Nathaniel Hawthorne - George William Curtis

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Full text of "Hawthorne" Vol. II. No. 7. Five cents.

Per Year, Fifty cents

to tbe Ibomea ofHmcrican Hiitbora

Ibawtborne

BY

George William Curtis

JULY. 1896

Ne'vy York and London : (5. |P.

Iputnam's Sons ^ ^

New Rochelle, N. Y, The

Knickerbocker Press. vr

^ -K

Xittle 3ourne^0

SERIES FOR 1896

Xittle 5ournci25 to tbc "Ibomes ofamecican autbors

The papers below specified, were, with theexception of that contributed by the editor,Mr. Hubbard, originally issued by the late


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G. P. Putnam, in 1853, in a series entitledHomes of American Authors. It is nownearly half a century since this series (whichwon for itself at the time a very noteworthyprestige) was brought before the public ; an^^the present publishers feel that no apology i?needed in presenting to a new generation ofAmerican readers papers of such distinctivebiographical interest and literary value.

No. I, Emerson, by Geo. W. Curtis." 2, Bryant, by Caroline M. Kirkland." 3, Prescott, by Geo. S. Hillard." 4, Lowell, by Charles F. Briggs.* 5, Simms, by Wm. Cullen Bryant.** 6, Walt Whitman, by Elbert Hubbard." 7, Hawthorne, by Geo. W^m. Curlis." 8, Audubon, by Parke Godwin." 9, Irving, by H. T. Tuckerman.

* 10, Longfellow by Geo. Wm. Curtis.

" II, Everett, by Geo. S. Hillard.

*' 12, Bancroft, by Geo. W. Greene.

The above papers, which will form theseries of Little Journeys for the year 1896,will be issued monthly, beginning January,in the same general style as the series of1895, at sects, a year. Single copies, 5 cts.,postage paid.

Entered at the Post Office, New Rochelle, N. Y.,as second class matter

Copyright, 1896, byG. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

27 * 29 West 230 Street, New York

24 Bedford Street, Strand, London

The Knickerbocker Press, New Rochelle, N. Y.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

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" It was sometimes the case, ' ' continued Grand-father, "that affrays happened between suchwUd young men as these and small parties of thesoldiers. No weapons had hitherto been usedexcept fists or cudgels. But when men haveloaded muskets in their hands, it is easy to fore-tell that they will soon be turned against thebosoms of those who provoke their anger."

" Grandfather," said little Alice, looking fear-fully into his face, " your voice sounds as thoughyou were going to tell us something awful ! "Grandfather's Chair.

198

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

BY GEORGE WII,I,IAM CURTIS.*

HAWTHORNE has himself drawnthe picture of the " Old Manse "in Concord. He has given to itthat quiet richness of coloring whichideally belongs to an old country man-sion. It seems so fitting a residence forone who loves to explore the twilight ofantiquity and the gloomier the better that the visitor, among the felicities of

whose life was included the freedom ofthe Manse, could not but fancy that ourauthor's eyes first saw the daylight en-chanted by the slumberous orchard be-

* Written in 1853 for Putnam's Homes of Ameri-can Authors.

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hind the house, cr tranquillized intotwilight by the spacious avenue in front.The character of his imagination, andthe golden gloom of its blossoming, com-pletely harmonize with the rusty, gable-roofed old house upon the river side, andthe reader of his books would be sure


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that his boyhood and youth knew noother friends than the dreaming river,and the melancholy meadows and droop-ing foliage of its vicinity.

Since the reader, however, wouldgreatly mistake if he fancied this, ingood sooth, the ancestral halls of theHawthomes, the genuine Hawthorn-den, he will be glad to save the creditof his fancy by knowing that it was hereour author's bridal tour, which com-menced in Boston, then three hoursaway, ended, and his married life be-gan. Here, also, his first child was born,and here those sad and silver mosses ac-cumulated upon his fancy, from whichhe heaped so soft a bed for our dreaming."Between two tall gate-posts of rough

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hewn stone (the gate itself having fallenfrom its hinges at some unknown epoch)we beheld the gray front of the oldparsonage, terminating the vista of anavenue of black ash trees." It was apleasant spring day in the year 1843, andas they entered the house, nosegays offresh flowers, arranged by friendly hands,welcomed them to Concord and summer.

