in the autumn of 1862 there was great excitement in massachusetts. president lincoln had issued his premonitory proclamation of emancipation, and harvard college was stirred to its academic depths. professor joel parker, of the law school, pronounced lincoln’s action unconstitutional, subversive of the rights of property, and a most dangerous precedent. with charles eliot norton and other american tories, parker headed a movement for the organization of a people’s party, which had for its immediate object the defeat of andrew for governor and the relegation of sumner to private life. the first they could hardly expect to accomplish, but it was hoped that a sufficient number of conservative representatives would be elected to the legislature to replace sumner by a republican, who would be more to their own minds; and they would be willing to compromise on such a candidate as honorable e. r. hoar,—although judge hoar was innocent of this himself and was quite as strongly anti-slavery as sumner. the movement came to nothing, as commonly happens with political movements that originate in universities, but for the time being it caused a great commotion and nowhere more so than in the town of concord. emerson was never more emphatic than in demanding the re-election of andrew and sumner.

how hawthorne felt about this and how he voted in november, can only be conjectured by certain indications, slight, it is true, but all pointing in one direction. as long since explained, he entertained no very friendly feeling toward the cotton whigs; his letter to his daughter concerning gen. mcclellan, who set himself against the proclamation and was removed in consequence, should be taken into consideration; and still more significant is the letter to horatio bridge, in which hawthorne proposed the enlistment of negro soldiers. doctor george b. loring, of salem, always a loyal friend to the hawthorne family, came to concord in september to deliver an address at the annual cattle-show, and visited at the wayside. he had left the democratic party and become a member of the bird club, which was then the centre of political influence in the state. as a matter of course he explained his new position to hawthorne. he had long felt attracted to the republican party, and but for his influential position among his fellow-democrats, he would have joined it sooner. parties were being reconstructed. half the democrats had become republicans; and a considerable portion of the whigs had joined the democratic party. the interests of the republic were in the hands of the republican party and it ought to be supported. we can believe that hawthorne listened to him with close attention.

it was in the spring of 1862 that i first became well acquainted with the hawthorne family, which seemed to exist in an atmosphere of purity and refinement derived from the man’s own genius. julian visited me at our house in medford during the early summer, where he made great havoc among the small fruits of the season. we boxed, fenced, skated, played cricket and studied cicero together. as my father was one of the most revolutionary of the free-soilers, this may have amused hawthorne as an instance of the montagues and capulets; but i found much sympathy with my political notions in his household. when the first of january came there was a grand celebration of the emancipation in boston music hall. mrs. hawthorne and una were very desirous to attend it, and i believe they both did so—miss una at all events. if mrs. hawthorne’s opinions could be taken in any sense as a reflection of her husband’s mind, he was certainly drifting away from his old associations.

in october, 1862, hawthorne published the first of a series of studies from english life and scenery, taken chiefly from his note-book, and he continued this at intervals until the following summer, when ticknor & fields brought them out with some additions in book form as “our old home;” a volume which has already been considered in these pages. it was not a favorable time for the publication of classic literature, for the whole population of the united states was in a ferment; and moreover the unfriendly attitude of the english educated classes toward the cause of the union, was beginning to have its effect with us. in truth it seemed rather inconsistent that the philanthropic gladstone, who had always professed himself the friend of freedom, should glorify jefferson davis as the founder of a new nation—a republic of slaveholders. in addition to this, hawthorne insisted on dedicating the volume to president pierce, and when his publishers protested that this would tend to make the book unpopular, he replied in a spirited manner, that if that was the case it was all the more reason why pierce’s friends should signify their continued confidence in him. this may have made little difference, however, for comparatively few readers notice the dedication of a book until after they have purchased it; and we like hawthorne for his firmness in this instance.

in england the book produced a sensation of the unfavorable sort. hawthorne’s attack on the rotundity of the english ladies, whatever may have been his reason for it, was, to speak reservedly, somewhat lacking in delicacy. it stirred up a swarm of newspaper enemies against him; and proved a severe strain to the attachment of his friends there. henry bright wrote to him:

“it really was too bad, some of the things you say. you talk like a cannibal. mrs. heywood says to my mother, ‘i really believe you and i were the only ladies he knew in liverpool, and we are not like beefsteaks.’ so all the ladies are furious.” {footnote: j. hawthorne, ii. 280. good mrs. alcott also objected stoutly to the reflections on her sex.}

but hawthorne was no longer what he had been, and allowance should be made for this.

hawthorne’s chief interest at this time, however, lay in the preparation of his son for harvard college. julian was sixteen in august and, considering the itinerant life he had lived, well advanced in his studies. he was the best-behaved boy in concord, in school or out, and an industrious though not ambitious scholar. he was strong, vigorous and manly; and his parents had sufficient reason to be proud of him. to expect him, however, to enter harvard college at the age of seventeen was somewhat unreasonable. his father had entered bowdoin at that age, but the requirements at harvard were much more severe than at bowdoin; enough to make a difference of at least one year in the age of the applicant. for a boy to enter college in a half-fitted condition is simply to make a false start in life, for he is only too likely to become discouraged, and either to drag along at the foot of the class or to lose his place in it altogether. hawthorne may have felt that the end of earthly affairs was close upon him, and wished to see his son started on the right road before that came; but emerson also had an interest in having julian go to college at exactly this time; namely, to obtain him as a chum for his wife’s nephew, with the advantage of a tutor’s room thrown in as an extra inducement. he advised hawthorne to place julian in charge of a harvard professor who was supposed to have a sleight-of-hand faculty for getting his pupils through the examinations. julian worked bravely, and succeeded in entering harvard the following july; but he was nine months (or a good school year), younger than the average of his class.

