Mr. Melville alighted, and put Julian
in the saddle ; and the little man was highly pleased,
and sat on the horse with the freedom and fearlessness
of an old equestrian, and had a ride of at least a mile
homeward. I asked Mrs. Peters to make some tea
for Herman Melville, and so she did ; and after sup-
per I put Julian to bed, and Melville and I had a
talk about time and eternity, things of this world and
of the next, and books, and publishers, and all possi-
ble and impossible matters, that lasted pretty deep
into the night. At last he rose, and saddled his
horse and rode off to his own domicile, and I went to
bed. . . .

I forgot to say that before supper Mr. Tappan came
in, with three or four volumes of Fourier's works, which

416 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

I wished to borrow, with a view to my next romance
[Blithedale]. . . .

Slst. — Bunny ate a leaf of mint to-day, seemingly
with great relish. It makes me smile to see how he
invariably comes galloping to meet me, whenever I
open the door, making sure that there is something in
store for him, and smelling eagerly to find out what
it is. He eats enormously, and I think has grown
considerably broader than when he came hither. The
mystery that broods about him — the lack of any
method of communicating with this voiceless creature
— heightens the interest. Then he is naturally so
full of little alarms, that it is pleasant to find him
free of them as to Julian and myself.

In the morning, for the first time since some im-
memorial date, it was really quite pleasant; not a
cloud to be seen, except a few white and bright streaks,
far off to the southward. Monument Mountain, how-
ever, had a fleece of sun-brightened mist, entirely cov-
ering it, except its western summit, which emerged.
There were also mists along its western side, hover-
ing on the tree-tops ; and portions of the same mist
had flitted upwards, and become real clouds in the
sky. These vapors were rapidly passing away, and
by the time we had done our errand (to Luther But-
ler's for the milk) they had wholly disappeared. . . .

I have sent Bunny over to Mr. Tappan's, in the
hope that they may adopt him, as the excellejit little
animal, for whom I have a great regard, is not exactly
suited to be an occupant of our sitting-room. He has,

LENOX.- 417

however, very pleasant little ways, and a character
well worth studying. He has grown quite familiar
with us, and seems to show a fondness for our society,
and would always seat himself near us, and was atten-
tive to all our motions. He has too, I think, a great
deal of curiosity, and an investigating disposition, and
is very observant of what is going 9n around him. I
do not know any other beast, and few human beings,
who, always present, and thrusting his little paw into
all the business of the day, could at the same time be
so perfectly unobtrusive. What a pity that he could
not put himself under some restraint and rule as to
certain matters !

Augiist 5. — For several days past I have been
out of order with a cold, but it seems now to have
passed away. As I was sitting in the boudoir this
morning, Mrs. Peters came in, and said that a lady
wished to see me. The visitor was a lady, rather
young,, and quite comely, with pleasant and intelli-
gent eyes, in a pretty Quaker dress. She offered me
her hand, and spoke with much simplicity, but yet in
a ladylike way, of her interest in my works, and of
Lowell, Whittier, James, Melville, the scenery, and of
various other matters. Her manners were very agree-
able ; the Quaker simplicity and the little touch of
Quaker phraseology gave piquancy to her refinement
and air of society. She had a pleasant smile, and
eyes that readily responded to one's thought, so that
it was not difi&cult to talk with her ; a singular, but
yet a gentle freedom in expressing her own opinions ;

VOL. I. 27

418 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

an entire absence of afifectation; and, on the whole, it
was the only pleasant visit I ever experienced in my
capacity as author. She did not bore me with lauda-
tions of my own writings, but merely said that there
are some authors with whom we feel ourselves privi-
leged to become acquainted, by the nature of our sym-
pathy with their writings, — or something to that
effect.

AH this time Julian was climbing into my lap and
off again. She smiled on him, and inquired whether
he looked like his mother, remarking that he had no
resemblance to myself. Finally she rose to depart,
and I ushered her to the gate, where, as she took
leave, she told me her name, — Elizabeth Lloyd, —
and, bidding me farewell, she went on her way, and
I saw her no more. . . .

It has been quite showery this afternoon; and
across our valley, from east to west, there was a heavy
canopy of clouds, almost resting on the hills on
either side. It did not extend southward so far as
Monument Mountain, which lay in sunshine, and
with a sunny cloud midway on its bosom ; and from
the midst of our storm, beneath our black roof of
clouds, we looked out upon this bright scene, where
the people were enjoying beautiful weather. The
clouds hung so low over us, that it was like being in
a tent, the entrance of which was drawn up, per-
mitting us to see the sunny landscape. This lasted
for several minutes; but at last the shower stretched
southward, and quite snatched away Monument

LENOX. 419

Mountain, and made it invisible. Now it is mistily
reappearing.

Julian has got rid of the afternoon in a miscella-
neous manner; making a whip, and a bow-and-arrow,
a,nd playing Jackstraws with himself as an antag-
onist. It was less than an hour, I think, after
dinner, -when he began to bellow for something to
eat, although he dined abundantly on rice and
string-beans. I allowed him a slice of bread in the
middle of the afternoon ; and an hour afterwards, he
began to bellow at the full stretch of his lungs for
more, and beat me terribly because I refused it.
He is really as strong as a little giant. He asked
me just now, "What are sensible questions?" — I
suppose with a view to asking me some. . . .

After a most outrageous resistance, the old gentle-
man was put to bed at seven o'clock. I ought to
mention that Mrs. Peters is quite attentive to him, in
her grim way. To-day, for instance, we found two
ribbons on his straw hat, which must have been of
her sewing on. She encourages no familiarity on his
part, nor is he in the least drawn towards her ; nor, on
the other hand, does he exactly seem to stand in awe ;
but he recognizes that there is to be no comnmnication
beyond the inevitable, — and, with that understanding,
she awards him all substantial kindness. . . .

August 8. — To-day, Herman Melville and the two
Duyckincks came in a barouche, and we all went
to visit the Shaker establishment at Hancock. I
don't know what Julian expected to see, — some

420 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

strange sort of quadruped or other, I suppose, — and
probably be was a little disappointed when I pointed
out an old man in a gown and a gray, broad-brimmed
hat, as a Shaker. The old man was one of the
Fathers and rulers of the community, and under his
guidance we visited the principal dwelling-house
of the village. It was a large brick edifice, with
admirably contrived arrangements, floors and walls
of polished woods, and everything so neat that it was
a pain and constraint to look at it ; especially as it
did not imply any real delicacy or moral nicety, in
the occupants of the house. There were spittoons
(bearing no appearance of ever being used, it is true)
at equal distances up and down the broad entries.
The sleeping-apartments of the two sexes had an
entry between them, on one side of which hung the
hats of the men, on the other side the bonnets of the
women. In each chamber were two particularly nar-
row beds, hardly wide enough for one sleeper, but in
each of which, the old Elder told us, two persons
slept. There were no bathing or washing conven-
iences in the chambers ; but in the entry there was
a sink and washboard, where all their attempts at
purification were to be performed. This fact shows
that aU their miserable pretence of cleanliness and
neatness is the thinnest superficiality, and that the
Shakers are, and must needs be, an unwashed set.
And then their utter and systematic lack of privacy
is hateful to think of. The sooner the sect is extinct,
the better, I think.

LENOX. 421

In the great house we saw an old woman — a
round, fat, cheerful little old sister — and two girls,
from nine to twelve years old; these looked at us
and at Julian with great curiosity, though slyly and
with side glances. At the doors of other dwellings
we saw women sewing and otherwise at work ; and
there seemed to be a kind of comfort among them,
but of no higher kind than is enjoyed by their beasts
of burden. Also, the women were mostly pale, and
none of the men had a jolly aspect. They are cer-
tainly the most singular and bedevilled set of people
that ever existed in a civilized land. . . .

Coming home, we mistook our way, and the drive
was by far the most picturesque I have seen in
Berkshire. On one height, just before sunset, we
had a view for miles and miles around, with the
Catskills blue and far on the horizon. Then the
road ran along the verge of a deep gulf,- — deep, deep,
deep, and filled with foliage of trees that could not
half reach up to us ; and on the other side of the
chasm uprose a mountainous precipice ; but there
were occasional openings through the forest, as we
drove along, showing the low country at the base of
the mountain. I had no idea that there was such
a region within a few miles of us.

By and by. Monument Mountain and Eattlesnake
Hill became visible, and we found we were approach- ,
ing Lenox from the west, and must pass through the
village in order to reach home. I got out at the post-
office, and received a letter from Phoebe. By the time

422 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

we were out of the village, it was beyond twilight ;
indeed, but for the full moon, it would have been
quite dark. The little man behaved himself still
like an old traveller ; but sometimes he looked round
at me from the front seat, and smiled at me with a
peculiar expression, and put back his hand to touch
me. It was a method of establishing sympathy in
what doubtless appeared to him the wildest and un-
precedentedest series of adventures that had ever
befallen mortal travellers. Anon, we drew up at the

little gate of the old red house

August 9. — We arose at about seven. I felt the
better for the expedition; and, asking Julian whether
he had a good time, he answered with- great enthu-
siasm in the affirmative, and that he wanted to go
again, and that he loved Mr. Melville as well as me
and as mamma and as Una.

. . . The rain was pouring down, and from all the
hillsides mists were steaming up, and Monument
Mountain seemed to be enveloped as if in the smoke
of a great battle. During one of the heaviest showers
of the day there was a succession of thundering
knocks at the front door. On opening it, there was
a young man on the doorstep, and a carriage at the
gate, and Mr. James thrusting his head out of
the carriage window, and beseeching shelter from the
..storm! So here was an invasion. Mr. and Mrs.
James, their eldest son, their daughter, their little
son Charles, their maid-servant, and their coachman ;
— not that the coachman came in; and as for the

LENOX. 423

maid, she stayed in the hall. Dear me ! where was
Phoebe ia this time of need ? All taken aback as I
was, I made the best of it. Julian helped me some-
what, but not much. Little Charley is a few months
younger than he, and between them they at least
furnished subject for remark. Mrs. James, luckily,
happened to be very much afraid of thunder and
lightning; and as these were loud and sharp, she
might be considered hors da combat. The son, who
seemed to be about twenty, and the daughter, of
seventeen or eighteen, took the part of saying noth-
ing, which I suppose is the English fashion as regards
such striplings. So Mr. James was the only one to
whom it was necessary to talk, and we got along
tolerably well. He said that this was his birthday,
and that he was keeping it by a pleasure-excursion,
and that therefore the rain was a matter of course.
We talked of periodicals, English and American, and
of the Puritans, about whom we agreed pretty well
in our opinions; and Mr. James told how he had
recently been thrown out of his wagon, and how the
horse ran away with Mrs. James; and we talked
about green lizards and red ones. And Mr. James
told Julian how, when he was a child, he had twelve
owls at the same time; and, at another time, a raven,
who used to steal silver spoons and money. He also
mentioned a squirrel, and several other pets ; and
Julian laughed most obstreperously.

As to little Charles, he was much interested with
Buniiy (who has been returned to us from the Tap-

424 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE

pans' somewhat tlie worse for wear), and likewise
with the rocking-horse, which lackUy happened to
be in the sitting-room. He examined the horse
most critically, and finally got upon his back, but
did not show himself quite so good a rider as Julian.
Our old boy hardly said a word. Finally the shower
passed over, and the invaders passed away ; and I do
hope that on the next occasion of the kind my wife
will be there to see. . . .

August 14. — Going on our usual milky way this
morning, we saw a dim rainbow. I fear, from subse-
quent and present appearances, that it was prophetic
of bad weather for the day. At breakfast, Julian
observed some cake which Mrs. Peters had set on the
table for me; whereupon he became discontented
■with his own breakfast, and wanted something differ-
ent from the ordinary bread and milk. I told him
that his bread had yeast in it; and he forthwith
began to eat it with a great appetite, and thought it
better than any he ever tasted. . . .

In the afternoon, Julian insisted that we should
, go down to the lake; so away we went, and he was in
the highest possible exhilaration, absolutely tumbling
down with laughter, once or twice, on small cause.
On reaching the lake, he sobered himself, and began
to angle, with his customary beanpole and bent pin,
and with all the staidness of an ancient fisherman.
By this time it clouded over, and the lake looked
wild and angry, with the gusts that swept across it
... On our way home, we seated ourselves on some

LENOX. 425

logs, and the old boy said that one of these logs was
Giant Despair, and that the old giant was dead ; and
he dug a shallow hole, which he said should be the
giant's grave. I objected that it was not half large
enough; but he informed me that Giant Despair
grew very small, the moment he was dead. ... It
was nearly five when we reached home, and within
an hour, surely, or very little more, Phcebe cannot
fail to shine upon us. It seems absolutely an age
since she departed. I think I hear the sound of
wheels now. It was not she.

MgM, P. M. — Inconceivable to tell, she did not
come ! I set out for the post-office ; it was a clear
and beautiful sunset, with a brisk, Septemberish tem-
perature. To my further astoundment, I found no
letter; so that I conclude she must, after all, have
intended to come to-day. It may be that there was a
decided rain, this morning, in the region round about
Boston, and that this prevented her setting out. . . .

August 15. — We did not get up till seven this
morning. It was very clear, and of autumnal fresh-
ness, with a breeze from the northwest. On our walk
this morning, we met three ladies on horseback ; and
the little man asked me whether I thought the ladies
pretty, and said that he did not They really were
rather pretty, in my opinion ; but I suspect that their
appearance on horseback did not suit his taste; and
I agree with him that a woman is a disagreeable
spectacle in such an attitude. But the old boy is
very critical in matters of beauty ; although I think

426 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the real ground of his censures lies in some wrong
done to his sense of propriety and fitness. Por in-
stance, he denied that the Quaker lady who called
on me was pretty ; and it turned out that he did not
like the unaccustomed fashion of her dress, and her
thees and thous. . . .

