of solitude, and led directly to the richest experiences of his life.
Old habits, however, were not immediately to be broken, and months
passed without any response being made to the first call. Then at last
came a copy of the "Twice-Told Tales," fresh from the press. But it was
not until the establishment of the "Democratic Review," a year or two
later, that occasion offered for a renewal of relations. Hawthorne was
too shy to act upon the first invitation. Miss Peabody, finally,
addressing him by letter, to inquire concerning the new periodical, for
which he had been engaged as a contributor, asked him to come with both
his sisters on the evening of the same day. Entirely to her surprise,
they came. She herself opened the door, and there before her, between
his sisters, stood a splendidly handsome youth, tall and strong, with no
appearance whatever of timidity, but, instead, an almost fierce
determination making his face stern. This was his resource for carrying
off the extreme inward tremor which he really felt. His hostess brought
out Plaxmau's designs for Dante, just received from Professor Felton of
Harvard, [Footnote: The book may have been Felton's Homer with Flaxman's
drawings, issued in 1833.] and the party made an evening's entertainment
out of them.
The news of this triumph, imparted to a friend of Miss Peabody's, led to
an immediate invitation of Hawthorne to dinner at another house, for the
next day. He accepted this, also, and on returning homeward, stopped at
the "Salem Gazette" office, full of the excitement of his new
experiences, announcing to Mr. Foote, the editor, that he was getting
dissipated. He told of the evening with Miss Peabody, where he said he
had had a delightful time, and of the dinner just achieved. "And I've
had a delightful time there, too!" he added. Mr. Foote, perceiving an
emergency, at once asked the young writer to come to his own house for
an evening. Hawthorne, thoroughly aroused, consented. When the evening
came, several ladies who had been invited assembled before the author
arrived; and among them Miss Peabody. When he reached the place he
stopped short at the drawing-room threshold, startled by the presence of
strangers, and stood perfectly motionless, but with the look of a sylvan
creature on the point of fleeing away. His assumed brusquerie no longer
availed him; he was stricken with dismay; his face lost color, and took
on a warm paleness. All this was in a moment; but the daughter of the
house moved forward, and he was drawn within. Even then, though he
assumed a calm demeanor, his agitation was very great: he stood by a
table, and, taking up some small object that lay upon it, he found his
hand trembling so that he was forced to put it down again.
While friends were slowly penetrating his reserve in this way, he was
approached in another by Mr. Goodrich, who induced him to go to Boston,
there to edit the "American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining
Knowledge." This work, which only continued from 1834 to September,
1837, was managed by several gentlemen under the name of the Bewick
Company. One of these was Bowen, of Charlestown, an engraver; another
was Goodrich, who also, I think, had some connection with the American
Stationers' Company. The Bewick Company took its name from Thomas
Bewick, the English restorer of the art of wood-engraving, and the
magazine was to do his memory honor by its admirable illustrations. But,
in fact, it never did any one honor, nor brought any one profit. It was
a penny popular affair, containing condensed information about
innumerable subjects, no fiction, and little poetry. The woodcuts were
of the crudest and most frightful sort. It passed through the hands of
several editors and several publishers. Hawthorne was engaged at a
salary of five hundred dollars a year; but it appears that he got next
to nothing, and that he did not stay in the position long. There is
little in its pages to recall the identity of the editor; but in one
place he quotes as follows from Lord Bacon: "The ointment which witches
use is made of the fat of children digged from their graves, and of the
juices of smallage, cinquefoil, and wolf's-bane, mingled with the meal
of fine wheat," and hopes that none of his readers will try to compound
it. In the tale of "Young Goodman Brown," when Goody Cloyse says, "I was
all anointed with the juice of small-age and cinquefoil and
wolf's-bane," and the Devil continues, "'Mingled with fine wheat and the
fat of a new-born babe,'--'Ah, your worship knows the recipe,' cried the
old lady, cackling aloud." A few scraps of correspondence, mostly
undated, which I have looked over, give one a new view of him in the
bustle and vexation of this brief editorial experience. He sends off
frequent and hurried missives to one of his sisters, who did some of the
condensing and compiling which was a part of the business. "I make
nothing," he says, in one, "of writing a history or biography before
dinner." At another time, he is in haste for a Life of Jefferson, but
warns his correspondent to "see that it contains nothing heterodox." At
the end of one of the briefest messages, he finds time to speak of the
cat at home. Perhaps with a memory of the days when he built
book-houses, he had taken two names of the deepest dye from Milton and
Bunyan for two of his favorite cats, whom he called Beelzebub and
Apollyon. "Pull Beelzebub's tail for me," he writes. But the following
from Boston, February 15, 1836, gives the more serious side of the
situation:--
"I came here trusting to Goodrich's positive promise to pay me
forty-five dollars as soon as I arrived; and he has kept promising from
one day to another, till I do not see that he means to pay at all. I
have now broke off all intercourse with him, and never think of going
near him ... I don't feel at all obliged to him about the editorship,
for he is a stockholder and director in the Bewick Company; ... and I
defy them to get another to do for a thousand dollars what I do for five
hundred."