The dark-haired man, who led his wifealong the avenue that afternoon, hadbeen recently an officer of the customs inBoston, before which he had led a soli-tary life in Salem. Graduated withLongfellow at Bowdoin College, inMaine, he had lived a hermit in respect-able Salem, an absolute recluse even fromhis own family, walking out by nightand writing wild tales by day, most ofwhich were burnt in his bachelor fire,and some of which, in newspapers, maga-zines, and annuals, led a wandering, un-

certain , and mostly unnoticed life. Thosetales, among this class, which were at-tainable, he collected into a small vol-201

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ume, and apprising the world that theywere " twice-told," sent them forth anewto make their own way, in the year 1841.But he piped to the world, and it did notdance. He wept to it, and it did notmourn. The book, however, as all goodbooks do, made its way into varioushearts. Yet the few penetrant mindswhich recognized a remarkable powerand a method of strange fascination inthe stories, did not make the public, norinfluence the public mind. " I was," hesays in the last edition of these tales,** the most unknown author in America."Full of glancing wit, of tender satire, ofexquisite natural deception, of subtle andstrange analysis of human life, darklypassionate and weird, they yet floated un-bailed barques upon the sea of publicity, unbailed, but laden and gleaming atevery crevice with the true treasure ofCathay.

Bancrofl:, then Collector in Boston,prompt to recognize and to honor tal-ent, made the dreaming story-teller a202

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surveyor in the custom-house, thus open-ing to him a new range of experience.

From the society of phantoms he steppedupon Long Wharf and plumply con-fronted Captain Cuttle and Dirck Hat-teraick. It was no less romance to ourauthor. There is no greater error ofthose who are called " practical men,"than the supposition that life is, or canbe, other than a dream to a dreamer.Shut him up in a counting-room, barri-cade him with bales of merchandise andlimit his library to the leger and cash-book, and his prospect to the neighboringsigns ; talk " Bills receivable " and " Sun-

dries Dr. to Cash" to him forever, andyou are only a very amusing or veryannoying phantom to him. The mer-chant prince might as well hope to makehimself a poet, as the poet a practical orpracticable man. He has laws to obeynot at all the less stringent because menof a different temperament refuse to ac-knowledge them, and he is held to aloyalty quite beyond their conceptions.


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So Captain Cuttle and Dirck Hatter-aick were as pleasant figures to our authorin the picture of life, as any others. Hewent daily upon the vessels, looked, andlistened, and learned ; was a favorite ofthe sailors, as such men always are, didhis work faithfully, and having dreamedhis dream upon Long Wharf, was marriedand slipped up to the Old Manse, and anew chapter in the romance. It openedin *'the most delightful little nook of astudy that ever offered its snug seclusionto a scholar." Of the three years in theOld Manse the prelude to the Mossesis the most perfect history, and of thequality of those years the '* Mosses "

themselves are sufficient proof Theywere mostly written in the little study,and originally published in the Demo-cratic Review^ then edited by Haw-thorne's friend O'SuUivan.

To the inhabitants of Concord, how-ever, our author was as much a phantomand a fable as the old Pastor of the parish,dead half a century before, and whose204

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faded portrait in the attic was graduallyrejoining its original in native dust. Thegate, fallen from its hinges in a remoteantiquity, was never re-hung. Thewheel-track leading to the door re-mained still overgrown with grass. Nobold villager ever invaded the sleepof the glimmering shadows in the

avenue. At evening no lights gleamedfrom the windows. Scarce once in manymonths did the single old knobby-facedcoachman at the railroad bring a fare to"Mr. Hawthorne's." ''Is there any-body in the old house ? ' ' sobbed the oldladies in despair, imbibing tea of a lividgreen. The knocker, which everybodyhad enjoyed the right of lifting to sum-mon the good old Pastor, no temerity


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now dared touch. Heavens ! what if thefigure in the mouldy portrait should peer,in answer, over the eaves, and shakesolemnly his decaying surplice ! Nay,what if the mysterious man himselfshould answer the summons and come tothe door ! It is easy to summon spirits,205

matbanfel Ibawtborne

but if they come ? Collective Concord,

mowing in the river meadows, embraced

the better part of valor and left the

knocker untouched. A cloud of romance

suddenly fell out of the heaven of fancy

and enveloped the Old Manse :

In among the bearded barleyThe reaper reaping late and early

did not glance more wistfully toward theisland of Shalott and its mysterious ladythan the reapers of Concord rye lookedat the Old Manse and wondered over itsinmate.