Bunny is evidently out of order. He appeared to
be indisposed yesterday, and is still more evidently
so to-day. He has just had a shivering fit. Julian
thinks he has the scarlet fever ; that being the only
disease with which he was ever conversant. . . .

Mr. Ward has just been here, expecting to find
Phcebe had arrived yesterday. This heightens the
mystery. Elizabeth wrote me that he would escort
her on Wednesday. He was prevented from coming
on that day, but supposed she would have come on
Thursday. Where can she be ? . . .

I put Julian to bed, and went to the village. Still
no letter from Sophie. I think she must have been
under some mistake as to Mr. Ward's movements,
and has waited in expectation of his escort. I spent
the evening reading newspapers. To bed, disconso-
late, a little before ten.

August 16. — On entering the bathing-room this
morning, I peeped into Bunny's cage, with something
like a foreboding of what had happened; and, sure
enough, there lay the poor little beast, stark and stiff.
That shivering fit, yesterday, had a very fatal aspect
in my eyes. I have no idea what was his disorder ;
his symptoms had been a disinclination, for the last

LENOX. 427

two days, to move or eat. Julian seems to be inter-
ested and excited by the event, rather than afflicted.
He imputed it, as he does all other mishaps, to the
agency of Giant Despair; and as we were going for
the milk, he declared it was the wickedest thing the
giant ever did. . •. . After breakfast, we dug a hole,
and we planted poor Bunny in the garden. Julian
said, "Perhaps to-morrow there will be a tree of
Bunnies, and they will hang all over it by their ears."
I have before this observed that children have an
odd propensity to treat death as a joke, though rather
nervously. He has laughed a good deal about Bunny's
exit. . . .

We went to the lake, in accordance with the old
boy's wish ; he had taken with him the little vessel
that his Uncle Nat had made for him long ago, and
which, since yesterday, has been his favorite play-
thing. He launched it upon the lake, and it looked
very like a real sloop, tossing up and down on the
swelling waves. I believe he would contentedly have
spent a hundred years or so, with no other amuse-
ment than this. I meanwhile took the "National
Era" from my pocket, and gave it a pretty attentive
perusal. I have before now experienced that the
best way to get a vivid impression and feeling of a
landscape is to sit down before it and read, or be-
come otherwise absorbed in thought ; for then, when
your eyes happen to be attracted towards the land-
scape, you seem to catch Nature at unawares, and see
her before she has time to change her aspect. The

428 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

effect lasts but for a single instant, and passes away
almost as soon as you are conscious of it ; but it ia
real for that moment. It is as if you could overbear
and understand wbat tbe trees are whispering to one
another; as if you caught a glimpse of a face un-
veiled, which veils itself from every wilful glance.
The mystery is revealed, and, after a breath or two,
becomes just as great a mj'^stery as before. I caught
one such glimpse, this forenoon, though not so per-
fectly as sometimes. It was half past twelve when
we got back. . . .

If Phoebe does not come to-day — well, I don't
know what I shall do.

It is nearly six by the clock, and they do not
come! Surely, they must, must, must be here to-
night !

Within a quarter of an hour after writing the
above, they have come, — all well ! Thank God !

— The " Wonder-Book " having been put forth, em-
bellished with some wonderful illustrations, amus-
ing to Hawthorne, but perplexing to his children, to
whom the text had suggested marvels quite different
from those of the artist, — this work having been
disposed of, nothing but a few months intervened
between the author and his third great Romance of
" HoUingsworth," or, as he finally resolved to call it,
" The Blithedale Romance." Meanwhile, however, he
removed from Lenox, and took a house within a few
miles of Boston.

LENOX. 429

In fact, after freeing himself* from Salem, Haw-
thorne never found any permanent rest anywhere.
He soon wearied of any particular locality. A nov-
elist would say that he inherited the roving disposition
of his seafaring ancestors. Partly necessity or con-
venience, but partly, also, his own will, drove him
from place to place ; always wishing to settle down
finally, but never lighting upon the fitting spot. In
America he moved from place to place and longed
for England. In England he travelled constantly
and looked forward to France and Italy. In Paris,
Eome, and Florence his affections reverted to Eng-
land once more ; but, having returned thither, he
made it but a stepping-stone to America. Finding
himself at length in Concord, he enlarged and refitted
the house he had previously bought there, and tried
to think that he was content to spend in it the re-
mainder of his days. 2^o sooner had he come to this
determination, however, than memories of England
possessed him more and more ; he mused about it,
wrote about it, and, till near the end, cherished a
secret hope that some happy freak of destiny might
lead him there again. And when it became evident
that destiny forbade such hopes, he made ready for
the longest journey of all. It was the only one to the
goal of which he could look forward with assured
confidence.

On the 21st of November, 1851, the family, with
their trunks, got into a large farmer's wagon, and
were driven to Pittsfield, leaving the little red house

430 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

empty behind them. It was a bleak day ; and one
of the party remembers that the five cats which had
been fellow inmates for many months, divining by
some inscrutable instinct that this departure was
final, and not merely a picnic or a visit, evacuated
the premises in a body, and scampered after the
wagon for about quarter of a mile. This brought
them to the ridge of a hill, from which the road
descended rapidly ; and upon this ridge the five cats
seated themselves in a row, and stared despairingly
after the rapidly receding vehicle. There they re-
mained, in motionless protest, outlined against the
sky, until distance blotted them from sight. A
snow-storm presently arose; and whether the five
cats returned to the deserted house, or perished in
the fury of the elements, or resumed their vain
pursuit of the wagon, can never be revealed. As
for the family, it reached West Newton that same
evening.

A more dismal and unlovely little suburb than
West Newton was in the winter of 1851 could not
exist outside of New England. It stood upon a low
rise of land, shelving down to a railway, along which
smoky trains screeched and rumbled from morning
till night. One of these trains had its smoke-stack
bound about with gayly colored bunting, for it was
carrying Louis Kossuth from New York to Boston.
A few days afterwards, one of the children remem-
bers being in a large hall, f uU of ladies and gentlemen ;
and the child's mother said, " Here comes Kossuth ! "

LENOX. 431

The child had a card in its hand, on which it had
printed with a pencil, " God bless you, Kossuth I "
and as the slender, dark, bearded gentleman drew
near, bowing and smiling, this document was pre-
sented to him. It was a tremendous moment in the
experience of the child, if not of the Hungarian pa-
triot, who, however, accepted the testimonial very
graciously.

Lenox was one of those places where a man might
be supposed to write because the beauty around him
wooed him to expression. West Newton was a
place where the omnipresent ugliness compels a man
to write in self-defence. Lenox drew forth "The
-House of the Seven Gables," and in West Newton
" The Blithedale Eomance " was composed ; from
which data the curious in such matters may conclude
which kind of environment is the more favorable to
the artist. The book was produced somewhere be-
tween the first of December and the last of April of
the next year, when the snow was lying a foot deep
on the ground. West Newton is not far from West
Eoxbury, where Brook Farm was situated ; and it is
possible that Hawthorne may have revisited the
place in his walks, in order to refresh his memory as
to the locality of his story ; though I should be in-
clined to think that he would carefully avoid thus
running the risk of disturbing the artistic atmos-
phere which had softened his ten years' recollection
of the spot.

But this chapter has grown to such length that

432 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

any remarks upon " Blithedale " must be deferred to
the next. West Newton, it may be remarked, was
only used as a temporary dwelling-place while some-
thing better was being looked for ; and it was upon
Concord that Hawthorne finally fixed his hopes.
He made inquiries of, among other persons, EUery
Channing, as to what prospect there was of getting a
house there; and EUery invited him to come and
talk it over, as may be gathered from the following
whimsical letters : —

Concord, Dec. 13, 1851.

My dear Hawthorne, — I am glad you have
shortened your longitude, and evacuated that devil-
ish institution of Spitzbergen, — that ice-plant of
Sedgwicks, etc. Good God ! to live permanently in
Iceland ! I know nothing of West Newton, and do "
not wish to know any more ; but it is further south
than the other, — a great advantage, — and you can
sell Old Boreas, lusty railer, etc.

I write to say that I have now a room at your
command, where perhaps you might make yourself
comfortable for a few days. Nobody at home but
myself, and a prospect of strong waters. It is so
damned near where yon live that perhaps you would
like to leave home, — always a devilish bore to me, at
any rate. I have got a good cook, and some wood ;
and you can have whole days, as I never dine before
five. There is only this, my dear fellow; and if you
will come, please let me know instanter, as next week
is the week I shall be ready for you.

LENOX. 433

Emerson is gone, and nobody here to bore you.
The skating is damned good.

Ever yours, W. E. 0.
K B. Pipes and old tobac no end.

— Hawthorne replied that his literary employ-
ments and domestic affairs would not allow him to
avail himself of Ellery's pipes and Mr. Emerson's
absence ; whereupon the eccentric poet entered into
a more detailed discussion of the situation.

Concord, Friday, Dec. 17, 1861.

Dear Hawthorne, — Your letter, received to-
night, got carried to hell before it got here, and the
Prince of Darkness interpolated a polite refusal to
my lively invitation. N"ow, by dint of swearing at
the cook, damning the butcher, breaking all the tem-
perance laws of the State, and exerting ourselves, I
doubt not I might have passed a profitable week,
to me.

But as you are sweating Eomances, and have got
that execrable bore, a small family, it is all right.
I am glad now you did not come. I was afraid you
would be disappointed if you had.

For my own part, I would infinitely rather settle
on the icy peak of Mt. Ararat than in this village.
It is absolutely the worst spot in the world. There
are so many things against it, that it would be useless
to enumerate the first. Among others, day before
yesterday, at six A. M., the thermometer was ten de-
grees below nothing. This is enough.

vol,. I. • 28

434 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

A good climate is a prime consideration to me.
Think of the climate of Venice, of Fie-all, of Cuba, of
Malaga, — the last best. I have been within about
six miles of the last city; behind it rise majestic
Sierras, before it glitters and dreams the blue Medi-
terranean, and the thermometer stands at 75° the

year round. 0 God ! what a contrast to this d d

place !

I have never lived in Alcott's place; but I judge
the thermometer there goes as low as anywhere else
in this country. Of course, that place you were at
was colder.

How would it do to have a house at Este, or on
the Gulf of Spezzia, as Shelley of drowned memory
did ? The rents are low, and living is cheap. Shel-
ley made good weather, by the aid of BjTon, Hunt,
Trelawney, Williams, and others. I fancy it would
not do to go alone among the peasantry; and you
might retire from the Domzilla with a knife in your
guts.

Mr. Lowell, whom I did not know, is somewhere
in that ilk, and Mr. Story, etc. But they keep at
Eome or Florence ; and the climate of Eome, though
mild, is aguish. So it is, absolutely, in Venice.

Self-exiled, etc., how would this seem ? The Ameri-
can stamp is pretty strong on you, and could you
feel at ease in European circumstances ? I disliked
Europe, alone, beyond description. You are such a
domestic affair, you would feel snug with your
family, etc.

LENOX. 435

What do you think of California ? Good climate,
but lots of blacklegs. I think a villa among the
Euganean Hills would be as good as anything. But it
requires a coal-hod of tin to make it work. Byron's
income was about $20,000 a year.

Affectionately yours,

W. E. C.

— As there was no immediate prospect of realizing
the Gulf of Spezzia, or even California, Hawthorne
finally decided to buy Mr. Alcott's house in Concord,
together with the twenty acres or thereabouts of ara-
ble and wooded land belonging to it. But he wisely
waited until June before entering on possession of
it; for there are days in that month when the climate
of Concord seems almost as Paradisiacal as that of
Malaga or the Euganean Hills.

436 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

CHAPTER IX.

CONCORD.

When Hawthorne went to Lenox, after Madame
Hawthorne's death, the household in Mall Street was,
. of course, broken up ; and his two sisters, Elizabeth
and Louisa, were established, the latter with her rela-
tives in Salem, the former ill lodgings in a farmer's
family on the sea-coast not far from Salem, where
she lived, in perfect contentment, for more than thirty
years, a life the solitude of which would have killed
most women in as many days. Beyond the members
of the farmer's family (who could be her associates
only in the most literal sense) she very seldom saw
or communicated with any one. She got up at noon
every day, walked or read till two in the morning,
and then all was darkness and silence till noon again.
Her health was always perfect, both of mind and
body ; and she not only kept abreast of all that was
going on in the great world, but was to the end of
her life a keen and sagacious critic of American and
European public men and politics. I mention this
because, from the purely intellectual point of view,
she bore a very striking resemblance to her brother ;
and this resemblance will be made to appear more
fully in a subsequent portion of the present work.

CONCORD. 437

Before Hawthorne left Berkshire, his sister Louisa
had spoken of Elizabeth in the letter which follows : —

. Salem, August, 1850.

Deae Sophia, — ... Elizabeth is very pleasantly-
situated in Manchester. We searched the country
round for her, but did not find just the right place
till five or six weeks ago. She has a large room,
with a good bathing-room, and a very large closet all
to herself; two of her windows look to the ocean,
and one to a wooded hill. It is very retired, and
but a short distance to the beach. They are good
and kind people, and the living is very good. You
seem in great admiration at Elizabeth's sitting at the
table with the family, and ascribe it to Mrs. Dike's
persuasion. But it was not even necessary to request
it; Elizabeth did it as a matter of course. What
should you say to see her go to church ? She actually
did go several times while she was here. I was afraid
she would forget herself and speak in meeting, but she
only made up a face at me when I looked at her.

I suppose you know that Mr. Upham is nominated
for Congress in the place of Mr. King. The papers
are full of his praises, and speak of his public ser-
vices and private virtues as if such things were ! I
suppose he will be elected. Give my love to Nathan-
iel. If he only did know how I want to see him, —
but it is not to be told how much ! How does he look
now ? I suppose the children are tanned brown :
how does it become them ? Do you think you shall

438 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

come to Boston in the autumn ? I want to hear from
you exceedingly, and hope you will find or make
time to write to me very soon. Good-by.
Yours ever,

M. L. Hawthorne.

And Elizabeth herself wrote, some time after-
wards : —

MONTSERKAT, May 3.