hawthorne did not leave home this summer (1863), and the only letter we have of his was the one to james t. fields concerning the dedication of “our old home,” which was published in the autumn. julian states that his father spent much of his time standing or walking in his narrow garden before the house, and looking wistfully across the meadows to walden woods. his strength was evidently failing him, yet he could not explain why—nor has it ever been explained.

one bright day in november two of us walked up from cambridge with julian and lunched at his father’s. mr. hawthorne received us cordially, but in a tremulous manner that betrayed the weakness of his nerves. as soon as julian had left the room, he said to us, “i suppose it would be of little use to ask you young gentlemen what sort of a scholar julian is.” h—— replied to this, that we were neither of us in the division with him, but that he had heard nothing unfavorable in regard to his recitations; and i told him that julian went to the gymnasium with me every evening, and appeared to live a very regular kind of life. this seemed to please mr. hawthorne very much, and he soon produced a decanter of port, and, his son having entered the room again, he said, “i want to teach julian the taste of good wine, so that he will learn to avoid those horrible punches, which i am told you have at harvard.” we all laughed greatly at this, which was afterward increased by julian’s saying that the only punches he had yet seen were those which the sophomores gave us in the foot-ball fight,—or some such statement. it was a bright occasion for all of us, and when mrs. hawthorne and her daughters entered the room, such a beautiful group as they all formed together! and hawthorne himself seemed ten years younger than when he first greeted us.

he was the most distinguished-looking man that i ever beheld, and no sensible person could meet him without instantly recognizing his superior mental endowment. his features were not only classic but grandly classic; and his eyes large, dark, luminous, unfathomable—looking into them was like looking into a deep well. his face seemed to give a pictorial reflection of whatever was taking place about him; and again became like a transparency through which one could see dim vistas of beautiful objects. the changes of expression on it were like the sunshine and clouds of a summer day—perhaps thunder clouds sometimes, with flashes of lightning, which his son may still remember; for where there is a great heart there will always be great heat.

“the dolliver romance”

according to james t. fields, the ground-plan of this work was laid the preceding winter, but hawthorne became dissatisfied with the way in which the subject developed itself and so set the manuscript aside until he could come to it again with fresh inspiration. with the more bracing weather of september he commenced on it again, and wrote during the next two months that portion which we now have. on december 1 he forwarded two chapters to ticknor & fields, requesting to have them set up so that he could see them in print and obtain a retrospective view of his work before he proceeded further. yet on december 15 he wrote again, saying that he had not yet found courage to attack the proofs, and that all mental exertion had become hateful to him. {footnote: “yesterdays with authors,” 115.} he was evidently feeling badly, and for the first time mrs. hawthorne was seriously anxious for him. four days later she wrote to una, who was visiting in beverly:

“papa is comfortable to-day, but very thin and pale and weak. i give him oysters now. hitherto he has had only toasted crackers and lamb and beef tea. i am very impatient that he should see dr. vanderseude, but he wants to go to him himself, and he cannot go till it be good weather.... the splendor and pride of strength in him have succumbed; but they can be restored, i am sure. meanwhile he is very nervous and delicate; he cannot bear anything, and he must be handled like the airiest venetian glass.” {footnote: j. hawthorne, ii. 333.}

he divided his time between lying on a sofa and sitting in an arm-chair; and he did not seem very comfortable in either position. it was long since he had attended meetings of the saturday club.

it is clear from this that hawthorne had not recently consulted a doctor concerning his condition, and perhaps not at all. he may have been right enough in supposing that no common practitioner could give him help, but there was at that time one of the finest of physiologists in boston, dr. edward h. clark, who cured hundreds of sick people every year, as quietly and unostentatiously as dame nature herself. he was a graduate of the university of pennsylvania, and as such not generally looked upon with favor by the boston medical profession, but when agassiz’s large brain gave way in 1868, dr. brown-séquard telegraphed to him from europe to consult edward clark, and doctor clark so improved his health that agassiz afterward enjoyed a number of years of useful work. perhaps he might have accomplished as much for hawthorne; but how was hawthorne in his retired and uncommunicative life to know of him? there are decided advantages in living in the great world, and in knowing what goes on there,—if one only can.

it is doubtful if hawthorne ever opened the proof of “the dolliver romance.” in february he wrote to fields that he could not possibly go on with it, and as it had already been advertised for the atlantic monthly, a notification had to be published concerning the matter, which startled longfellow, whittier and other old friends of hawthorne, who were not in the way of knowing much about him. the fragment that we now have of it was printed in the atlantic many years after his death.

it was the last expiring ember of hawthorne’s genius, blazing up fitfully and momentarily with the same brightness as of old, and then disappearing like hawthorne himself into the unknown and the unknowable. it is a fragment, and yet it seems complete, for it is impossible to imagine how the story could have been continued beyond its present limits; and hawthorne left no word from which we can conjecture his further intentions in regard to it.

there was an old apothecary in concord, named reynolds, a similar man to, but not so aged as, hawthorne’s doctor dolliver; and he also had a son, a bright enterprising boy,—too bright and spirited to suit boston commercialism,—who went westward in 1858 to seek his fortune, nor have i ever heard of his return. the child pansie, frisking with her kitten—a more simple, ingenuous, and self-centred, but also less sympathetic nature than the pearl of hester prynne—may have been studied from hawthorne’s daughter rose. there also lived at concord in hawthorne’s time a man with the title of colonel, a pretentious, self-satisfied person, who corresponded fairly to his description of colonel dabney, in “the dolliver romance.” neither is it singular that the apothecary’s garden should have bordered on a grave-yard, for there are two old cemeteries in concord in the very centre of the town.