Goodrich afterward sent his editor a small sum; and the relations
between them were resumed.. A letter of May 5, in the same year,
contains these allusions:--
"I saw Mr. Goodrich yesterday.... He wants me to undertake a Universal
History, to contain about as much as fifty or sixty pages of the
magazine. [These were large pages.] If you are willing to write any part
of it, ... I shall agree to do it. If necessary I will come home by and
by, and concoct the plan of it with you. It need not be superior in
profundity and polish to the middling magazine articles.... I shall have
nearly a dozen articles in The Token,--mostly quite short."
The historical project is, of course, that which resulted in the famous
"Peter Parley" work. "Our pay as historians of the universe," says a
letter written six days later, "will be about one hundred dollars, the
whole of which you may have. It is a poor compensation, but better than
the Token; because the writing is so much less difficult." He afterward
carried out the design, or a large part of it, and the book has since
sold by millions, for the benefit of others. There are various little
particulars in this ingenious abridgment which recall Hawthorne,
especially if one is familiar with his "Grandfather's Chair" and "True
Stories" for children; though the book has probably undergone some
changes in successive editions. This passage about George IV. is,
however, remembered as being his: "Even when he was quite an old man,
this king cared as much about dress as any young coxcomb. He had a great
deal of taste in such matters, and it is a pity that he was a king, for
he might otherwise have been an excellent tailor."
Up to this time (May 12) he had received only twenty dollars for four
months' editorial labor. "And, as you may well suppose," he says, "I
have undergone very grievous vexations. Unless they pay me the whole
amount shortly, I shall return to Salem, and stay there till they do."
It seems a currish fate that puts such men into the grasp of paltry and
sordid cares like these! But there is something deeper to be felt than
dissatisfaction at the author-publisher's feeble though annoying scheme
of harnessing in this rare poet to be his unpaid yet paying hack. This
deeper something is the pathos of such possibilities, and the spectacle
of so renowned and strong-winged a genius consenting thus to take his
share of worldly struggle; perfectly conscious that it is wholly beneath
his plane, but accepting it as a proper part of the mortal lot;
scornful, but industrious and enduring. You who have conceived of
Hawthorne as a soft-marrowed dweller in the dusk, fostering his own
shyness and fearing to take the rubs of common men, pray look well at
all this. And you, also, who discourse about the conditions essential to
the development of genius, about the _milieu_ and the
_moment_, and try to prove America a vacuum which the Muse abhors,
will do well to consider the phenomenon. "It is a poor compensation, yet
better than the Token"; so he wrote, knowing that his unmatched tales
were being coined for even a less reward than mere daily bread. He took
the conditions that were about him, and gave them a dignity by his own
fine perseverance. It is this inspired industry, this calm facing of the
worst and making it the best, which has formed the history of all art.
You talk of the ages, and choose this or that era as the only fit one.
You long for a cosey niche in the past; but genius crowds time and
eternity into the present, and says to you, "Make your own century!"