Deae Beotheb, — Your letter gave me an unex-
pected pleasure, for I really had but little hope of
ever hearing from you again. I wish I could see the
children, especially Una ; I cannot bear the idea of
their ceasing to be children before I see them. "Why
cannot you bring Una with you ? I thank you for
your invitation, but I do not like to go further from
home than I can walk.

I have read " The House of the Seven Gables,'' as
everybody else has, with great delight. People who
abjure, upon principle, all other works of fiction,
make an exception of yours. I cannot tell whether
I prefer it to " The Scarlet Letter," and there is no
need of drawing a comparison. The chapter entitled
"Governor Pyncheon" seems to me unequalled, in its
way, by anything I can remember ; and little Pearl,,
too, is unique, — perfectly natural, but unlike any
other child, uuless it be Una. Louisa says that
Judge Pyncheon is supposed to be Mr. Upham. I
do not know Mr. Upham, but I imagined him to be
a much more insignificant person, — less weighty in
every sense. There may be some points of resem-

CONCORD. 439

blance, such as the warm smiles, and the incident
of the daguerreotype bringing out the evil traits of
his character, and his boasts of the great influence
he had exerted for Clifford's release. The greatest
charm of both books, for me, is the perfect ease and
freedom with which they seem to be written; it is
evident that you stand in no awe of the public, but
rather bid it defiance, which it is well for all authors,
and all other men, to do.

I stayed in Manchester from July to November, at
a place called Kettle Cove. It is a spot of peculiar
characteristics. Few people are born there, and few
die ; and they enjoy uninterrupted health. The very
old go off from a sense of propriety, to make room
for those who have a right to their places. They are
more susceptible of enjoyment than any people I
have ever met with ; they wander about in the woods,
and pick berries, and fish, and congregate together to
eat chowders in the open air^ on the grass, — old men
and women seventy and eighty years of age, and
those of all intermediate ages down to two or threa
I never knew before how much beauty and variety
a mist, brightened by sunshine, can impart to a land-
scape. The hills and the houses at a distance look as if
they were based on air. There is a house in the Cove
which I think would have suited you ; you certainly
must have been happier near the sea. I would never
go out of the sound of its roar if I could help it.

There are many advantages in my present position
at Montserrat I can lose myself in the woods by

440 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

only crossing the road, and the air is very pure and
exhilarating, and the sea but a mile distant. I have
been very busy about "Cervantes's Tales." I want
to consult you about what I think a few necessary
alterations, when you come.

Yours, E. M. H.

— Kear the beginning of 1852 Hawthorne sent a
presentation copy of the " Seven Gables " to Wash-
ington Irving, who acknowledged the gift in this
amusingly courteous little note: —

My dear Sir, — Accept my most cordial thanks
for the little volume you have had the kindness to
send me. I prize it as the right hand of fellowship
extended to me by one whose friendship I am proud
and happy to make, and whose writings I have re-
garded with admiration as among the very best that
have ever issued from the American press.

Hoping that we may, have many occasions here-
after of cultivating the friendly intercourse which you
have so frankly commenced, I remain, with great
regard,

Your truly obliged

Washington Irving.

— Meanwhile one of his English admirers had

thus returned the compliment on Irving's behalf, as

it were : —

London, Nov. 6, 1851.

Dear Sir, — I have ventured to send you a little
book of mine, principally because it is a pleasure to

CONCORD. 441

me to do so, a little perhaps in the hope of pleasing
ymi. Being desirous of drawing closer the acquaint-
ance which I some time ago formed with you, through
the medium of Mrs. Butler, afterwards through your
books, I can hit upon no better method than this
that I have adopted. It is a long way to send such
a trifle ; but I foresee that you have more than even
the author's good-nature, and will accept graciously
my little venture.

Your two last books have become very popular
here. For my own part, I have read them with great
pleasure; and you wiR not be displeased, I think,
when I tell you that whilst I was reading your last
book ("The House with the Seven Gables"), the
turn of the thought or phrase often brought my old
friend Charles Lamb to my recollection.

I entertain the old belief that one may know a
good deal of an author (independently of his genius
or capacity, I mean) from his works. And if you
or Mr. Longfellow should assert that you are not
the men that you really are, why, I shall turn a
deaf ear to the averment, and put yo'a both to the
'proof.

Farewell, my dear sir! I wish you all possible
success in the world of letters, where you already
look so long-lived and robust, and in all other worlds
and circles where you desire to be held in affection
or respect.

Believe mo to be your very sincere

B. W. Peocter

442 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

— Not many months afterwards. Miss Botta wrote
to him, regarding a German translation of his works,
in these terms : —

Dresden, Steuve St., July 7, 1852.

Deak Sir, — A countryman of yours, Mr. Motley,
has given me your address so far that 1 hope this
letter will reach you. Since the appearance of " The
Scarlet Letter " in England, your name has become
familiar even to Germany ; two translations appeared
of it, but written by people who write by the hour
for their bread, and could not pay any attention to
the style. The purport of this letter is to ask you
whether you will kindly send us what you have
written before " The Scarlet Letter." An author who
will be one of us, we must know from the beginning
of his career, to foUow.him step by step, and see the
phases of his mind. You therefore would truly
oblige me by collecting what you think will form
in future times the complete edition of your works,
and forward them to my publisher, — the Chevalier
Dunker, in Berlin. And next to this, I should be
glad to have the proof sheets of your next work, to
prevent the professional translators from making a
job of it. You write as if you wrote for Germany.
The equality before the law — the moral law as well
as the juridical — is the great wish of the women of
my country; and you have illustrated this point with
the skill of an artist, and a deep knowledge of man's
secret motives and feelings. We know " The House
of the Seven Gables," which is a lesson to family

CONCORD. 445

pride, — a frailty which must lie deep in human
nature, since yoa have been able to trace it even in a
free country. What it is with us, with our old aris-
tocracy,— penniless beggars with long names, — you
scarcely can imagine. Nevertheless, such a picture
as you have drawn is a useful lesson, and will do
good here if known in the right quarter. This is
unfortunately not now the case, and it is the fault of
the translators. Your passages are long, you do not
write a racy style to carry on the reader, and in bad
language it is impossible to get on with it. Instead
of curtailing, they have spun out the matter, and
made two volumes of one ; and the consequence is
that the second remains unread. We must prevent
this for the future. Those who read English are
enchanted with it ; but their number is not large,
and ladies are almost alone proficient in foreign lan-
guages, and at the same time ladies have no position
in Germany.

Believe me that I truly appreciate your great tal-
ent, and sincerely wish that we might come to a soit
of fusion, and longed-for Literature of the World.
With great regard,

Amelie Botta.

— "The Blithedale Eomance" was especially for-
tunate in eliciting cordial letters of appreciation from
the author's friends, some of which are subjoined.
The first is from Mr. Pike, an old Salem friend of
Hawthorne, and a man of remarkable depth of mind

444 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

and tenderness of nature. He probably knew Haw-
thorne more intimately than any other man did ; for he
had the faculty of calling forth whatever was best and
profoundest in him. He was the son of a carpenter,
self-educated, and at one time filled a government
office in Salem. In religious belief he was a Sweden-
borgian. Personally, he was barely of the average
height, broad-shouldered, strongly built, with gray
hair and a short grizzled beard ; his eyes were dark,
with a peculiar warm glow; his expression grave,
gentle, and winning, and his voice low and deep.
There was something of the softer side of Hollings-
worth in him. Here is his letter : —

Salem, July 18, 1852.
Dear Hawthorne, — I want to come and see you,
add shall tell no one that I am going, nor, when I
return, that I have been. I have read your " Blithe-
dale Eomance." It is more like " The Scarlet Letter "
than "The House of the Seven Gables." In this
book, as in " The Scarlet Letter," you probe deeply, —
you go down among the moody silences of the heart,
and open those depths whence come motives that
give complexion to actions, and make in men what
are called states of mind; being conditions of mind
which cannot be removed either by our own reason-
ing or by the reasonings of others. Almost all the
novel-writers I have read, although truthful to nature,
go through only some of the strata ; but you are the
only one who breaks through the hard-pan, — who

CONCORD. 445

accounts for that class of actions and manifestations
in men so inexplicable as to call forth the exclama-
tion, " How strangely that man acts ! what a fool he
is ! " and the like. You explain, also, why the ut-
terers of such exclamations, when circumstances have
brought them to do the very things they once won-
dered at in others, feel that they themselves are act-
ing rationally and consistently. Love is undoubtedly
the deepest, profoundest, of the deep things of man,
having its origin in the depths of depths, — the inmost
of all the emotions that ever manifest themselves on
the surface. Yet writers seldom penetrate very far
below the outward appearance, or show its workings
in a wa)"- to account for its strange phases and fan-
cies. They say two young people fall in love, and
then expend their whole talents in describing the dis-
asters that attended them, and how many acts of
heroism they performed before accomplishing a mar-
riage union. My mother had a deep idea in her mind
when, in talking of incongruous unions, she would
say, " It requires deep thinking to account for fancy."
In " Blithedale," as in "The Scarlet Letter," you
show how such things take place, and open the silent,
unseen, internal elements which first set the machin-
ery in motion, which works out results so strange
to those who penetrate only to a certain depth in the
soul. And I intend this remark to apply not only
to love, but to other subjects and persons described
in these volumes. I sometimes wish I had the pen
of some, for I should like to lay open to the world

446 HAwrnoRNE and his wife.

my idea of love, clear to my own mind, but difficult
to communicate, — its profoundness, its elements; bow
't is a part of every man and woman ; how all other
loves, affections, benevolences, aspirations, gratitudes,
are from this same fountain ; receiving its character,
quality, and modification as it passes through the dif-
ferent avenues from the fountain to its object ; and
how the presence of each object calls forth through
its proper channel the love appropriate to itself, as
food in the stomach invites the gastric juices proper
to itself; how men and women are not perfect with-
out a true spiritual union with the opposite sexes;
how the divine nature, ever seeking to come down in
forms, cannot do so in making man alone or woman
alone, but, whenever it ultimates itself in humanity,
a man and a woman is made, — made to be one, and
would, in an unperverted state, find each other and
remain united forever. But this is not what I in-
tended to write about, — 't was " Blithedale." In
"Blithedale" you dig an Artesian well down among
the questionings. I was reminded of an Artesian well
opened by my neighbor, who, after boring through vari-
ous strata of earth and several fresh springs, found clear,
cold sea- water at the depth of two hundred feet, which
came bubbling to the surface from beneath the whole.
How little we on the upper crust imagined that, far
in the depths, was a stream which received its origin,
quality, and character from the mighty ocean, — or
fancied that, ere the stream we saw pouring forth
could be exhausted, the vast world of waters must be

CONCORD. 447

dried up! But so it is ; and the motive powers, like
pearls, shine far down in the deep waters, and we fail
to see them. You show us that such depths exist,
and how they operate through the different depart-
ments, till they reach the outward and become visible
actions. Thus the strange acts of men are in perfect
consistency with the individual self, — the profound
self. How admirably you explore those lurking-
places ! I think "Blithedale" more profound in max-
ims than any work of yours. They will be quoted in
the future as texts. You hit off the follies and errors
of man with a quick humor, as no other man does.
I cannot describe your humor, but I can feel and
enjoy it. This peculiarity of your writings I always
thought wonderful, but " Blithedale " I think excels
the others in this particular. It is sudden, bright,
but not flashy, — bright enough to make us feel our
frailties and weaknesses, yet not so painfully that we
hesitate to open our eyes and look again. You make
us think the more and resolve the better, because
the smart is not so sharp that we have to stop think-
ing to rub the wound. The best way I can describe
it is to say that it opens and shuts just like heat
lightning.

Tell your children that I have been thinking of
them ever since I sat down to write.

Your friend truly, Wm. B. Pike.

— Another characteristic letter is from George S
milard: —

448 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Boston, July 27, 1852.
My dear Hawthorne, — You have written an-
other book full of beauty and power, which I read
with great interest and vivid excitement. I hate the
habit of comparing one work of an author with an^
other, and never do so in my own mind. Many ot
you" readers go off in this impertinent way, at the
first, and insist upon drawing parallels between " The
Blithedale Eomance" and "The Scarlet Letter" or
" The House of the Seven Gables." I do not walk in
that way. It is enough for me that you have put
another rose into your ohaplet, and I will not ask
whether it outblooms or outswells its sister flowers.
Zenobia is a splendid creature, and I wish there were
more such rich and ripe women about. I wish, too, you
could have wound up your story without killing her,
or that at least you had given her a drier and hand-
somer death. Priscilla is an exquisite sketch. I don't
know whether you have quite explained Hollings-
worth's power over two such diverse natures. Your
views about reform and reformers and spiritual rap-
pings are such as I heartily approve. Eeforraers need
the enchantment of distance. Your sketches of things
visible, detached observations, and style generally,
are exquisite as ever. May you live a thousand
years, and write a book every year !

Yours ever, Geo. S. Hillard.

— Mrs. Peabody, in a letter to her daughter, men-
tions both the "Seven Gables" and "Blithedale."

CONCORD. 449

Boston.

. . . You remember that when I was ill in Boston
and needed watchers, I had " The House of the Seven
Gables " read to me five times, with increasing inter-
est. Recently I have read it again, and find that
till now I never realized its wonderful beauty and
power. What a vast amount of thought it has, in-
ducing lofty thoughts and high aspirations, — the
utterance of a pure and elevated soul, replete at the
same time with an enchanting playfulness of fancy,
which forces a smile amidst tears of admiration and
deep and touching pathos ! How natural, circum-
stanced as she was, are the feelings and actions of
good old Hepzibah, who was noble, with all her er-
rors. What a character is Phoebe ! and how exqui-
sitely blended in her are the usefulness and the
tenderness and refinement and poetry of a Christian
woman ! Your husband's books should not be read
merely, but, like the Book of books, be studied.