i know of no such portrait of an old man as doctor dolliver in art or literature,—except perhaps tintoretto’s portrait of his aged self, in the louvre. we not only see the customary marks of age upon him, but we feel them so that it seems as if we grew old and stiff and infirm as we read of him; and the internal life of old age is revealed to us, not by confessions of the man himself, but by every word he speaks and every act he does as if the writer were a skilful tragedian upon the stage. it seems as if hawthorne must have felt all this himself during the last year of his life, to describe it so vividly; but he ascends by these infirm steps to loftier heights than ever before, and the scene in which he represents doctor dolliver seated at night before the fire in his chamber after pansie had been put to bed, is the noblest passage in the whole cycle of hawthorne’s art; one of those rare passages written in moments of gifted insight, when it seems as if a higher power guided the writer’s hand. it is given here entire, for to subtract a word from it would be an irreparable injury.

“while that music lasted, the old man was alive and happy. and there were seasons, it might be, happier than even these, when pansie had been kissed and put to bed, and grandsir dolliver sat by his fireside gazing in among the massive coals, and absorbing their glow into those cavernous abysses with which all men communicate. hence come angels or fiends into our twilight musings, according as we may have peopled them in by-gone years. over our friend’s face, in the rosy flicker of the fire-gleam, stole an expression of repose and perfect trust that made him as beautiful to look at, in his high-backed chair, as the child pansie on her pillow; and sometimes the spirits that were watching him beheld a calm surprise draw slowly over his features and brighten into joy, yet not so vividly as to break his evening quietude. the gate of heaven had been kindly left ajar, that this forlorn old creature might catch a glimpse within. all the night afterwards, he would be semi-conscious of an intangible bliss diffused through the fitful lapses of an old man’s slumber, and would awake, at early dawn, with a faint thrilling of the heart-strings, as if there had been music just now wandering over them.”

so jacob in the desert saw angels descending and ascending on a ladder from heaven. discouraged, depressed, the door closed upon his earthly hopes, not only for himself, but for those whom he loves much better than himself, so far as he could ever be a help and a providence to them, hawthorne finds a purer joy and a higher hope in the depths of his own spirit.

in the second chapter, or fragment, of this romance, doctor dolliver, followed by pansie, goes out into the garden one frosty october morning, and while the apothecary is digging at his herbs, the imitative child, with an instinctive repulsion for everything strange and morbid, pulls up the fatal plant from which the elixir of life was distilled, and frightened at her grandfather’s chiding, runs with it into the cemetery where it is lost among the graves and never seen again. this account stands by itself, having no direct connection with what precedes or follows; but the delineation is so vivid, the poetic element in it so strong, that it may be said to stand without assistance, and does not require the name of hawthorne to give it value.

in the conclusion, the elixir of life proves to be an elixir of death; extremes meet and are reconciled. as he says in “the marble faun,” joy changes to sorrow and sorrow is laughed away; the experience of both being that which is really valuable. doctor dolliver and pansie are figures for the end and the beginning of life; the old year and the new. such is the sum of hawthorne’s philosophy—the ultimate goal of his thought. there could have been no more fitting consummation of his work. the cycle of his art is complete, and death binds the laurel round his brow.

a hero’s end

after hawthorne’s letter of february 25, fields felt that he ought to make an effort in his behalf. fields’s partner, w. d. ticknor, was also ailing, and it was arranged that he and hawthorne should go on a journey southward as soon as the weather permitted. doctor holmes was consulted, and the last of march hawthorne came to boston and met holmes at fields’s house. holmes made an examination, which was anything but satisfactory to his own mind; in fact, he was appalled at the condition in which he found his former companion of the saturday club. “he was very gentle,” holmes says; “very willing to answer questions, very docile to such counsel as i offered him, but evidently had no hope of recovering his health. he spoke as if his work were done, and he should write no more.” {footnote: atlantic monthly, july, 1864.} the doctor, however, must have been mistaken in supposing that hawthorne was suffering from the same malady that carried off general grant, for no human being could die in that manner without suffering greater pain than hawthorne gave any indication of; and the sedatives which holmes prescribed for him could only have resulted in a weakening of the nerves. he even warned hawthorne against the use of alcoholic stimulants, to which for some time he had been more or less accustomed.

hawthorne and ticknor went to new york, and two days later ticknor was able to write to mrs. hawthorne that her husband appeared to be much improved. how cruelly disappointing to meet him at their own door four days later, haggard, weary and more dispirited than when he had left the wayside on march 26! he had proceeded to philadelphia with ticknor, and there at the continental hotel ticknor was suddenly seized with a mortal malady and died almost in hawthorne’s arms, before the latter could notify his family in boston that he was ill. what a severe ordeal for a man who was strong and well, but to a person in hawthorne’s condition it was like a thunderbolt. ticknor’s son came to him at once, and together they performed the necessary duties of the occasion, and made their melancholy way homeward. nothing, perhaps, except a death in his own family, could have had so unfavorable an effect upon hawthorne’s condition.

some good angel now notified franklin pierce of the serious posture of affairs, and he came at once to concord to offer his services in hawthorne’s behalf. however, he could propose nothing more hopeful than a journey in the uplands of new hampshire, and for this it would be necessary to wait for settled weather. so hawthorne remained at home for the next month without his condition becoming apparently either better or worse. at length, on may 13, the ex-president returned and they went together the following day.