Meanwhile, if he received no solid gain from his exertions, Hawthorne
was winning a reputation. In January he had written home: "My worshipful
self is a very famous man in London, the 'Athenaeum' having noticed all
my articles in the last Token, with long extracts." This refers to the
'Athenaeum' for November 7, 1835, which mentioned "The Wedding Knell"
and "The Minister's Black Veil" as being stories "each of which has
singularity enough to recommend it to the reader," and gave three
columns to a long extract from "The Maypole of Merry Mount"; the notice
being no doubt the work of the critic Chorley, who afterward met
Hawthorne in England. Thus encouraged, he thought of collecting his
tales and publishing them in volume form, connected by the conception of
a travelling story-teller, whose shiftings of fortune were to form the
interludes and links between the separate stories. A portion of this,
prefatory to "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment," has been published in the
"Mosses," with the heading of "Passages from a Relinquished Work."
Goodrich was not disposed to lavish upon his young beneficiary the
expense of bringing out a book for him, and the plan of reprinting the
tales with this framework around them was given up. The next year Bridge
came to Goodrich and insisted on having a simple collection issued,
himself taking the pecuniary risk. In this way the "Twice-Told Tales"
were first brought collectively before the world; and for the second
time this faithful comrade of Hawthorne laid posterity under obligation
to himself. It was not till long afterward, however, that Hawthorne knew
of his friend's interposition in the affair.
Mr. Bridge had not then entered the navy, and was engaged in a great
enterprise on the Androscoggin; nothing less than an attempt to dam up
that river and apply the water-power to some mills. In July of 1837,
Hawthorne went to visit him at Bridgton, and has described his
impressions fully in the Note-Books. It was probably his longest absence
from Salem since graduating at Bowdoin. "My circumstances cannot long
continue as they are," he writes; "and Bridge, too, stands between high
prosperity and utter ruin."
The change in his own circumstances which Hawthorne looked for did not
come through his book. It sold some six or seven hundred copies in a
short time, but was received quietly, [Footnote: Some of the sketches
were reprinted in England; and "A Rill from the Town Pump" was
circulated in pamphlet form by a London bookseller, without the author's
name, as a temperance tract.] though Longfellow, then lately established
in his Harvard professorship, and known as the author of "Outre-Mer,"
greeted it with enthusiasm in the "North American Review," which wielded
a great influence in literary affairs.
On March 7, 1837, Hawthorne sent this note to his former classmate, to
announce the new volume.
"The agent of the American Stationer's Company will send you a copy of a
book entitled 'Twice-Told Tales,'--of which, as a classmate, I venture
to request your acceptance. We were not, it is true, so well acquainted
at college, that I can plead an absolute right to inflict my
'twice-told' tediousness upon you; but I have often regretted that we
were not better known to each other, and have been glad of your success
in literature and in more important matters." Returning to the tales, he
adds: "I should like to flatter myself that they would repay you some
part of the pleasure which I have derived from your own 'Outre-Mer.'
"Your obedient servant,
"NATH. HAWTHORNE."
Longfellow replied warmly, and in June Hawthorne wrote again, a long
letter picturing his mood with a fulness that shows how keenly he had
felt the honest sympathy of the poet.
"Not to burden you with my correspondence," he said, "I have delayed a
rejoinder to your very kind and cordial letter, until now. It gratifies
me that you have occasionally felt an interest in my situation; but your
quotation from Jean Paul about the 'lark's nest' makes me smile. You
would have been much nearer the truth if you had pictured me as dwelling
in an owl's nest; for mine is about as dismal, and like the owl I seldom
venture abroad till after dusk. By some witchcraft or other--for I
really cannot assign any reasonable why and wherefore--I have been
carried apart from the main current of life, and find it impossible to
get back again. Since we last met, which you remember was in Sawtell's
room, where you read a farewell poem to the relics of the class,--ever
since that time I have secluded myself from society; and yet I never
meant any such thing, nor dreamed what sort of life I was going to lead.