"I have also been re-reading " Blithedale." I won-
der that I could overlook, even at a first reading, the
exquisite instruction it conveys. The real philan-
thropist, the practical reformer, the friend of his race,
must be encouraged in his glorious course by reading
this book a second time ; and the Hollingsworths, the
Zenobias, the Fauntleroys, will read with awe the
fate that awaits selfishness and abused privileges.

— After finishing " Blithedale," Hawthorne had at
first intended writing another romance, — this time,
VOL. I. . 29

450 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

as he said, on some theme more cheerful than here-
tofore ; but he failed to find the mood or the opportun-
ity, and the project lapsed (as it turned out) forever.
Instead of it, however, he produced — in compliance
with many entreaties from young people, and also,
no doubt, because he enjoyed the work — a second
volume of " Wonder " stories, under the title of " Tan-
glewood Tales." I append a specimen of the num-
berless letters from children, urging him to this
congenial task : —

Boston, Deo. 14, 1851.

My dear Mr. Hawthorne, — I was so much
delighted with that Wonder-Book that I wish you
would write another like it. I hope you are having
a pleasant time at Lenox. I like the story of the
Chimsera, and so I did like the other stories. I saw
a good portrait of Jenny Lind, which Mrs. Ward
brought to this house the other day ; but I did not
hear her sing, because the tickets cost so much.
Your affectionate friend,

Charles S. Bowditoh.

P. S. Please direct the answer to J. J. Bowditch.

— The Wayside, in which the " Tanglewood Tales "
and the Life of Pierce were written, is by this time
tolerably familiar to sentimental pilgrims, not to
speak of the many printed descriptions which have
brought it before the mental eyes of those who are
content to take their sentiment at second hand.
There is, however, and probably there will always

CONCORD. ' 451

exist, in the public mind, a belief that the Way-
side and the Old Manse are one and the same
building ; and such persons as have ventured to in-
habit the former edifice since Hawthorne's death have
often found it difficult or impossible to convince
investigating travellers to the contrary. Nor is it
easy to overstate the indignation and resentment of
these same travellers, when an attempt is made to
insinuate the idea that the house may even now be
a private dwelling, not at all hours of the day and
night open to the inquisitive presence of strangers.
Be that as it may, a distance of about two miles sep-
arates the Wayside from the Old Manse, the latter
being situated on the banks of the river, while the
former is on the Boston highway, three quarters of a
mile beyond the home of Mr. Emerson. Originally
it was a small oblong structure, containing only four
or five rooms ; a mere box with a roof on it, like so
many other houses built in New England a hundred
and fifty years ago. When Mr. Alcott took posses-
sion of it, he put a gabled dormer window in front,
over the entrance, and added a wing to each side of
the building ; and these wings were rendered pictu-
resque by galleries — or "piazzas," as we call them
— supported by rustic pillars, across the front. The
barn was separate from the house, and stood against
the hill on the spectator's left. Hawthorne made no
alterations during his first occupancy ; but when he
returned from England in 1860, he moved the barn
to the other side of the house, and connected it with

452 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the wing on that side, added another story to the
other wing, built in two large rooms behind, and
surmounted the whole with the " tower," in the top
of which is the study where " Our Old Home " was
written. It was all painted a warm buff color, and
looks to-day almost precisely as it did then. The
hill and the surrounding grounds are, however, some-
what more thickly wooded than in those days ;
and the old picket fence and thickset hedge, which
in some measure protected it from the road, have
disappeared.

Though never so secluded as the Old Manse, it
was enough so for practical purposes ; and by ascend-
ing the hill, Hawthorne could withdraw himself from
approach as completely as if he were in the primeval
forests of Maine. Along the ridge of this hill, which
ran parallel with the road, it was his custom to walk
several hours each day, until a narrow path, between
two and three hundred yards in length, was worn
there by his footsteps ; and traces of it are still visible.
But more will be said of the Wayside in the second
volume of this work ; meanwhile let this suffice.

It had been arranged that Miss Louisa Hawthorne
was to make a visit at her brother's new home dur-
ing the summer of 1852. She was h lady of sociable
and gentle disposition, and a great favorite with the
children, as well as with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne.
She had never enjoyed robust health, however, and
had therefore been prevented from mingling, as much
as she would otherwise have done, with the friends

CONCORD. 453

who loved her and whom she loved. But now that
Hawthorne had a home of his own, it was hoped
that she might finally he enabled to take up her per-
manent residence there. She was expected to arrive
about the first of July, but was prevented, as the
following letter shows, by the illness of a relative.
The "Cardinal" and the "Chancellor" were two
friends of Hawthorne, whom it was the family cus-
tom to designate by these titles. The latter dignitary
was Mr. David Eoberts.

Salem, July 1, 1852.
My dear Brothee, — Mrs. Manning is very ill,
and I must put off coming to you till next week. I
am glad you like your house, and that you seem at
last to be settled. I heard of you in Boston, two or
three weeks ago, buying carpets. I should have been
afraid to trust you. The day I went to Boston I
encountered the Cardinal and the Chancellor in the
depot. The latter detained me to recount the glo-
rious career which was before you in the diplomatic
line, if General Pierce should be elected ; and he
stopped me in the street the next day to repeat the
list of offices. I remember being Minister to Eussia
was one of them. I, not by any means thinking office
the most direct path to glory for you, very coolly told
him I hoped you would have nothing to do with it.
I believe he thought I was very ridiculous. The
Cardinal desired that you might be told that he went
for General Pierce. I don't know where he will go
next ! He wished very much to see you, and will

454 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

meet you in Boston any day you may appoint. The
Democratic party must flourish if it has many more
such converts.

Yours affectionately, M. L. H.

— When Mrs. Manning recovered, which was in the
course of a week, Louisa further postponed her visit
in order to accompany another relative to Saratoga.
Here she remained two weeks, and then set out for
New York by way of the Hudson. The steamer on
which she embarked was the " Henry Clay," which,
it will be remembered, was burned when within a
short distance of its destination, on the 27th of July.
The news was soon published in New England ; but
it was not until the third day that Hawthorne learned
that Louisa had been among the passengers ; and
the letter which his wife wrote, a few hours later, to
her mother, bears traces of the agitation which the
intelligence had caused.

Concord, Friday morning, July 80, 1852.
My DEAREST Mother, — This morning we received
the shocking intelligence that Louisa Hawthorne was
lost in the destruction of the steamer "Henry Clay"
on the Hudson, on Wednesday afternoon, July 27.
She has been at Saratc^a Springs and with Mr. Dike
for a fortnight, and was returning by way of New
York, and we expected her here for a long visit. It
is dif&cult to realize such a sudden disaster. The
news came in an appalling way. I was at the toilet-

CONCORD. 455

table in my chamber, before seven o'clock, when the
railroad coach drove up. I was astonished to see Mr.
Pike get out. He left us on Monday morning, — two
days ago. It struck to my heart that he had come
to inform us of some accident. I knew how impos-
sible it was for him to leave his affairs. I called
from the window, " Welcome, Mr. Pike !" He glanced
up, but did not see me nor smile. I said, " Go to
the western piazza, for the front door is locked." I
continued to dress my hair, and it was a considerable
time before I went down. When I did, there was
no Mr. Pike. " Where is Mr. Pike ? — I must then
have seen his spirit," said I. But upon going to the
piazza, there he stood unaccountably, without en-
deavoring to enter. Mr. Hawthorne opened the door
with the strange feeling that he should grasp a hand
of air. I was by his side. Mr. Pike, without a smile,
deeply flushed, seemed even then not in his former
body. " Your sister Louisa is dead ! " I thought
he meant that his own sister was dead, for she also
is called Louisa. " What ! Louisa ?" I asked. "Yes."
" What was the matter ? " " She was drowned."
" Where ? " " On the Hudson, in the ' Henry Clay' ! "
He then came in, and my husband shut himself in
his study.

We were about sitting down to breakfast. We sat
down. Una was in the bathroom; I went to tell
her. This upset me completely. I began to weep.
By and by Mr. Pike got up from the breakfast-table,
and said that unless he could do something for us.

456 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

he must immediately return, and he went out. At
last, my mind left the terrible contemplation of
Louisa's last agony, and fright, and imaged her su-
premely happy with her mother in another world.
For she was always inconsolable for her mother, and
never could be really happy away from her. So I
burst out, " Oh, I have thought of something beauti-
ful, something that will really comfort us ! " Una's
face lightened, but Julian could not pay heed. But I
bent over him and said, " Aunt Louisa is with her
mother, and is happy to be with her. Let us think
of her spirit in another world." A smile shone in
his eyes for a moment, but another flood of tears
immediately followed. All at once he got up and
went to the study, — he had the intention of con-
soling his father .with that idea ; but his father had
gone on the hill.

Mr. Hawthorne will ask his sister Elizabeth to
come here, to change the scene. It is an unmitigated
loss to Elizabeth. Tell my sister Elizabeth not to
stop here as she had intended. Mr. Pike said that
Mrs. Dike was almost distracted, — he never saw any-
body so distressed. The news came by telegraph, —
"Maria is lost." Mr. Pike brought us the paper.
Good-by.

Tour affectionate child, Sophia.

— The present writer remembers that morning, with
its bright sunshine and its gloom and terror; Mr.
Hawthorne standing erect at one side of the room,

CONCORD. 457

with his hands behind him, in his customary attitude,
but with an expression of darkness and suffering on
his face such as his children had never seen there
before. Mr. Pike sat at the breakfast-table ; but no
one could eat anything, and no one spoke. After a
while Mr. Hawthorne went out, and was seen no
more that day. It was a blow that struck him to
the heart ; but he could never relieve himself with
words. Louisa's body was recovered a few days
later ; for she had leapt into the river, preferring that
mode of death to the fire.

A week or two afterwards, Mrs. Peabody wrote
the letter given below. Hawthorne , had been con-
templating a visit to the Isles of Shoals in the
autumn, and he carried out his intention in the en-
suing September. The allusion to " Blithedale "
should, chronologically, precede that quoted above.

August 9, 1852.
My beloved Ones, — Have your high and just
views of the dealings of our Heavenly Father soothed
the anguish nature must endure for a while under
such a shock as you have received ? Does Mr. Haw-
thorne mean to go to the Seashore, or has this afflic-
tion changed his purpose ? It would be best to go,
if he can. His soul would then be filled with the
glories of that Nature whose favored child he is. His
perfect clearness of vision, his mildness, his calmness,
his true strength and greatness, render him the ready
recipient of all that magnificent scenery conveys to

458 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

the souL He is one of the few who can not only loo's
at things, but into and through them. The wojld
has great claims on one who can do so much towards
raising the mind from stupid materialism to translu-
cent wonder.

We are all reading " Blithedale." I am interested
to see how differently it affects different minds.
Some say (Mary; for one), "It is the greatest book
Hawthorne has written." Another says, "I do not
understand it ; " another, " There is no interest in it
to me;" another exclaims, "Was ever anything so
exquisite ! " I have not seen any review of it yet.
I hope a reviewer will arise for the task who has
soul; who can see the true philanthropist, the real
reformer, piercing with a seei-'s eye all the vain efforts
hitherto made to form associations that will really
elevate the characters and better the worldly condi-
tion of men, — one who has power to realize why all
such associations to ameliorate the condition of the
laborer have hitherto failed. At Brook Farm, as
elsewhere, they did not begin right. Many persons
were huddled together there, with all their passions
in full vigor; selfishness, covetousness, pride, love of
dress, of approbation, of admiration, of flattery, oper-
ated on one and all. Petty jealousies rankled in
hearts that ought to have throbbed only with love to
God and man. How could such incongruous ele-
ments amalgamate and produce a genuine Brother-
hood ? Our associations carry in their very midst
the causes of decay. YouB Mother.

CONCORD. 459

— It was either during this month of August or in
the early part of the preceding July, that Hawthorne
first met the poet, E. H. Stoddard. Mr. Stoddard
made two visits to him before his departure from
America, and has written? the following account of
his impressions: —

"I saw Hawthorne first in the summer of 1852,
just after he became possessor of the Wayside. When
I was introduced to him, he greeted me warmly,
and, throwing open the door of the library, invited
me to make myself at home, while he transacted
some business with Whipple in the next room.
Presently he rejoined me, and we ascended the hill
behind the house and sat down in the old rustic
summer-house. Here he began to talk with me,
mostly about myself and the verses I had written,
which, I was surprised to learn, he had read care-
fully. He mentioned, in particular, an architectural
fancy I had thrown up, and compared it with his
own little box of a house.

"'If I could build like you,' he said, 'I would
have a castle in the air, too.'

" ' Give me the Wayside,' I replied, ' and you shall
have all the air-castles I can build.'

" He recalled a short memoir of my humble self,
and the portrait that accompanied it, and was pleased
to observe that I was neither so old nor so ill-looking
as this portrait had led him to expect. As we ram-
bled and talked, my heart went out towards this

460 HAWTHORNE AND HTS WIFE.

famous man, who did not look down upon me, as he
well might have done, but took me up to himself as
an equal and a friend. I see him now as I saw him
then, a strong, broad-shouldered man, with dark iron-
gray hair, a grave but kindly face, and the most won-
derful eyes in the world, searching as lightning and
unfathomable as night.