we will not linger over that leave-taking on the porch of the wayside; so pathetic, so full of tenderness, even of despair, and yet with a slender ray of hope beneath the leaden cloud of anxiety. to hawthorne it must have seemed even more discouraging than to his wife and children, though none of them could have suspected that the end would be so soon.

on the morning of may 20, i had just returned from my first recitation when julian hawthorne appeared at my room in the massachusetts dormitory, and said, like a man gasping for breath, “my father is dead, and i want you to come with me.” fields had sent him word through professor gurney, who knew how to deliver such a message in the kindliest manner. we went at once to fields’s house on charles street, where mrs. fields gave julian the little information already known to them through a dispatch from franklin pierce,—that his father died during his sleep in the night of may 18, at the pemmigewasset house, plymouth, new hampshire. after this we wandered about boston, silent and aimless, until the afternoon train carried him to concord. he greatly dreaded meeting the gaze of his fellow-townsmen, and confessed that he wanted to hide himself in the woods like a wounded deer. {footnote: the passage in “a fool of nature,” in which he describes murgatroyd’s discovery of his father’s death, must have been a reminiscence of this time—a passage of the finest genius.}

on wednesday, may 18, hawthorne and pierce drove from centre harbor to plymouth, a long and rather rough journey to be taken in a carriage. hawthorne, however, did not make much complaint of this, nor did he seem to be unusually fatigued. he retired to his room soon after nine o’clock, and was sleeping comfortably an hour later. pierce was evidently nervous about him, for he went in to look at him at two in the morning, and again at four; and the last time he discovered that life was extinct. hawthorne had died in his sleep as quietly and peacefully as he had lived. there is the same mystery in his death that there was in his life, and it is difficult to assign either an immediate or a proximate cause for it. with such a physique, and his simple, regular habits of life, he ought to have reached the age of ninety. general pierce believed that he died of paralysis, and that is the most probable explanation; but it was not like the usual cases of paralysis at hawthorne’s age; for, as we have seen, the process of disintegration and failure of his powers had been going on for years. nor did this follow, as commonly happens, a protracted period of adversity, but it came upon him during the most prosperous portion of his life. the first ten years following upon his marriage were years of anxiety, self-denial and even hardship; but other men, alcott, for example, have suffered as much and yet lived to a good old age. it may have been “the old dull pain” which longfellow associated with him, filing perpetually on the vital cord. it was part of the enigmatic side of his nature.

the last ceremonies of respect to the earthly remains of hawthorne were performed at concord on may 23, 1864, in the unitarian church, a commodious building, {footnote: in 1899 this building was burned to the ground, and a new church has been erected on the same spot.} well adapted to the great concourse of mourners who gathered there on this occasion. reverend james freeman clarke, who had united hawthorne and sophia peabody in marriage twenty-two years before, was now called upon to preside over the last act in their married life. the simple eloquence of his address penetrated to the heart of every person present. “hawthorne had achieved a twofold immortality,—and his immortality on earth would be a comforting presence to all who mourned him. the noblest men of the age had gathered there, to testify to his worth as a man as well as to his genius as a writer.” faces were to be seen in that assembly that were never beheld in concord before. among these was the soldierly figure and flashing eye of the poet whittier. longfellow, emerson, lowell, agassiz, alcott and hillard were present; and ex-president pierce shook hands with judge hoar over hawthorne’s bier. after the services the assembly of mourners proceeded to sleepy hollow cemetery, and there the mortal remains of hawthorne were buried under the pine trees on the same hill-side where he and emerson and margaret fuller conversed together on the summer afternoon twenty years before. he needs no monument, for he has found a place in the universal pantheon of art and literature.

it would seem advisable at this parting of the ways to say something of hawthorne’s religious convictions. he went as a boy with his mother and sisters to the east church in salem, a society of liberal tendencies and then on the verge of unitarianism. all the manning family attended service there, but at a later time robert manning separated from it and joined an orthodox society. hawthorne’s mother and his sister louisa became unitarians, and at madam hawthorne’s death in 1848 the funeral services were conducted by reverend thomas t. stone, of the first salem church. it is presumable that nathaniel hawthorne also became a unitarian, so far as he can be considered a sectarian at all; but certain elements of the older faith still remained in his mental composition. it cannot be questioned that the strong optimism in emerson’s philosophy was derived from doctor channing’s instruction, and it is equally certain that hawthorne could never agree to this. whatever might be the origin of evil or its abstract value, he found it too potent an element in human affairs to be quietly reasoned out of existence. whatever might be the ultimate purpose of divine providence, the witchcraft prosecutions were an awful calamity to those who were concerned in them. in this respect he resembled david a. wasson, one of the most devout religious minds, who left the church of calvin (as it was in his time), without ever becoming a unitarian or a radical. miss rebecca manning says:

“i never knew of hawthorne’s going to church at all, after i remember about him, and do not think he was ever in the habit of going. i think he may have gone sometimes when he was in england, but i do not know about it. somewhere in julian or rose hawthorne’s reminiscences, there is mention made of his reading family prayers, when he was in england. he, as also his mother and sisters were people of deeply religious natures, though not always showing it by outward observances.”