I have made a captive of myself, and put me into a dungeon, and now I
cannot find the key to let myself out,--and if the door were open, I
should be almost afraid to come out. You tell me that you have met with
troubles and changes. I know not what these may have been, but I can
assure you that trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment, and that
there is no fate in this world so horrible as to have no share in either
its joys or sorrows. For the last ten years, I have not lived, but only
dreamed of living. It may be true that there have been some
unsubstantial pleasures here in the shade, which I might have missed in
the sunshine, but you cannot conceive how utterly devoid of satisfaction
all my retrospects are. I have laid up no treasure of pleasant
remembrances against old age; but there is some comfort in thinking that
future years can hardly fail to be more varied and therefore more
tolerable than the past.
"You give me more credit than I deserve, in supposing that I have led a
studious life. I have indeed turned over a good many books, but in so
desultory a way that it cannot be called study, nor has it left me the
fruits of study. As to my literary efforts, I do not think much of them,
neither is it worth while to be ashamed of them. They would have been
better, I trust, if written under more favorable circumstances. I have
had no external excitement,--no consciousness that the public would like
what I wrote, nor much hope nor a passionate desire that they should do
so. Nevertheless, having nothing else to be ambitious of, I have been
considerably interested in literature; and if my writings had made any
decided impression, I should have been stimulated to greater exertions;
but there has been no warmth of approbation, so that I have always
written with benumbed fingers. I have another great difficulty in the
lack of materials; for I have seen so little of the world that I have
nothing but thin air to concoct my stories of, and it is not easy to
give a lifelike semblance to such shadowy stuff. Sometimes through a
peep-hole I have caught a glimpse of the real world, and the two or
three articles in which I have portrayed these glimpses please me better
than the others.
"I have now, or shall soon have, a sharper spur to exertion, which I
lacked at an earlier period; for I see little prospect but that I shall
have to scribble for a living. But this troubles me much less than you
would suppose. I can turn my pen to all sorts of drudgery, such as
children's books, etc., and by and by I shall get some editorship that
will answer my purpose. Frank Pierce, who was with us at college,
offered me his influence to obtain an office in the Exploring Expedition
[Commodore Wilkes's]; but I believe that he was mistaken in supposing
that a vacancy existed. If such a post were attainable, I should
certainly accept it; for, though fixed so long to one spot, I have
always had a desire to run round the world.... I intend in a week or
two to come out of my owl's nest, and not return till late in the
summer,--employing the interval in making a tour somewhere in New
England. You who have the dust of distant countries on your
'sandal-shoon' cannot imagine how much enjoyment I shall have in this
little excursion....
"Yours sincerely,
"NATH. HAWTHORNE."
A few days later the quarterly, containing Longfellow's review of the
book, appeared; and the note of thanks which Hawthorne sent is full of
an exultation strongly in contrast with the pensive tone of the letter
just given.
SALEM, June 19th, 1837.
DEAR LONGFELLOW:--I have to-day received, and read with huge delight,
your review of 'Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales.' I frankly own that I was
not without hopes that you would do this kind office for the book;
though I could not have anticipated how very kindly it would be done.
Whether or no the public will agree to the praise which you bestow on
me, there are at least five persons who think you the most sagacious
critic on earth, viz., my mother and two sisters, my old maiden aunt,
and finally the strongest believer of the whole five, my own self. If I
doubt the sincerity and correctness of any of my critics, it shall be of
those who censure me. Hard would be the lot of a poor scribbler, if he
may not have this privilege....
Very sincerely yours,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
That "Evangeline" was written upon a theme suggested to Hawthorne (by a
friend who had heard it from a French Canadian [Footnote: See American
Note-Books, October 24,1839]) and by him made over to the poet, has
already been made public. Hawthorne wrote, on its appearance:----
"I have read 'Evangeline' with more pleasure than it would be decorous
to express. It cannot fail, I think, to prove the most triumphant of all
your successes."
Nevertheless, he gave vent to some of his admiration in a notice of the
work which he wrote for "The Salem Advertiser," a Democratic paper.