" Tlie following winter I visited him again, to talk
over a Custom House appointment I hoped to secure.
When I reached Concord, the ground was covered
with snow ; it was freezing in the shade and thawing
in the sun. We dined, and after dinner we retired
to the study, where he brought out some strong
cigars, and we smoked vigorously. Custom House
matters were scarcely touched upon ; and I was not
sorry, for they were not half so interesting to me as
the discursive talk of Hawthorne. He manifested a
good deal of curiosity in regard to some old Brook
Farmers, whom I knew in a literary way ; and he
listened to my impressions of the individuality of
each with a twinkle in his eye ; and I can see now
that he was amused by my outspoken detestation of
certain literary Philistines. He was outspoken, too ;
for he told me plainly that a volume of fairy-stories
I had just published was not simple enough for the
young. I could not but agree with him, for by this
time I wished sincerely I had let the wee folk alone.
We fell to talking about the sea, and the influence
it had upon childhood; and other personal matters
which I have forgotten. What impressed me most

CONCORD. 461

at the time was not the drift of the conversation, but
the gracious manner of Hawthorne. He expressed
the warmest interest in my affairs, and a willingness
to serve me in every possible way. In a word, he
was the soul of kindness, and when I forget him I
shall have forgotten everything else.

" I have preserved but one of Hawthorne's letters
written at this period. It is dated ' Concord, March
16, 1853.'

"Dear Stoddard, — I beg your pardon for not
writing before ; but I have been very busy, and not
particularly well I enclose a letter from Atherton.
EoU up and pile up as much of a snowball as you
can, in the way of political interest ; for there never
was a fiercer time than this, among the office-seekers.
You had better make your point in the Custom House
at New York, if possible ; for, from what I can
learn, there will be a poor chance of clerkships in
Washington.

" Atherton is a man of rather cold exterior, but has
a good heart, — at least, for a politician of a quarter
of a century's standing. If it be certain that he
cannot help you, he will probably tell you so. Per-
haps it would be as well for you to apply for some
place that has a literary fragrance about it, — Libra-
rian to some Department, the office which Lanman
held. I don't know whether there is any other such
office. Are you fond of brandy ? Your strength of
head (which you tell me you possess) may stand you

462 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

in good stead at Washington ; for most of these pub-
lic men are inveterate guzzlers, and love a man that
can stand up to them in that particular. It ■would
never do to let them see you corned, however. But
I must leave you to find your own way among them.
If you have never associated with them heretofore, you
will find them a new class ; and very unlike poets.

"I have finished the 'Tanglewood Tales,' and they
will make a volume about the size of, the 'Wonder-
Book,' consisting of six myths, — the Minotaur, the
Golden Fleece, the story of Proserpine, etc., etc., etc.,
done up in excellent style, purified from all moral
stains, re-created as good as new, or better, and
fully equal, in their own way, to Mother Goose. I
never did anything else so well as these old baby
stories. In haste,

" Truly yours,

" Nath. Hawthorne.

" P. S; When applying for office, if you are con-
scious of any deficiencies (moral, intellectual, or educa-
tional, or whatever else), keep them to yourself, and
let those find them out whose business it may be.
Por example, supposing the office of Translator to
the State Department to be tendered you, accept it
boldly, without hinting that your acquaintance with
foreign languages may not be the most familiar. If
this unimportant fact be discovered afterwards, you
can be transferred to some more suitable post. The
business is, to establish yourself, somehow and any-
where.

CONCORD. 463

" I have had as many office-seekers knocking at my
door, for three months past, as if I were a prime
minister ; so that I have made a good many scientific
observations in respect to them. The words that
Bradamante (I think it vras) read in the Enchanted
Hall are, and ought to be, their motto, — ' Be bold,
be bold, and evermore be bold.' But over one
door she read, ' Be not too bold.' A subtile boldness,
with a veil of modesty over it, is what is needed."

— It was during August and the first part of Sep-
tember of this year that Hawthorne wrote the biog-
raphy of Pierce, at the latter's request. Pierce and he
had been faithful friends since their college days;
Hawthorne admired and respected, as well as loved,
the future President, and never, to the end of his life,
found any cause to alter his sentiments towards him.
But though he was glad, from a personal point of
view, to give his friend whatever assistance he might
in consummating his career, nevertheless, as he wrote
to Bridge, Pierce had now "reached that altitude
where a man careful of his personal dignity will begin
to think of cutting his acquaintance." In other words,
he foresaw that he would be accused of acting the
part of a vulgar office-seeker, — of aiding Pierce only
in order that Pierce might be the better able to aid
him, and of apostatizing from his real political con-
victions in order to put money in his purse. It is
true that he might have avoided the worst part of
this reproach by declining the office which Pierce

464 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

afterwards tendered to him ; but, as it happened, he
did not decline, but accepted it. We are forced to
conclude, therefore, that he either bartered truth and
honor for a few thousand dollars and a glimpse of
Europe ; or else that, being conscious of his own hon-
esty and rectitude of purpose, he regarded with his
customary indifference the angry accusations of his
opponents. As for the present biographer, his only
care will be to afford each reader the fullest liberty
to decide the matter according to his private preju-
dices and prepossessions. Argument on such a sub-
ject is futile.

Mrs. Hawthorne wrote to her mother, on the comple-
tion of the book, as follows : —

Concord, Sept. 10, 1852.

... I have just now finished reading the little
biography, which I did not see in manuscript. It
is as serene and peaceful as a dream by a river ; and
such another testimony to the character of a Presi-
dential candidate was, I suspect, never before thrown
upon the fierce arena of political warfare. Many a
foot and hoof may trample on it ; but many persons
will preserve it for its beauty. Its perfect truth and
sincerity are evident within it ; as no instrument
could wrench out of Mr. Hawthorne a word that he
did not know to be true in spirit and in letter, so also
no fear of whatsoever the world may attribute to him
as motive would weigh a feather in his estimation.
He does the thing he finds right, and lets the conse-
quences fly.

CONCORD. 465

How grand and dignified is Mr. Sumner's speech,
and what a complete rendering of the subject! . . .

— Miss Elizabeth Hawthorne, although, as we have
seen, she was opposed to her brother in politics, seems
to have accepted the " Life " with equanimity. This
is her letter : —

Salem, Sept. 23, 1852.

Dear Beother, — You will be surprised to see
that this is dated at Salem ; but I knew that I must
come here again, though I was glad to get away for a
little while. I wish to hear from you about the busi-
ness that we spoke of. I wish to do everything that
must be done, while I am here now, and I should be
glad never to see the place again. In Beverly I can
do exactly as I choose, and even appear to be what I
am, in a great degree. They are sensible and liberal-
minded people, though not much cultivated.

Mr. Dike has bought your Life of Pierce, but he will
not be convinced that you have told the precise truth.
I assure him that it is just what T have always heard
you say. The "Puritan Eecorder" eulogizes the book,
for you are a favorite with the Orthodox, and espe-
cially with the clergy; and for that reason I think you
should judge more charitably of them. Vanity seems
to me to be their besetting sin.

The " Gazette " calls the book " an honest biogra-
phy," but says the subject of it "has never risen
above respectable mediocrity." The " Eegister" calls
it your " new Eomance." People are talking about

VOL. 1. 80

466 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

something that Mr. Pike is asserted to have said
derogatory to General Pierce ; perhaps you have heard
of it. Uncle William thinks he was unguarded in
some expressions in David Eoberts's office, where he
is in the habit of going, and that his words have been
misinterpreted and misrepresented. I thought he
was too experienced a politician to be guilty of any
imprudence in speech.

Tours, E. M. H.

I hope you and Una will come to Montserrat. I
am sure she would enjoy it. Besides the variety of
colors in the woods, the barberry bushes, of which you
have none, are now more beautiful than vineyards, as
I can testify, for I see abundance of grapes here. If
yon will send me the Life of Pierce, I could distrib-
ute some copies there, perhaps, with advantage.

— While the " Life " was doing its work, were it
more or less, Hawthorne and Pierce made their expe-
dition to the Isles of Shoals, where they spent about a
fortnight ; and Hawthorne's journal of the visit wUl
be found in the first volume of the " American Note-
Books." On Hawthorne's return, the quiet life at the
Wayside was resumed ; and Mrs. Hawthorne has left
this picture of one of those lovely autumnal days : —

Concord, Oct. 3, 1862.

. . . On the 1st of October we all (except Rosebud)

took a walk. We mounted our hiU, acd " thorough

bush, thorough brier," till we came out in Peter's

Path, beyond the Old Manse. AU that ground is

CONCORD. 467

consecrated to me by unspeakable happiness ; yet not
nearly so great happiness as I now have, for I am ten
years happier in time, and an uncounted degree hap-
pier in kind. I know my husband ten years better,
and I have not arrived at the end ; for he is still an
enchanting mystery, beyond the region I have dis-
covered and made my own. Also, I know partly how
happy I am, which I did not well comprehend ten
years ago. We went up the bare hill opposite the
Old Manse, and I descended on the other side, so I
could look up the avenue, and see our first home for
the first time in seven years. It was a very still day.
The sun did not shine; but it was warm, and the sky
was not sombre. As .1 stood there and mused, the
silence was profound. Not a human being was vis-
ible in the beloved old house, or around it. Wachu-
sett was a pale blue outline on the horizon. The
river gleamed like glass here and there in the plain,
slumbering and shining and reflecting tlie beauty on
its banks. We reburned through Sleepy Hollow, and
walked along a stately, broad path, which we used to
say should be the chariot-road to our castle, which we
would build on the hill to which it leads. The trees
have grown very much in seven years, and conceal
the Hollow. From this we followed a wood-path
which I remembered as very enchanting nine years
ago, with its deep wooded dells on each side. We
sat down in a sheltered spot for some time, and in
the silence we heard the hum and sharp tone of sum-
mer insects ; and the crows sailed above, crying, "Caw I

468 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

caw ! " A few trees had taken prismatic hues as if
for particular ornament to the scene, and there was a
group of low sumach which had turned a rich crim-
son color, and Julian wanted to take the whole of it
along with him.

— The hill in Sleepy Hollow on which " our castle"
was to stand is now the site of Hawthorne's grave ;
and the " chariot-road " was the path ■ up which his
funeral procession mounted.

It was a period of repose and comfort. The relax-
ing atmosphere of Concord had not yet begun to have
its effect on Hawthorne, though he felt it sensibly
enough on his return from ■ England. The town
stands on low meadow-land, — so low that it is said
the bottom of Walden Pond (which is one hundred
feet deep) is on a higher level than the top of any
building in the village, though the village and the
pond are but two miles apart. I will not, however,
Youch for the accuracy of this measurement. At any
rate, the air in autumn and winter is crisp and invig-
orating ; in summer only, does it subdue the energies.
Hawthorne and his children spent much time in ex-
ploring the woods and fields in the neighborhood.
Walden Pond was at that time as secluded as the
legendary lake of the " Great Carbuncle ; " and the
splendor of the autumn foliage, reflected in its still
surface, might have been mistaken for the royal glow
of that famous gem itself. Thoreau's hut was still
standing on a level, pine-eacircled spot, near the

CONCORD. 469

margin. When the snows began to fall, there was
superb coasting to be had down the sides of the
many small hills near the "Wayside ; and the children,
with their father's assistance, rolled up a snowball so
large and solid that it remained on the front lawn,
an imposing object, all winter, and was only subdued
by the soaking spring rains. Mr. Ephraim Bull, the
inventor of the Concord grape, was a next-door neigh-
bor ; and his original and virile character had a great
attraction for Hawthorne, insomuch that they had
much pleasant converse together. When the weather
did not admit of excursions, there was always good
entertainment within doors ; and the new little sister,
who had lately made her appearance, was better than
the best of playthings to her brother and sister. She
had always been regarded by them in the light of a
special providence. Her mother has this mention of
her in a letter to Mrs. Peabody : —

Decembee, 1852.

. . . Our little Eosebud is only a comfort and joy
from morning till night, and her rosy cheeks and
clear blue eyes are very pleasant to see. She is very
facetious, and makes and takes jokes with perfect
understanding, looking sidelong, or from beneath her
hair, with the drollest expression. Her hair is curling
up behind, and I suppose will grow in waving curls,
as Una's did. She is the very little blue-eyed daugh-
ter I prayed for, in every respect exact, except that I
thought of yellow hair. I do not know whether she
has the philosophic temperament of the other chil-

470 II A W THORN E AND BIS WIFE.

dren; but she has vivid perceptions, and sees things
picturesquely. When she looks at a picture, she
acte it at once, if there are living beings in it. She
has an air of command which is very funny. . . .

— The only literary work of this epoch was the
completion of the " Tanglewood Tales " volume, which
had been relinquished in order to write the Life of
Pierce. The stories appeared without the introduc-
tions and after-pieces which had been so agreeable a
feature of the "Wonder-Book," and for which method
of presenting a tale Hawthorne seems to have always
had a liking; it was in such a setting, for exam-
ple, that he had intended to frame the " Seven Tales
of my Native Land." But either he thought a repe-
tition undesirable, or else the idea had not satisfied
his taste as well as he had expected. The stories
themselves, however, were as good as the others, or
perhaps better than they ; and it is a pity that none
of them have ever been fittingly illustrated. Haw-
thorne has been especially unfortunate in his artists ;
and never more so than in the latest specimens
of work in this kind which have been published.
Tet no books are more stimulating than his to the
artistic sense.

One of the best comments which this series of
fairy stories elicited came from the pen of Mr. Eob-
ert Carter, a man of rare sagacity and wide learning,
and, in later years, editor of "Appleton's JournaL"
His letter is well worth reading : —

CONCORD. 471

Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 10, 1853.
My dear Sir, — At the time of publication, a
copy of the " Wonder-Book " was sent to me as edi-
tor of the "Commonwealth." It got mislaid until
last New Year's day, when I found it and took it
home for my eldest child, a boy four years old, Mas-
ter James Lowell Carter. Late in the evening, on
lighting my cigar, I thought I would look into the
book a little, and master the drift of at least one
story, to be ready for my young inquisitor in the
morning. A diligent reader of novels for at least a
quarter of a century, I scarcely expected to find in a
child's book a fresh fountain of new sensations and
ideas. But the book threw me into a tumult of
delight, almost equal to that of the first perusal of
"Eobinson Crusoe'' or the "Arabian Nights." At
two o'clock in the morning, my fire having entirely
gone out, I laid down the book,. every word read ex-
cept "The Chimsera," which story I read aloud at
breakfast to the immense delight of Master James,
and the equal gratification of his mother, who pro-
nounced it the finest poem she had heard for many a
day, and thought, if the rest of the tales were as
good, the book must be a wonder-book indeed.