a concord judge and an old free-soil politician once attended a religious convention, and after the business of the day was over they went to walk together. the politician confessed to the judge that he had no very definite religious belief, for which the judge thought he did himself great injustice; but is not that the most advanced and intelligent condition of a man’s religious faith? how can we possess clear and definite ideas of the grand mystery of creation? consider only this simple metaphysical fact, that space has no limit, and that we can neither conceive a beginning of time nor imagine time without a beginning. what is there outside of the universe? the brain reels as we think of it. the time has gone by when a man can say to himself definitely, i believe this or i believe that; but we know at least that we, “the creature of a day,” cannot be the highest form of intelligence in this wonderful world. we thought that we lived in solid bodies, but electric rays have been discovered by which the skeletons inside of us become visible. the correlation and conservation of forces brings us very close to the origin of all force; and yet in another sense we are as far off as ever from the perception of it.

this would seem to have been also hawthorne’s position in regard to religious faith. what do we know of the religious belief of michel angelo, of shakespeare, or of beethoven? we cannot doubt that they were sincerely and purely religious men; but neither of them made any confession of their faith. vittoria colonna may have known something of michel angelo’s belief, but vasari does not mention it; and beethoven confessed it was a subject that he did not like to talk about. the deeper a man’s sense of the awe and mystery which underlies nature, the less he feels inclined to expose it to the public gaze. hawthorne’s own family did not know what his religious opinions were—only that he was religious. one may imagine that the reticent man would be more reticent on this subject than on any other; but we can feel confident that at least he was not a sceptic, for the confirmed sceptic inevitably becomes a chatterer. he walks to walden pond with hillard and emerson on sunday, and confesses his doubts as to the utility of the church (in its condition at that time), for spiritual enlightenment; but in regard to the great omnipresent fact of spirituality he has no doubt. in “the snow image” he makes a statue come to life, and says in conclusion that if a new miracle is ever wrought in this world it will be in some such simple manner as he has described.

to the poetic mind, which is after all the highest form of intellect, the grand fact of existence is a sufficient miracle. the rising of the sun, the changes of the seasons, the blooming of flowers and the ripening of the grain, were all miracles to hawthorne, and none the less so because they are continually being repeated. the scientists tell us that all these happen according to natural laws: perfectly true, but who was it that made those laws? who is it that keeps the universe running? laws made for the regulation of human affairs by the wisest of men often prove ineffective, and inadequate to the purpose for which they were intended; but the laws of nature work with unfailing accuracy. the boy solves his problem in algebra, finding out the unknown quantity by those values which are given him; and can we not also infer something of the unknown from the great panorama that passes unceasingly before us? the one thing that hawthorne could not have understood was, how gifted minds like lucretius and auguste comte could recognize only the evidence of their senses, and deliberately blind themselves to the evidence of their intellects. he who denies the existence of mind as a reality resembles a person looking for his spectacles when they are on his nose; but it is the imagination of the poet that leads civilization onward to its goal.

college life is rather generally followed by a period of scepticism, partly owing in former times to the enforced attendance at morning prayers, and still more perhaps to the study of greek and latin authors. during what might be called hawthorne’s period of despair, he could not very well have obtained consolation from the traditional forms of divine worship; at least, such has been the experience of all those who have passed through the wertherian stage, so far as we know of them. it is a time when every man has to strike the fountain of spiritual life out of the hard rock of his own existence; and those are fortunate who, like moses and hawthorne, strike forcibly enough to accomplish this. it is the “new birth from above,” in the light of which religious forms seem of least importance.

one effect of matrimony is commonly a deepening of religious feeling, but it is not surprising that hawthorne should not have attended church after his marriage. his wife had not been accustomed to church-going, on account of the uncertainty of her health; the old manse was a long distance from the concord tabernacle; hawthorne’s associates in concord, with the exception of judge keyes, were not in the habit of going to church; and the officiating minister, both at that time and during his later sojourn, was not a person who could have been intellectually attractive to him. somewhat similar reasons may have interfered with his attendance after his return to salem; and during the last fifteen years of his life, he was too much of a wanderer to take a serious interest in the local affairs of the various places he inhabited; but he was desirous that his children should go to church and should be brought up in honest christian ways.

little more need to be said concerning hawthorne’s character as a man. it was not so perfect as longfellow’s, to whom all other american authors should bow the head in this respect—the washington of poets; and yet it was a rare example of purity, refinement, and patient endurance. his faults were insignificant in comparison with his virtues, and the most conspicuous of them, his tendency to revenge himself for real or fancied injuries, is but a part of the natural instinct in us to return the blows we receive in self-defence. wantonly, and of his own accord, he never injured human being. his domestic life was as pure and innocent as that which appeared before the world; and mrs. hawthorne once said of him in my presence that she did not believe he ever committed an act that could properly be considered wrong. it was like his writing, and his “wells of english undefiled” were but as a synonym for the clear current of his daily existence.

the ideality in hawthorne’s face was so conspicuous that it is recognizable in every portrait of him. it was not the cold visionary expression of the abstract thinker, but a human poetic intelligence, which resolved all things into a spiritual alembic of its own. it is this which elevates him above all writers who only deal with the outer world as they find it, and add nothing to it from their own natures.

george brandes, the danish critic and essayist, speaks of hawthorne somewhere as “the baby poet;” but we suspect that if he had ever met the living hawthorne, he would have stood very much in awe of him. it would not have been like meeting ernest rénan or john stuart mill. although hawthorne was not splenetic or rash, there was an occasional look in his eye which a prudent person might beware of. he was emphatically a man of courage.

the wide and liberal interest which german scholars and writers have so long taken in the literature of other nations, has resulted in founding an informal literary tribunal in germany, to which the rest of the world is accustomed to appeal. a. e. sch?nbach, one of the most recent german writers on universal literature, gives his impression of hawthorne in the following statement:

“i find the distinguishing excellence of hawthorne’s imaginative writings in the union of profound, keen, psychological development of characters and problems with the most lucid objectivity and a joyous modern realism. occasionally there appears a light and delicate humor, sometimes hidden in a mere adjective, or little phrase which lights up the gloomiest situation with a gentle ray of hope. far from unimportant do i rate the charm of his language, its purity, its melody, its graceful flexibility, the wealth of vocabulary, the polish which rarely betrays the touch of the file. after, or with george eliot, hawthorne is the first english prose writer of our century. at the same time he sacrifices nothing of his peculiar american quality. not only does he penetrate into the most secret inner movements of the old colonial life, as no one else has done, and reproduces the spirit of his forefathers with a power of intuition which no historical work could equal; but in all his other works, from the biography of general pierce, to the ‘marble faun,’ hawthorne shows the freshness and keenness, the precision and lucidity, and other qualities not easy to describe, which belong to american literature. he is its chief representative.” {footnote: “gesammelte aufsatze zur neueren litteratur,” p. 346.}

hawthorne has always been accorded a high position in literature, and as time goes on i believe this will be increased rather than diminished. in beauty of diction he is the first of american writers, and there are few that equal him in this respect in other languages. it is a pleasure to read him, simply for his form of expression, and apart from the meaning which he conveys in his sentences. it is like the grace of the latin races,—like dante and chateaubriand; and the adaptation of his words is so perfect that we never have to think twice for his meaning. in those editions called the elzevirs, which are so much prized by book collectors, the clearness and legibility of the type result from such a fine proportion of space and line that no other printer has succeeded in imitating it; and there is something similar to this in the construction of hawthorne’s sentences.

he is the romance writer of the english language; and there is no form of literature which the human race prizes more. how many translations there have been of “the vicar of wakefield,” and of “the sorrows of werther”! the latter is not one of goethe’s best, and yet it made him famous at the age of twenty-eight. the novel deals with what is new and surprising; the romance with what is old and universal. in “the vicar of wakefield” we have the old story of virtue outwitted by evil, which is in its turn outwitted by wisdom. there is nothing new in it except the charming exposition which goldsmith’s genius has given to the subject. thackeray ridiculed “the sorrows of werther,” and in the light of matured judgment the tale appears ridiculous; but it strikes home to the heart, because we all learn wisdom through such experiences, of which young werther’s is an extreme instance. it was only another example of the close relation that subsists between comedy and tragedy.

it cannot be questioned that “the scarlet letter” ranks above “the sorrows of werther;” nor is it less evident that “the marble faun” falls short of “wilhelm meister” and “don quixote.” {footnote: see “cervantes” in north american review, may, 1905} hawthorne’s position, therefore, lies between these two—nearer perhaps to “werther” than to “wilhelm meister.” in certain respects he is surpassed by the great english novelists: fielding, scott, thackeray, dickens and marian evans; but he in turn surpasses them all in the perfection and poetic quality of his art. there is much poetry in scott and dickens, a little also in thackeray and miss evans, but hawthorne’s poetic vein has a more penetrating tone, and appeals more deeply than scott’s verses. if power and versatility of characterization were to be the test of imaginative writing, dickens would push closely on to shakespeare; but we do not go to shakespeare to read about hamlet or falstaff, or for the sake of the story, or even for his wisdom, but for the tout ensemble—to read shakespeare. raphael painted a dozen or more pictures on the same subject, but they are all original, interesting and valuable, because raphael painted them. if it were not for the odd characters and variety of incident in dickens’s novels they would hardly be worth reading. hawthorne’s dramatis person? is not a long one, for his plots do not admit of it, but his characters are finely drawn, and the fact that they have not become popular types is rather in their favor. there are dombeys and shylocks in plenty, but who has ever met a hamlet or a rosalind in real life?

a certain english writer promulgated a list of the hundred superior authors of all times and countries. there were no americans in his catalogue, but he admitted that if the number was increased to one hundred and eighteen hawthorne and emerson might be included in it. doubtless he had not heard of webster or alexander hamilton, and many of his countrymen would be inclined to place longfellow before emerson.

i have myself frequently counted over the great writers of all times and languages, weighing their respective values carefully in my mind, but i have never been able to discover more than thirty-five authors who seem to me decidedly superior to hawthorne, nor above forty others who might be placed on an equality with him. {footnote: appendix c.} this, of course, is only an individual opinion, and should be accepted for what it is worth; but there are many ancient writers, like hesiod, xenophon, and catullus, whose chief value resides in their antiquity, and a much larger number of modern authors, such as balzac, victor hugo, freytag, and ruskin, who have been over-estimated in their own time. petrarch, and the author of “gil bias,” might be placed on a level with hawthorne, but certainly not above him. those whom he most closely resembles in style and subject matter are goldsmith, manzoni, and auerbach.

yet hawthorne is essentially a domestic writer,—a poetizer of the hearth-stone. social life is always the proper subject for works of fiction, and political life should never enter into them, except as a subordinate element; but there is a border-land between the two, in which politics and society act and react on each other, and it is from this field that the great subjects for epic and dramatic poetry have always been reaped. hawthorne only knew of this by hearsay. of the strenuous conflict that continually goes on in political centres like london and new york, a struggle for wealth, for honor, and precedence; of plots and counterplots, of foiled ambition and ruined reputations,—with all this hawthorne had but slight acquaintance. we miss in him the masculine vigor of fielding, the humanity of dickens, and the trenchant criticism of thackeray; but he knew that the true poetry of life (at the present time) was to be found in quiet nooks and in places far off from the turbulent maelstrom of humanity, and in his own line he remains unrivalled.