"The story of Evangeline and her lover," he there says, "is as poetical
as the fable of the Odyssey, besides that it comes to the heart as a
fact that has actually taken place in human life." He speaks of "its
pathos all illuminated with beauty,----so that the impression of the
poem is nowhere dismal nor despondent, and glows with the purest
sunshine where we might the least expect it, on the pauper's
death-bed.... The story is told with the simplicity of high and
exquisite art, which causes it to flow onward as naturally as the
current of a stream. Evangeline's wanderings give occasion to many
pictures both of northern and southern scenery and life: but these do
not appear as if brought in designedly, to adorn the tale; they seem to
throw their beauty inevitably into the calm mirror of its bosom as it
flows past them.... By this work of his maturity he has placed himself
on a higher eminence than he had yet attained, and beyond the reach of
envy. Let him stand, then, at the head of our list of native poets,
until some one else shall break up the rude soil of our American life,
as he has done, and produce from it a lovelier and nobler flower than
this poem of Evangeline!"
Longfellow's characteristic kindly reply was as follows:----
"MY DEAR HAWTHORNE:----I have been waiting and waiting in the hope of
seeing you in Cambridge.... I have been meditating upon your letter, and
pondering with friendly admiration your review of 'Evangeline,' in
connection with the subject of which, that is to say, the Acadians, a
literary project arises in my mind for you to execute. Perhaps I can pay
you back in part your own generous gift, by giving you a theme for
story, in return for a theme for song. It is neither more nor less than
the history of the Acadians, _after_ their expulsion as well as
before. Felton has been making some researches in the State archives,
and offers to resign the documents into your hands.
"Pray come and see me about it without delay. Come so as to pass a night
with us, if possible, this week; if not a day and night.
"Ever sincerely yours,
"HENRY W. LONGFELLOW." There is nothing in our literary annals more
unique and delightful than this history of Longfellow's warm recognition
of his old classmate, and the mutual courtesies to which it led. One is
reminded by it of the William Tell episode between Goethe and Schiller,
though it was in this case only the theme and nothing of material that
was transferred.
An author now almost forgotten, Charles Fenno Hoffman, also published in
"The American Monthly Magazine," [Footnote: For March, 1838.] which he
was editing, a kindly review, which, however, underestimated the
strength of the new genius, as it was at first the general habit to do.
"Minds like Hawthorne's," he said, "seem to be the only ones suited to
an American climate.... Never can a nation be impregnated with the
literary spirit by minor authors alone.... Yet men like Hawthorne are
not without their use.".... In this same number of the magazine, by the
way, was printed Hawthorne's "Threefold Destiny," under the pseudonyme
of Ashley Allen Royce; and the song of Faith Egerton, afterward omitted,
is thus given:----
"O, man can seek the downward glance,
And each kind word,----affection's spell,----
Eye, voice, its value can enhance;
For eye may speak, and tongue can tell.
"But woman's love, it waits the while
To echo to another's tone;
To linger on another's smile,
Ere dare to answer with its own."
These versicles, though they might easily be passed over as commonplace,
hold a peculiar inner radiance that perhaps issued from the dawn of a
lifelong happiness for Hawthorne at this period.
V.
AT BOSTON AND BROOK FARM.
1838-1842.
Hawthorne's mood at this time was one of profound dissatisfaction at his
elimination from the active life of the world. "I am tired of being an
ornament," he said, with great emphasis, to a friend. "I want a little
piece of land that I can call my own, big enough to stand upon, big
enough to be buried in. I want to have something to do with this
material world." And, striking his hand vigorously on a table that stood
by: "If I could only make tables," he declared, "I should feel myself
more of a man." He was now thirty-four, and the long restraint and
aloofness of the last thirteen years, with the gathering consciousness
that he labored under unjust reproach of inaction, and the sense of loss
in being denied his share in affairs, had become intolerable. It was
now, also, that a new phase of being was opened to him. He had become
engaged to Miss Sophia Peabody, a sister of his friend.
President Van Buren had been two years in office, and Mr. Bancroft, the
historian, was Collector of the port of Boston. One evening the latter
was speaking, in a circle of Whig friends, of the splendid things which
the Democratic administration was doing for literary men. "But there's
Hawthorne," suggested a lady who was present.