Notwithstanding the beauty of many passages and
descriptions in the tales and the framework, I do not
so much admire the execution as the conception of
the book, — which seems to me exquisitely felicitous,
developing as it does a new use for the apparently
effete mythology of the ancients. It is, in fact, the

472 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

most palpable hit that, has been made in literature
for many a day, and will mark an era in fiction, as
did the translation of the "Arabian Nights." The
Mahometan mythology does not excel the classic in
romantic machinery, while it is far inferior to it in
intellectual and moral interest, and in affinity with
our current ideas and literature.

I observe with regret that in your preface you ex-
hibit a doubtful, half-apologetic tone, as if you lacked
confidence in your theme and its acceptance with
critical readers, — the influence of which want of
confidence seems to me perceptible in portions of the
book, chiefly in leading you to adopt a lighter style
now and then, which jars a little with the general
effect, — as if, to forestall laughter, you desired to
show that you were only in fun yourself The inter-
mediate parts — the framework — is exceedingly well
written, with some fine Berkshire descriptions. But
though the contrast is striking between the Old
World tales and the fresh young life of America, I
should have liked it better if you had given the tales
a frreek setting, and thrown back Eustace Bright and
his auditors a couple of thousand years, to a country-
seat of Attica, Ionia, or Sicily. As it is, Mr. Pringle
and his wife are decided excrescences, who ought to
be condemned to the preface, and with them your
friends the publisher and artist, who are now sadly
out of place. I want to see nothing in the " Won-
der-Book" that will not read harmoniously there a
thousand years hence, or in any language of the

CONCORD. 473

world ; for if you contimie the book as well as you
have begun it (and you ought to do it better), so that
the value of quantity will be added to that of qual-
ity (for a book of tales must be pretty large to live),
it will be read in the future as universally as the
"Arabian Nights," and not only by children. An
author has a strong temptation to introduce his
friends into his pages, but it ought never to be done
at a sacrifice of art. You doubtless remember that
many of your friends and acquaintances who figured
in "The Hall of Fantasy," as it appeared in the
" Pioneer," have vanished from that structure in its
present razeed condition.

Pardon me if I point out what seems to me another
fault in the book. I observe that, for brevity, or
from some difficulty in the managing the stories, or
from some cause which has not occurred to me, you
have omitted to use some of the most striking por-
tions of the myths you have dealt with. For in-
stance, the adventures of Perseus on his return, his
rescue of Andromeda, his petrifaction of Atlas, etc.,
would have added much to the incident of the story.
And in " The Golden Touch," I do not understand
why you have changed Bacchus into Mercury, or
have omitted the capture of Silenus and his enter-
tainment by Midas, which would have afforded fine
njaterial for pleasant and varied treatment. "The
Three Golden Apples," likewise, ought not to exhaust
the achievements of Hercules, which should rather
be woven into a series rivalling those of " Sinbad the

474 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Sailor," in length and interest. But enough of fault-
finding. My object in writing is merely to assure
you that at least one of your readers is convinced
that in the " Wonder-Book " you have hit upon the
entrance to a golden mine, and that it is worth while
to carry on the work with care and system, so as to
get the full amount of the treasures ; and not from
haste or want of plan leave any part unworked or
unexhausted.

With high respect, I am very truly yours,

Egbert Carter.

— Whether or not Hawthorne ever entertained the
intention of following this good advice, circumstances
prevented him from doing so ; and very possibly he
would not have felt disposed to linger in a mine, how-
ever golden, from the treasures of which he had already
extracted such fair specimens. As long as a subject
had freshness, he could enjoy working upon it; but
when it came to deliberately overhauling it for mon-
ey's sake alone, enjoyment and inspiration both grew
jaded.

There is reason to suppose, however, that he had a
new romance in his mind, and would have written it
during this year, but for the appointment to the Liv-
erpool consulship, which came in the spring. There
is no means of even conjecturing what this romance
would have been ; no trace of it remains, either in
memoranda, or in the recollections of his friends.
The following letter from Herman Melville indicates

CONCORD. 475

that he had suggested a story to Hawthorne ; but Mr.
Melville recently informed the present writer that it
was a tragic story, and that Hawthorne had not seemed
to take to it. It could not, therefore, have been the
" more genial " tale which he spoke of to Bridge.

Boston.
My dear Hawthorne, — The other day, at Con-
cord, you expressed uncertainty concerning your un-
dertaking the story of Agatha, and, in the end, you
urged me to write it. I have decided to do so, and
shall begin it immediately upon reaching liome ; and
so far as in me lies, I shall endeavor to do justice to
so interesting a story of reality. Will you therefore
enclose the whole affair to me; and if anything of
yonr own has occurred to you in your random think-
ing, won't you note it down for me on the same
page with my memorandum ? I wish I had come to
this determination at Concord, for then we might
have more fully and closely talked over the stoiy,
and so struck out new light. Make amends for this,
though, as much as you conveniently can. With
your permission I shall make use of the "Isle of
Shoals," as far as the name goes at least. I shall also
introduce the old Nantucket seaman, in the way I
spoke to you about. I invoke your blessing upon
my endeavors ; and breathe a fair wind upon me. I
greatly enjoyed my visit to you, and hope that you
reaped some corresponding pleasure.

H. Melvillk

Julian, Una, and Eose, — my salutations to them.

476 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

— The cares of office were now to take precedence
of literary interests for a time ; and the disputes of
political partisans made themselves audible even in
the retirement of the Wayside, where not Hawthorne,
indeed, but his wife, was moved to take a part in the
discussion. The two letters from which the follow-
ing extracts are taken are worth reading, not only
for their intrinsic eloquence and earnestness, but as
showing how ardently the wife identified herself with
her husband, while yet retaining her independent
judgment on certain points. The point to 'v^hich I
more particularly allude is Mrs. Hawthorne's estimate
of Webster. She could not bring herself quite to
believe that he was not as great as he looked ; but
Hawthorne had formed a somevyhat different opinion.
This opinion is set forth, by the by, in the story of
"The Great Stone Face;" and for convenience, I will
here quote the passages in which it is embodied : —

"But now, again, there were reports and many
paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the
likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon
the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman.
He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder,
was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early
days and taken up the trades of law and politics.
Instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's
sword, he had but a tongue; and it was mightier
than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he,
that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors
had no choice but to believe him ; wrong looked like

CONCORD. ilj

right, and right like wrong ; for when it pleased him,
he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his
mere breath, and obscure the natural daylight with
it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument;
sometimes it rumbled like thunder; sometimes it
warbled like the sweetest music. It was the blast of
war, the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart
in it when there was no such matter. In good truth,
he was a wondrous man ; and when his tongue had
acquired him all other imaginable success, when it
had been heard in halls of state and in the courts of
princes and potentates, after it had made him known
all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore
to shore, it finally persuaded his countrymen to select
him for the Presidency. . . .

"While his friends were doing their best to make
him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set
out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of
course, he had no other object than to shake hands
with his fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor
cared about any effect which his progress through
the country might have upon the election. . . .

" ' Here he is, now ! ' cried those who stood near
Ernest. ' There ! There ! Look at old Stony Phiz,
and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if
they are not as like as two twin brothers ! ' . . .

" Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse
of the countenance, which was bowing • and smiling
from the barouche, Ernest did fancy there was a re-
semblance between it and the old familiar face upon

478 HAWTHORNE AND BIS WIFE.

the mountain-side. The brow, with its massive depth
and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were
boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a
more than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sub-
limity and stateliness, the grand expression of a
divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain vis-
age, and etherealized its ponderous granite substance
into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Something
had been originally left out, or had departed. And
therefore the marvellously gifted statesman had always
a weary gloom in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of
a child that has outgrown its playthings, or a man of
mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with all
its high performances, was vague and empty, because
no high purpose had endowed it with reality. . . .
Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despon-
dent; for this was the saddest of his disappointments,
to behold a man who might have fulfilled the proph-
ecy, and had not willed to do so."

— Such was Hawthorne's reading of the character of
Webster. Let us now listen to the judgment of his
wife.

" . . .1 dis£lgree from the pitilessness and severity
of the censure of Webster. Would you resolve the
great heart and great mind of Webster into a speech ?
I by no means say that, because Webster was great,
he was therefore excusable for any sin. Oh, no ! but
that the vastness of his mental and physical force
made it very difficult for colder-blooded, narrower peo-
ple to judge him fairly. If Webster acknowledged

CONCORD. 479

that he was wrong in making the speech, let not
vengeance pursue him farther. I should be grieved
to hear that he died of a broken heart, and there is
no sign of such a thing in the calm, grand death of
which we hear. I have in the course of his life felt
the utmost abhorrence of his habits ; but I am glad
that God is his judge on that subject, and not man.
No man can be, who could not put himself in Web-
ster's body, with all concomitant circumstances, —
and then see what he would do ! It blinds me with
tears of profoundest sorrow to see that Ambition
could make him stoop. He made that fatal mistake
which so many make ; he did evil that good might
come of it, — which is an insult to God. I could by
no means say Webster was 'a man consummate,'
though, from his power and position, he was designed
for that. Such a figure, such an intellect, such a
heart, were certainly never combined before to awe
the world. But greatness, as I use it and feel it in
respect of Webster, is the vast plan of him ; the front
of Jove, — the regal, commanding air which cleared
a path before him, — the voice of thunder and music
which revealed the broad caverns of his breast, — the
unfathomable eye which no sculptor could render, —
all these external signs said, ' Here is a Great Man ! '
When I was present in court in Concord one day, he
came in after the assembly had collected. I shall
never forget his entrance. The throng turned round
and saw him, and instinctively every one fell back
from the door and left a broad path, up which this

480 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

native king walked along, — with such a majesty,
with such a simple state, that the blood tingled in
my veins to see him. This was long before he had
fallen politically. ' This man,' I thought, ' has capa-
city to rule the world.' The idea of greatness is in-
separable from him. Was not Lucifer the son of the
morning, and the loftiest of the archangels ? But he
fell, — ambition brought him headlong from the Em-
pyrean. If thunder rolled through the heavens at
his fall, could one not have thrilled with a sad and
sublime emotion ? It' will take an aeon to compose
another such man as Webster. I do not believe so
great a man is to be found here or in Europe now.
There can be found, perhaps, a high degree of moral
greatness and noble capacity ; but still, there is not
the shadow of such a possible man. I cannot ex-
press how little it seems to me to dwell upon his
failings. I think it takes Omniscience to judge him
fairly. That he had a heart of deep power and love,
that his immediate friends worshipped him, and the
humblest of them perhaps the most, is a proof of a
large kindliness and benignity which was revealed
outwardly by what has been called ' the sweet gran-
deur of his smile.' His whole character as a farmer
is very beautiful, and, considering his other aspect,
even sublime. Such exact and tender care of his
brute possessions, such wisdom, such loving interest
in his agricultural pursuits, such a genuine enjoy-
ment of nature, — this was a beautiful phase of the
giant man. And the infinite melancholy of his kingly

CONCORD. 481

face, the deep bej'ond deep of gloom that quenched
his lightnings, was to me most affecting and awful,
— as if he were judging himself continually, and
found no rest. It would seem that such a look ought
to disarm criticism, and make each man, instead of
endeavoring with narrow vision and spiritual pride
to pronounce upon him, look into his own heart and
find out whether, with far less temptations, at a far
less dizzy height, — whether he is spotless of sin
before God. It really does seem a pity to lose the
image of such a man by such rapidity of condemna-
tion. Does any one admire evil ? does any one
rejoice in iniquity ? does any one commend treason
to conscience ? No ! But let us freely, and with
generous awe, admire greatness, and with tenderness,
not pride, mourn over a vast soul in eclipse, passing
into the unknown world. ..."

— The next extract refers to Pierce. It is certainly
worth a man's while, even after he is dead, and no
matter how large he may have loomed in the world's
eye, to have had a friend and champion such as
Sophia Hawthorne.

"... It hurts me, dear mother, to have you speak
of General Pierce as if he were too far below Mr.
Hawthorne to have Mr. Hawthorne indebted to him.
You judge General Pierce from the newspapers, and
the slanders spread abroad by the Whigs to prevent
his election. The nation's reply to all slander has
been to elect him. If you knew the man as we
know him, you would be the first to respect him.