portraits of hawthorne

hawthorne had no more vanity in his nature than is requisite to preserve a good appearance in public, but he always sat for his portrait when asked to do so, and this was undoubtedly the most sensible way. he was first painted by charles osgood in 1840, a portrait which has at least the merit of a fine poetic expression. he was afterward painted by thompson, healy, and emanuel leutze, and drawn in crayon by rowse and eastman johnson. frances osborne also painted a portrait of him from photographs in 1893, an excellent likeness, and notable especially for its far-off gaze. of all these, rowse’s portrait is the finest work of art, for rowse was a man of genius, but there is a slight tendency to exaggeration in it, and it does not afford so clear an idea of hawthorne as he was, as the osborne portrait. healy was not very successful with hawthorne, and miss lander’s bust has no merit whatever. the following list contains most of the portraits and photographs of hawthorne now known to exist, with their respective ownerships and locations.

oil portrait painted by charles osgood, in 1840. owned by mrs. richard c. manning.

crayon portrait drawn by eastman h. johnson, in 1846. owned by miss alice m. longfellow.

oil portrait painted by george p. a. healy, in 1850. now in the possession of kirk pierce, esq.

oil portrait by miss h. frances osborne, after a photograph by silsbee, case & co., boston.

crayon portrait drawn by samuel w. rowse, in 1866. owned by mrs. annie fields.

engraving after the portrait painted in 1850 by cephas g. thompson. owned by hon. henry c. leach.

the grolier club bronze medallion, made in 1892, by ringel d’illzach. owned by b. w. pierson.

cabinet photograph, bust, by elliott & fry, london. owned by mrs. richard c. manning.

card photograph, full length, seated, with book in right hand, by black & case, boston.

cabinet photograph, three-quarter length, standing beside a pillar, copy by mackintire of the original photograph.

card photograph, three-quarter length, seated, from warren’s photographic studio, boston.

card photograph, bust, by brady, new york, with autographic signature. owned by hon. henry c. leach.

bust in the concord (massachusetts) public library, by miss louise lander.

card photograph, bust, from warren’s photographic studio, boston. owned by mrs. richard c. manning.

oil portrait by emanuel leutze, painted in april, 1852. owned by julian hawthorne.

photograph by mayall, london. the so-called “motley photograph.”

two photographs by brady, full length; one seated, the other standing.

photograph showing hawthorne, ticknor and fields standing together.

editions of nathaniel hawthorne’s books published under his own direction

fanshawe: a tale, boston, 1828. twice-told tales, boston, 1837. another edition, boston, 1842.

peter parley’s universal history, boston, 1837. the gentle boy: a

thrice-told tale, boston, 1839. grandfather’s chair: a history for

youth, boston, 1841. famous old people: or grandfather’s chair ii,

boston, 1841. liberty tree: the last words of grandfather’s chair,

boston, 1841. biographical stories for children, boston, 1842.

historical tales for youth, boston, 1842. the celestial railroad,

boston, 1843. mosses from an old manse, new york, 1846, 1851. the

scarlet letter, boston, 1850. true stories from history and biography,

boston, 1851. the house of the seven gables, boston, 1852. a wonder-book

for girls and boys, boston, 1851. another edition, boston, 1857.

the snow-image and other tales, boston, 1852. another edition, boston

the blithedale romance, boston, 1852. life of franklin pierce, boston,

1852. tanglewood tales for girls and boys, boston, 1853. transformation,

or the romance of monte beni, smith & elder, london, 1860. the marble

faun, or the romance of monte beni, boston, 1860. our old home, boston,

1863.

a complete list of hawthorne’s contributions to american magazines will be found in the appendix to conway’s “life of hawthorne.”

mrs. emerson and mrs. hawthorne {footnote: read at the emerson club, at boston, january 2, 1906}

in 1892, when i was constructing the volume known as “sketches from concord and appledore,” i said in comparing emerson with hawthorne that one was like day, and the other like night. i was not aware that four years earlier m. d. conway had made a similar statement in his life of hawthorne, which was published in london. miss rebecca manning, hawthorne’s own cousin, still living at the age of eighty and an admirable old lady, distinctly confirms my statement, that “wherever hawthorne went he carried twilight with him.” emerson, on the contrary, was of a sanguine temperament and an essentially sunny nature. his writings are full of good cheer, and the opening of his divinity school address is as full of summer sunshine as the finest july day. it was only necessary to see him look at the sunshine from his own porch to recognize how it penetrated into the depths of his nature.

it would seem consistent with the rational order of things, that day should be supplemented by night, and night again by day; and here we are almost startled by the completeness of our allegory. we sometimes come across faces in the streets of a large city, which show by their expression that they are more accustomed to artificial light than to the light of the sun. mrs. emerson was one of these. she never seemed to be fully herself, until the lamps were lighted. her pale face seemed to give forth moonlight, and its habitual expression was much like that of a sister of charity. it was said of her that she was the last in the house to retire at night, always reading or busying herself with household affairs, until twelve or one o’clock; but this mode of life would appear to have been suited to her organization, for in spite of her colorless look she lived to be over ninety.

so far i can tread upon firm earth, without drawing upon my imagination, but in regard to mrs. hawthorne i cannot speak with the same assurance, for i only became acquainted with her after her husband’s health had begun to fail, and the anxiety in her face was strongly marked; yet i have reason to believe that her temperament was originally sanguine and optimistic, and that she alternated from dreamy, pensive moods to bright vivacious ones. she certainly was very different from her husband. her sister, elizabeth peabody, was the most sanguine person of her time, and her introduction of the kindergarten into america was accomplished through her unbounded hopefulness. the wayside, where mrs. hawthorne lived, has an extended southern exposure. the house was always full of light, which is not often the case with new england country houses; and when she lived at liverpool, where sunshine is a rare commodity, she became unwell, so that mr. hawthorne was obliged to send her to madeira in order to avert a dangerous illness.

these two estimable ladies were alike in the excellence of their housekeeping, the purity of their manners, their universal kindliness, and their devotion to the welfare of their husbands and children. it was a pleasure to pass them on the road-side; the fare at their tables was always of the nicest, even if it happened to be frugal; and people of all classes could have testified to their helpful liberality. in these respects they might almost have served as models, but otherwise they were as different as possible. mrs. emerson was of a tall, slender, and somewhat angular figure (like her husband), but she presided at table with a grace and dignity that quite justified his favorite epithet of “queenie.” there was even more of the puritan left in her than there was in him, and although she encouraged the liberal movements and tendencies of her time, one always felt in her mental attitude the inflexibility of the moral law. to her mind there was no shady border-land between right and wrong, but the two were separated by a sharply defined line, which was never to be crossed, and she lived up to this herself, and, in theory at least, she had but little mercy for sinners. on one occasion i was telling mr. emerson of a fraudulent manufacturing company, which had failed, as it deserved to, and which was found on investigation to have kept two sets of books, one for themselves, and another for their creditors. mrs. emerson listened to this narrative with evident impatience, and at the close of it she exclaimed, “this world has become so wicked that if i were the maker of it, i should blow it up at once.” emerson himself did not like such stories; and although he once said that “all deaf children ought to be put in the water with their faces downward,” he was not always willing to accept human nature for what it really is.

mrs. emerson did not agree with her husband’s religious views; neither did she adopt the transcendental faith, that the idea of god is innate in the human mind, so that we cannot be dispossessed of it. she belonged to the conservative branch of the unitarian church, which was represented by reverend james freeman clarke and doctor andrew p. peabody. the subject was one which was permitted to remain in abeyance between them, but mrs. emerson was naturally suspicious of those reverend gentlemen who called upon her husband, and this may have been the reason why he did not encourage the visits of clergymen like samuel johnson, samuel longfellow, and professor hedge, whom he greatly respected, and who should have been by good rights his chosen companions. i suppose all husbands are obliged to make these domestic compromises.

mrs. emerson had also something of the spirit-militant in her. when david a. wasson came to dine at mr. emerson’s invitation, she said to him, by way of grace before meat: “i see you have been carrying on a controversy with reverend mr. sears, of wayland, and you will excuse me for expressing my opinion that mr. sears had the best of it.” but after sounding this little nourish of trumpets, she was as kindly and hospitable as any one could desire. she was one of the earliest recruits to the anti-slavery cause,—not only a volunteer, but a recruiting officer as well,—and she made this decision entirely of her own mind, without any special encouragement from her husband or relatives. at the time of john brown’s execution she wanted to have the bells tolled in concord, and urged her husband energetically to see that it was done. mrs. emerson was always thoroughly herself. there never was the shadow of an affectation upon her; nor more than a shadow of self-consciousness—very rare among conscientious persons. one of her fine traits was her fondness for flowers, which she cultivated in the little garden between her house and the mill-brook, with a loving assiduity. she is supposed to have inspired emerson’s poem, beginning:

“o fair and stately maid, whose eyes

were kindled in the upper skies

at the same torch that lighted mine:

for so i must interpret still

thy sweet dominion o’er my will,

a sympathy divine.”

there are other references to her in his published writings, which only those who were personally acquainted with her would recognize.

mrs. hawthorne belonged to the class of womankind which shakespeare has typified in ophelia, a tender-hearted, affectionate nature, too sensitive for the rough strains of life, and too innocent to recognize the guile in others. this was at once her strength and her weakness; but it was united, as often happens, with a fine artistic nature, and superior intelligence. her face and manners both gave the impression of a wide and elevated culture. one could see that although she lived by the wayside, she had been accustomed to enter palaces. her long residence in england, her italian experience, her visit to the court of portugal, her enjoyment of fine pictures, poetry, and architecture, the acquaintance of distinguished men and women in different countries, had all left their impress upon her, combined in a quiet and lady-like harmony. her conversation was cosmopolitan, and though she did not quite possess the narrative gift of her sister elizabeth, it was often exceedingly interesting.

hawthorne has been looked upon as the necrologist of the puritans, and yet a certain coloring of puritanism adhered to him to the last. it was his wife who had entirely escaped from the old new england conventicle. severity was at the opposite pole from her moral nature. tolerant and charitable to the faults of others, her only fault was the lack of severity. she believed in the law of love, and when kind words did not serve her purpose she let matters take what course they would, trusting that good might fall, “at last far off at last to all.”

i suspect her pathway was by no means a flowery one. mrs. emerson’s life had to be as stoical as her husband’s, and mrs. hawthorne’s, previous to the liverpool consulate,—the consulship of hawthorne,—was even more difficult. no one knew better than she the meaning of that heroism which each day requires. a writer in the atlantic monthly, reviewing julian hawthorne’s biography of his father, emphasizes, “the dual selfishness of mr. and mrs. hawthorne.” insensate words! there was no room for selfishness in the lives they led. in a certain sense they lived almost wholly for one another and for their children; but hawthorne himself lived for all time and for all mankind, and his wife lived through him to the same purpose. the especial form of their material life was as essential to its spiritual outgrowth as the rose-bush is to the rose; and it would be a cankered selfishness to complain of them for it.