VOL. I. 31

482 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Mr. Hawthorne wrote the Biography with the most
careful sobriety, because he did not wish to seem
eulogistic and extravagant. I wish I could convey
to you what I know to be the truth about him. He
is an incorruptible patriot, and he loves his country
with the purity and devotion of the first of our early
Patriots. He will never do anything for effect, — he
will do anything, however odious it may appear, that
he thinks right, and for enduring good. Ambition
has not touched him. The offices which he has filled
were brought and laid at his feet, without any inter-
ference of his own ; and it was also so with regard to
his nomination for the Presidency. When he was
actually nominated, a profound sadness feU upon
him. He is a deeply religious man, and a brave
man, not only with the sword of steel, but with the
sword of the spirit. He is a man who understands
duty ; he has a living sense of resp6nsibility to God.
He is a man great from the very moral force which
Webster lacked. His intellect is keen and rapid, —
he seizes points. He sees men, and knows what
man is fitted for certain places and emergencies.
He is modest and captivating from a natural courtesy
and grace of address based upon kindness and gen-
erosity of heart. The personal homage and love he
commands, the enthusiasm of affection felt for him
by his friends, are wonderful. His gentleness is
made beautiful by a granite will behind ; ' out of the
strong comes forth sweetness.' He is a man wholly
beyond bribery on any score whatever. As regards

CONCORD. 483

the stories of his intemperance, if he ever did in-
dulge unduly in wine, he is now an uncommonly
abstemious man. And it is a singular fact that this
particular weakness of indulging in too much stim-
ulants does not debase a noble mind as other vices
do. When it rises above it, it rises without the
stains left by the other vices. My own experience,
in my young girlhood, with the morphine that was
given me to stop my headaches, has given me infinite
sympathy and charity for persons liable to such a
habit. But the greater a man's fault has been, the
greater is his triumph if it can be said of him, as it
can of General Pierce, — now he never is guilty of it.
"As regards the Compromise and the Fugitive
Slave Law, it is his opinion that these things must
now be allowed — for the sake of the slave ! One of
his most strenuous supporters said that, "viewed in it-
self, the Fugitive Slave Law was the most abominable
of wrongs;' but that it was the inevitable fruit of the
passionate action of the Abolitionists, and, like slav-
ery itself, must for the present be tolerated. And so
with the Compromise, — that it is the least of the
evils presented. It has been said, as if there were
no gainsaying it, that no man but Webster could ever
be such a fool as really to believe the Union was in
danger. But General Pierce has lately, with solemn
emphasis, expressed the same dread ; and it certainly
seems that the severance of the Union would be the
worst thing for the slave. General Pierce's lifelong
votes and opinions have been uniformly the same on

484 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

these matters ; so it cannot be said that he advocated
the Compromise from an ambitious motive. There
are always two sides to every question. Two given
men may stand on opposite sides, and each think
diametrically contrary to the other, and yet each man
have the highest principle and the sincerest love of
country. But generally the worst motive possible is
ascribed to one or both of them. What would become
of the planets without the centrifugal as well as the
centripetal forces ?

" Mr. Hawthorne did not feel as if he could refuse
a boon to an old friend, and one whom he could so
safely praise. He knew that it would subject him to
abuse, and that the lowest motives would be ascribed
to him ; but, provided his conscience is clear, he
never cares a sou what people say. He knew he never
should ask for an office ; and not one word on the
subject has ever passed between General Pierce and
Mr. Hawthorne. But if Mr. Hawthorne should see
fit to accept an office from General Pierce, and people
preferred to ascribe it to a low motive, he would
make them welcome to the enjoyment of evil-thinking".
He chooses to be free, and not act with reference to
any person's lack of generous interpretation. He has
no sensibility in that direction, and never defends him-
self, and never can ^e prevailed upon to do anything
but smile good-naturedly at personal attacks. When
the Whigs turned him out and told all manner of
falsehoods about him, I saw his temper. It was as
unhurt and undisturbed as Prince Arthur's shield

CONCORD. 485

beneath the veil. Even good Mr. Howes had tried
his best to lash him into anger ; but he found it as
impossible as to excite the distant stars into war with
one another."

— These letters were addressed to Mrs. Hawthorne's
mother, and were written a month or two before her
husband's appointment was made, and confirmed by
the Senate. But in the interval another great sorrow
was destined to fall upon the family ; Mrs. Peabody
was taken unexpectedly ill, and died. Mrs. Haw-
thorne -njas unable to be with her; and Miss E. P.
Peabody, who attended her throughout, wrote to her
sister the next day the following account of the good
and pure-minded woman's last moments : —

Tuesday Night.
... So very quietly she passed at last, that it was
a quarter of an hour we were in doubt ; but she had
labored so for breath for eighteen hours, that I have
no feeling yet but thankfulness that she went with-
out access of suffering, and that she is above and
beyond all suffering, forever and ever. Doubt not
she is with you, more intimately than ever ; for the
spirit must be where the heart's affections are. Her
last words about you were when I asked her if you
should come again. " Oh, no ; don't let her come —
don't let her come — oh, no ; don't let her come and
leave that poor baby ! " So characteristic ! That
was yesterday, and I wrote you last evening. Last
night we put her to bed at ten o'clock; and I, as

486 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

usual, lay down at the head of the bed, and, till two
o'clock, she slept more peacefully than for a long
while. Then she roused and got up for a short
time, but soon wanted the bed ; and then she lay in
my arms two or three hours, during which time I
thought she would go ; but at five she wanted to get
up, and we put her in the lolling-chair. When she
was settled there, and the table and pillow put before
her, and she had gone to sleep, father came in, and I
left him and Mary with her, and lay down and slept
soundly three hours. It was ten o'clock befoje we put
her to bed again; and then Mary or father or Margaret
or I had her in our arms all day, till she went. She
was strong enough to raise her body and hold up her
head till the last; and we changed her position, as
she indicated, all the time. At the last moment,
Mary was lying at the head of the bed, supporting
her, with the intervention of some pillows. I was
on the other side of the bed, and father in the rock-
ing-chair. So long a time passed without a sound,
that father rose and went to look, and then I ; and
(as I said) it was quarter of an hour. She breathed
very gently the first part of the time. We all felt so
thankful when it seemed that she had indeed fled
without a sigh, when we had been dreading a final
struggle between her tenacious life and the death
angel. But, no; her life went out into the free
spaces, and here she lies, for I am sitting by her bed-
side, this first night. Mary has gone home ; father
)ias gone to bed. We are all at peace — peace —

CONCORD. 487

peace. This sentiment in me shuts out all realization
that the only being in the wide' world whose affection
for me knew no limit, has gone out of it. It seems
to me that I never shall feel separated. She scarcely
spoke but in monosyllables; but these showed she
was perfectly sensible. Several times she wanted me
to "go to bed," and did not seem to realize that it was
the daytime. I think she was perfectly conscious,
but I am not sure that she knew that she was dying.
I was not sure myself, though I knew she could not
live long. I read to her one of David's Psalms of
Thanksgiving in the afternoon; I thought it might
awaken sweet echoes of association.

My dear Sophia, I hope your heart too will rest
in peace iipon the thought of the ascended one, —
ascended, and yet, I dare say, hovering over the
beloved ones.

From your affectionate

Elizabeth.

— Hawthorne's nomination was confirmed on March
26, 1853, and he sailed for Liverpool, in the Cunard
steamship "Niagara," Captain Leach, in the latter
part of the ensuing June. I do not know that I can
close this chapter, and the volume, better than by
adding the following notes of ideas and studies for
stories, taken from his journals of the five or six pre-
ceding years. They are similar in general character
to those already familiar to the readers of the pub-
(Vlished "Note-Books;" but, though fully as suggestive
([as any of the latter, were not included among them.

488 EAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Notes for StvHes and Essays.

A sketch, — the devouring of the old country
residences by the overgrown monster of a city. For
instance, Mr. Beekman's ancestral residence was
originally several miles from the city of New York ;
tut the pavements kept creeping nearer and nearer,
till now the house is removed, and a stteet runs di-
rectly through what was once its hall.

An essay on the various kinds of death, together
with the just before and just after.

The majesty of death to be exemplified in a beg-
gar, who, after being seen humble and cringing, in
the streets of a city, for many years, at length, by
some means or other, gets admittance into a rich
man's mansion, and there dies, — assuming state, and
striking awe into the breasts of those who had looked
down upon him.

To write a dream which shall resemble the real
course of a dream, with all its inconsistency, its
strange transformations, which are all taken as a
matter of course ; its eccentricities and aimlessness,
' — with nevertheless a leading idea running through
the whole. Up to this old age of the world, no such
thing has ever been written.

With an emblematic divining-rod to seek for em-
blematic gold, — that is, for truth ; for what of
heaven is left on earth.

CONCORD. 48y

The emerging from their lurking-places of evil
characters on some occasions suited to them, — they
having been quite unknown to the world hitherto.
For instance, the French Revolution brought out
such wretches.

The advantages of a longer life than is allotted to
mortals : the many things that might then be accom-
plished, to which one lifetime is inadequate, and for
which the time spent is therefore lost; a successor
being unable to take up the task where we drop it.

George First promised his mistress, the Duchess
of Kendal, that, if possible, he would pay her a visit
after death. Accordingly, a large raven flew into the
window of her villa at Isleworth. She believed it to
be his soul, and treated it ever after with all respect
and tenderness, till either she or the bird died.

The history of an almshouse in a country village
from the era of its foundation downwards, — a record
of the remarkable occupants of it, and extracts from
the interesting portions of its annals. The rich of
one generation might, in the next, seek a home there,
either in their own persons or in those of their rep-
resentatives. Perhaps the son and heir of the founder
might have no better refuge. There should be occa-
sional sunshine let into the story ; for instance, the
good fortune of some nameless infant, educated there,
and discovered finally to be the child of wealthy
parents.

490 HA WrnORNE AND BIS WIFE.

Great expectations to be entertained, in the alle-
gorical Grub Street, of the appearance of the Great
American Writer, — or a search-warrant to be made
out to catch a Poet. On the former supposition, he
shall be discovered under some most unlikely form,
or shall be supposed to have lived and died unrecog-
nized.

An old man to promise a youth a treasure of gold,
and to keep his promise by teaching him practically
the Golden Eule.

A valuable jewel to be buried in the grave of some
beloved person, or thrown over with a corpse at sea,
or deposited under the foundation-stone of an edifice,
and to be afterwards met with by the former owner
in the possession of some one.

In moods of heavy despondency, one feels as if it
would be delightful to sink down in some quiet spot,
and lie there forever, letting the soil gradually accu-
mulate and form a little hillock over us, and the
grass and flowers gather over it. At such times
death is too much of an event to be wished for, —
we have not spirits to encounter it, but choose to
pass out of existence in this sluggish way.

A dream, the other night, that the world had be-
come dissatisfied with the inaccurate manner in which
facts are reported, and had employed me, at a salary
of a thousand dollars, to relate things of importance
exactly as they happen.

CONCORD. 491

A person who has all the qualities of a friend, ex-
cept that he invariably fails you at a pinch.

To find out all sorts of ridiculous employments for
people who have nothing better to do ; as, to comb
out cows' tails, shave goats, hoard up the seeds of
weeds, etc., etc.

Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we
show the worst, but the best of our nature.

Some men have no right to perform great deeds or
to think high thoughts ; and when they do so, it is a
kind of humbug. They had better keep within their
own propriety.

A young woman in England poisoned by an East
Indian barbed dart, which her brother had brought
home as a curiosity.

" He looked as if he had been standing up thirty
years against a northeast storm." — Description by
Pike of an old mate of a vessel.

Death possesses a good deal of real estate; pleasure-
grounds, too.

Words, — so innocent and powerless are they, as
standing in a dictionary; how potent for good and
evil they become to one who knows how to combine
them !

Weight, July 4, 1848, one hundred and seventy-
eight pounds ; greater than at any former period.

492 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

A man arriving at the extreme poiiat of old age
grows young again at the same pace at which he had
grown old, — returning upon his path throughout the
■whole of life, and thus taking the reverse view of
matters. Methinks it would give rise to some odd
concatenations.

A story, the principal personage of which shall
seem always on the point of entering on the scene,
but shall never appear.

The same children who make the snow image
shall plant dry sticks, and they shall take root and
grow.

A ray of sunshine searching for an old blood-spot
through a lonely room.

To contrive a story of a man building a house, and
locating it over the pit of Acheron. The fumes of
hell shall breathe up from the furnace that warms it,
and over which Satan himself shall preside. Devils
and damned souls shall continually be rising through
the registers. Possibly an angel may now and then
peep through the ventilators.

A woman's wedding-ring imbedded into the flesh
after years of matrimony. Eeminiscences of the slen-
der finger on which it at first slid so easily.

Supposing a man to weigh one hundred and forty
poimds when married, and after marriage to increase
to t\^o hundred and ieighty -founds, then, surely, he is

CONCORD. 493

half a bachelor, especially if the union be not a
spiritual one.

For a child's story, one of baby's rides in her little
carriage, drawn by the other two children.

Miss Eebecca Pennell says that in her childhood
she used to see a certain old Orthodox minister,
dressed in antique style, with his hair powdered and
in a queue, a three-cornered hat, knee-breeches, etc.
He looked so much unlike everybody else, that it
never occurred to her that he was a man, but some
other sort of a contrivance.

A spring in Kentucky, — the water certain death
to all drinkers.

A man of coarse, vulgar nature breaks his leg or
his neck. What is he then ? A vulgar fraction.

" The tea makes that little bit of sun crazy," quoth
Julian, the other morning, looking at the quivering
on the wall of the reflection of the sunshine from a
cup of coffee, whenever the jar of the table shook it.

The sunbeam that comes through a round hole in
the shutter of a darkened room, where a dead man
sits in solitude.

For a child's story, — imagine aU sorts of wonder-
ful playthings.

The wizard, Michael Scott, used to give a feast to
his friends, the dishes at which were brought from
the kitchens of various princes in Europe, by devils,

494 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

at his command. " Now we will try a dish from the
King of France's kitchen," etc. A modern sketch
might take a hint from this, and the dishes be brought
from various restaurants.

Annals of a kitchen.

■ A modem magician to make the semblance of a
human being, with two laths for legs, a pumpkin for
a head, etc. — of the most modest and meagre mate-
rials. Then a tailor helps him to finish his work,
and transforms this scarecrow into quite a fashionable
figure. At the end of the story, after deceiving the
world for a long time, the spell should be broken, and
the gay dandy be discovered to be nothing but a suit
of clothes, with these few sticks inside of it. All
through his seeming existence as a human being,
there shall be some characteristics, some tokens, that,
to the man of close observation and insight, betray
him to be a mere thing of laths and clothes, without
heart, soul, or intellect. And so this wretched old
thing shall become the symbol of a large class.

An angel comes down from heaven, commissioned
to gather up, pub into a basket, and carry away,
everything good that is not improved by mankind,
for whose benefit it was intended. She distributes
the articles where they will be appreciated.

The first manufacture of the kind of candy called
Gibraltar Eock, for a child's story. To be told in
the romantic, mystic, marvellous style.

CONCORD. 495

Corwin is going to Lynn ; Oliver proposes to walk
thither with him. " 'So" says Corwin, " I don't
want you. You take too long steps ; or, if you take
short ones, 't is all hypocrisy. And, besides, you
keep humming all the time."

Captain Burchmore tells a story of an immense
turtle which he saw at sea, on a voyage to Batavia, —
so long that the lookout at the masthead mistook it
for a rock. The ship passed close to him, and he was
apparently longer than the long-boat, with a head
"bigger than any dog's j'ou ever see," and great prickles
on his back a foot long. Arriving at Batavia, he
told the story ; and an old pilot exclaimed, " What !
have you seen Bellysore Tom ? " It seems the pilots
had been acquainted with this turtle as much as
twelve years, and always found him in the same
latitude. They never did him any injury, but were
accustomed to throw him great pieces of meat, which
he received in good part, so that there was a mutual
friendship between the pilots and Bellysore Tom.
Old Lee, in confirmation of the story, affirmed that
he had often heard other ship-masters speak of the
same monster. But he being a notorious liar, and
Captain Burchmore an unconscionable spinner of long
yarns and travellers' tales, the evidence is by no
means perfect. The pilots estimated his length at
not less than twenty feet.

A disquisition, or a discussion between two or
more persons, on the manner in which the Wandering

4.96 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

Jew has spent his life, — one period, perhaps, in wild
carnal debauchery ; then trying over and over again
to grasp domestic happiness ; then a soldier ; then a
statesman, etc. ; at last, realizing some truth.

In the eyes of a young child, or other innocent
person, the image of a cherub or angel to be seen
peeping out ; in those of a vicious person, a devil.

A moral philosopher to buy a slave, or otherwise
get possession of a human being, and to use him for
the sake of experiment, by trying the operation of a
certain vice on him.

The human heart to be allegorized as a cavern ; at
the entrance there is sunshine, and flowers growing
about it. You step within, but a short distance, and
find yourself surrounded with a terrible gloom, and
monsters of divers kinds; it seems like hell itself
You are bewildered, and wander long without hope.
At last, a light strikes upon you. You press towards
it, and find yourself in a region that seems, in some
sort, to reproduce the flowers and sunny beauty of
the entrance, — but all perfect. These are the depths
of the heart, or of human nature, bright and beau-
tiful ; the gloom and terror may lie deep, but deeper
still is this eternal beauty.

An examination of wits and poets at a police-court,
and they to be sentenced by the Judge to various
penalties or fines, the house of correction, whipping,
etc., according to the moral offences of which they
were guilty.

CONCORD. 497

To consider a piece of gold as a sort of talisman,
or as containing within itself all the forms of enjoy-
ment that it can purchase, so that they might
appear, by some fantastical chemical process, as
visions.

To typify our mature review of our early prospects
and delusions, by representing a person as wandering,
in manhood, through and among the various castles
in the air that he had raised in his youth, and de-
scribing how they look to him, — their dilapidations,
etc. Possibly some small portion of these structures
may have a certain reality, and suffice him to build
a humble dwelling to pass his life in.

The hand of one person may express more than the
face of another.

When the heart is full of care, or the mind much
occupied, the summer and the sunshine and the
moonlight are but a gleam and glimmer, — a vague
dream which does not come within us, but only
makes itself imperfectly perceptible on the outside
of us.

People who write about themselves and their feel-
ings, as Byron did, may be said to serve up their
own hearts, duly spiced, and with brain sauce, out of
their own heads, as a repast for the public.

Nature sometimes displays a little tenderness for
our vanity, but is never careful of our pride. She is
willing that we should look foolish in the ^yes of
'OL. t 32

498 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

others, but keeps our little nonsensicalities from
ourselves.

In a grim, weird story, a figure of a gay, laughing,
handsome youth, or a young lady, all at once, in a
natural, unconcerned way, takes off its face like a
mask, and shows the grinning, bare skeleton face
beneath.

To sit down in a solitary place (or a busy and
bustling one, if you please) and await such little
events as may happen, or observe such noticeable
points as the eyes fall upon around you. For in-
stance, I sat down to-day, at about ten o'clock in the
forenoon, in Sleepy Hollow, — a shallow space scooped
out among the woods, which surround it on all sides,
it being pretty nearly circular, or oval, and two or
three hundred yards in diameter. The present sea-
son, a thriving field of Indian corn, now in its most
perfect growth, and tasselled out, occupies nearly half
the hollow ; and it is like the lap of bounteous
Nature, filled with breadstuff. On one verge of the
hollow, skirting it, is a terraced pathway, broad
enough for a wheel-track, overshadowed with oaks,
stretching their long, knotted, rude, rough arms be-
tween earth and sky ; the gray skeletons, as you look
upward, are strikingly prominent amid the green
foliage. Likewise there are chestnuts, growing up in
a more regular and pyramidal shape; white pines,
also; and a shrubbery composed of the shoots of all
these trees, overspreading and softening the bank on

CONCORD. 499

which the parent stems are growing ; — these latter
being intermingled with coarse grass. Observe the
pathway; it is strewn over with little bits of dry
twigs and decayed branches, and the brown oak
leaves of last year, that have been moistened by
snow and rain, and whirled about by winds, since
their departed verdure ; the needle-like leaves of the
pine, that we never noticed in falling, — that fall,
yet never leave the tree bare ; and with these are
pebbles, the remains of what was once a gravelled
surface, but which the soil accumulating from the
decay of leaves, and washing down from the bank,
has now almost covered. The sunshine comes down
on the pathway with the bright glow of noon, at
certain points ; in other places there is a shadow as
deep as the glow ; but along the greater portion sun-
shine glimmers through shadow, and shadow effaces
sunshine, imaging that pleasant mood of mind where
gayety and pensiveness intermingle. A bird is chirp-
ing overhead among the branches, but exactly where-
about, you seek in vain to determine ; indeed, you
hear the rustle of the leaves, as he continually changes
his position. A little sparrow now hops into view,
alighting on the slenderest twigs, and seemingly de-
lighting in the swinging and heaving motion, which
his slight substance communicates to them ; but he
is not the loquacious bird whose voice still comes,
eager and busy, from his hidden whereabout. Insects
are fluttering about. The cheerful, sunny hum of
flies is altogether summer-like, and so gladsome that

500 HAWrilOJlNE AND HIS WIFE.

you pardon them their intrusiveness and imperti-
nence, which continually impels them to fly against
your face, to alight upon your hands, and to buzz in
your very ear, as if they wished to get into your
head, among your most secret thoughts. In fact, a
fly is the most impertinent and indelicate thing in
creation, — the very type and moral of human spirits
whom one occasionally meets with, and who perhaps,
after an existence troublesome and vexatious to all
with whom they come in contact, have been doomed
to reappear in this congenial shape. Here is one in-
tent upon alighting on my nose. In a room, now, —
in a human habitation, — I could find in my con-
science to put him to death ; but here we have
intruded upon his own domain, which he holds in
common with all the children of earth and air, and
we have no right to slay him on his own ground.
Now we look about us more minutely, and observe
that the acorn-cups of last year are strewn plentifully
on the bank and on the path ; there is always pleas-
ure in examining an acorn-cup, perhaps associated
with fairy banquets, where they are said to compose
the table-service. Here, too, are those baills which
grow as excrescences on the leaves of the oak, and
which young kittens love so well to play with, rolling
them on the carpet. We see mosses, likewise, grow-
ing on the banks, in as great variety as the trees of
the wood. And how strange is the gradual process
with which we detect objects that are right before
the eyes ! Here now are whortleberries, ripe and

CONCORD. 501

black, growing actually within reach of my hand, yet
unseen till this moment. Were we to sit here all
day, a week, a month, and doubtless a lifetime, ob-
jects would thus still be presenting themselves as
new, though there would seem to be no reason why
we should not have detected them at the first
moment.

Now a catbird is mewing at no great distance.
Then the^shadow of a bird flitted across a sunny spot :
there is a peculiar impressiveness in this mode of
being made acquainted with the flight of a bird ; it
affects the mind more than if the eye had actually
"seen it. As we look round to catch a glimpse of the
winged creature, we behold the living blue of the sky,
and the brilliant disc of the sun, broken and made
tolerable to the eye by the intervening foliage. Now,
when you are not thinking of it, the fragrance of the
white pines is suddenly wafted to you by an almost
imperceptible breeze, which has begun to stir. Now
the breeze is the gentlest sigh imaginable, yet with a
spiritual potency, insomuch that it seems to pene-
trate, with its mild, ethereal coolness, through the
outward clay, and breathe upon the spirit itself,
which shivers with gentle delight. Now the breeze
strengthens, so much as to shake all the leaves, mak-
ing them rustle sharply; but it has lost its most
ethereal power. And now, again, the shadows of the
boughs lie as motionless as if they were painted on
the pathway. Now, in the stillness, is heard the long,
melancholy note of a bird, complaining alone, of some

502 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

wrong or sorrow that man, or her own kind, or the
immitigable doom of mortal affairs, has inflicted upon
her, the complaining but unresisting sufferer. And
now, all of a sudden, we hear the sharp, shrill chirrup
of a red squirrel, angry, it seems, with somebody, per-
haps with ourselves, for having intruded into what he
is pleased to consider his own domain. And, hark !
terrible to the ear, here is the minute but intense hum
of the mosquito ! Instinct prevails over all the non-
sense of sentiment ; we crush him at once, and there
is his grim and grisly corpse, the ugliest object in
nature. This incident has disturbed our tranquillity.
In truth, the whole insect tribe, so far as we can judge,"
are made more for themselves, and less for man, than
any other portion of creation. With such reflections
we look at a swarm of them, peopling, indeed, the
whole air, but only visible when they flash into the sun-
shine, and annihilated out of visible existence when
they dart into a region of shadow ; to be again repro-
duced as suddenly. Now we hear the striking of the
village clock, distant, but yet so near that each stroke
is impressed distinctly upon the air. This is a sound
that does not disturb the repose of the scene : it does
not break our sabbath ; for like a sabbath seems this
place, and the more so on account of the cornfield rus-
tling at our feet. It tells of human labor, but, being so
solitary now, it seems as if it were on account of the
sacredness of the sabbath. Yet it is not so, for we
hear at a distance mowers whetting their scythes; but
these sounds of labor, when at a proper remoteness, do

CONCORD. 503

but increase the quiet of one who lies at his ease, all
in a mist of his own musings. There is the tinkling of
a cow-bell, a noise how peevishly dissonant if close
at hand, but even musical now. But, hark ! there
is the whistle of the locomotive, — the long shriek,
harsh above all other harshness, for the space of a
mile cannot mollify it into harmony. It tells a story
of busy men, citizens, froin the hot street, who have
come to spend a day in a country village, — men of
business, — in short, of all unquietness ; and no won-
der that it gives such a startling shriek, since it brings
the noisy world into the midst of our slumbrous peace.
As our thoughts repose again, after this interruption,
we find ourselves gazing up at the leaves, and com-
paring their different aspect, the beautiful diversity
of green, as the sun is diffused through them as a
medium, or reflected from their glossy surface. You
see, too, here and there, dead and leafless branches,
which you had no more been aware of before, than if
they had assumed this old and dry decay since you
sat down upon the bank. Look at our feet, and here
likewise are objects as good as new. There are two
little round white fungi, which probably sprang from
the ground in the course of last night, curious pro-
ductions of the mushroom tribe, and which, by and
by, wUl be those little things with smoke in them,
which children call puff-balls. Is there nothing else ?
Yes, here is a whole colony of little ant-hills, a real
village of them ; they are small round hillocks, framed
of minute particles of gravel, with an entrance in the

504 HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.

centre ; and through some of them blades of grass or
small shrubs have sprouted up, producing an effect
not unlike that of trees overshadowing a homestead.
Here is a type of domestic industry, — perhaps, too,
something of municipal institutions, — perhaps, like-
wise, (who knows?) the very model of a community,
which Fourierites and others are stumbling in pursuit
of. Possibly the student of such philosophies should
go to the ant, and find that nature has given him his
lesson there. Meantime, like a malevolent genius, I
drop a few grains of sand into the entrance of one of
their dwellings, and thus quite obliterate it. And,
behold ! here comes one of the inhabitants, who has
been abroad upon some public or private business, or
perhaps to enjoy a fantastic walk, — and cannot any
longer find his own door I What surprise, what
hurry, what confusion of mind, are expressed in his
movement ! How inexplicable to him must be the
agency which has effected this mischief ! The inci-
dent will probably be long remembered in the annals
of the ant colony, and be talked of in the winter days,
when they are making merry over their hoarded
provisions.

But come, it is time to move. The sun has shifted
his position, and has found a vacant space through
the branches, by means of which he levels his rays
full upon our heads. Yet now, as we arise, a cloud
has come across him, and makes everything gently
sombre in an instant. Many clouds, voluminous and
heavy, are scattered about the sky, like the shattered

CONCORD. 505

ruins of a dreamer's Utopia. But we will not send
our thoughts thitherward now, nor take one of them
into our present observations. The clouds of any oue
day are material enough, of themselves, for the obser-
vation of either an idle man or a philosopher.

And now, how narrow, scanty, and meagre is this
record of observation, compared with the immensity
that was to be observed, within the bounds that we
prescribed ourselves ! How shallow and small a
stream of thought, too, — of distinct and expressed
thought, — compared with the broad tide of dim emo-
tions, ideas, associations, which were flowing through
the haunted regions of imagination, intellect, and
sentiment ; sometimes excited by what was around
us, sometimes with no perceptible connection with
them. When we see how little we can express, it is
a wonder that any one ever takes up a pen a second
time.

END OF VOL. I.