Sometimes, in the forenoon, a darkly

clad figure was seen in the little garden-plot putting in com or melon seed, andgravely hoeing. It was a brief apparition .The farmer passing toward town and see-ing the solitary cultivator, lost his faithin the fact and believed he had dreamed,when, upon returning, he saw no sign oflife, except, possibly, upon some Monday,the ghostly skirt of a shirt flappingspectrally in the distant orchard. Daydawned and darkened over the lonely206

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house. Summer with "buds and bird-voices " came singing in from the South,and clad the old ash trees in deeper green,the Old Manse, in profounder mystery.


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Gorgeous autumn came to visit the story-teller in his little western stud}^, and de-parting, wept rainbows among his trees."Winter impatiently swept down the hillopposite, rifling the trees of each lastclinging bit of Summer, as if thrustingaside opposing barriers and determinedto search the mystery. But his whiterobes floated around the Old Manse,ghostly as the decaying surplice of theold Pastor's portrait, and in the snowyseclusion of Winter the mystery was asmysterious as ever.

Occasionally Emerson, or Bllery Chan-ning, or Henry Thoreau, some Poet, asonce Whittier, journeying to the Merri-mac, or an old Brook Farmer who re-membered Miles Coverdale, with Arca-dian sympathy, went down the avenueand disappeared in the house. Some-times a close observer, had he been am-207

flatbaniel Ibawtborne

bushed among the long grasses of theorchard, might have seen the host andone of his guests emerging at the backdoor, and sauntering to the river-side,step into the boat, and float off untilthey faded in the shadow. The spectaclewould not have lessened the romance.

If it were afternoon, one of the spec-trally sunny afternoons which often be-witch that region, he would be only themore convinced that there was some-thing inexplicable in the whole matterof this man whom nobody knew, whowas never once seen at town-meeting,and concerning whom it was whisperedthat he did not constantly attend churchall day, although he occupied the rever-end parsonage of the village, and hadunmeasured acres of manuscript sermonsin his attic, beside the nearly extinct

portrait of an utterly extinct clergyman.Mrs. RadcliflFe and Monk Lewis werenothing to this ; and the awe-strickenobserver, if he could creep safely out ofthe long grass, he did not fail to do so208

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quietly, fortifying his courage by remem-bering stories of the genial humanity ofthe last old Pastor who inhabited theManse, and who for fifty years was thebland and beneficent Pope of Concord.A genial, gracious old man, whose mem-ory is yet sweet in the village, and who,wedded to the grave traditions of NewEngland theology, believed of his youngrelative, Waldo Emerson, as Miss Flighty,touching her forehead, said of her land-lord, that he was " m, quite m," but wasproud to love in him the hereditary integ-rity of noble ancestors.

This old gentleman, an eminent fig-ure in the history of the Manse, and inall reminiscences of Concord, partooksufficiently of mundane weaknesses tobetray his mortality. Hawthorne de-scribes him watching the battle of Con-

cord, from his study window. But whenthe uncertainty of that dark momenthad so happily resulted, and the firstbattle-ground of the Revolution had be-come a spot of hallowed and patriotic209

flatbaniel Ibawtbornc

consideration, it was a pardonable pridein the good old man to order his servant,whenever there was company, to assisthim in reaping the glory due to theowner of a spot so sacred. Accordingly,when some reverend or distinguishedguest sat with the Pastor in his littleparlor, or, of a summer evening, at thehospitable door under the trees, Jere-miah or Nicodemus, the cow-boy, woulddeferentially approach and inquire :

*' Into what pasture shall I turn the cow

to-night, Sir?"

And the old gentleman would audiblyreply :

*'Into the battle-field, Nicodemus, intothe battle-field ! "

Then naturally followed wonder, in-quiry, a walk in the twilight to the river-


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bank, the old gentleman's story, thecorresponding respect of the listeningvisitor, and the consequent quiet com-placency and harmless satisfaction in theclergyman's bosom. That throb of pridewas the one drop of peculiar advantage

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which the Pastor distilled from the revo-lution. He could not but fancy that hehad a hand in so famous a deed accom-plished upon land now his own, and de-meaned himself, accordingly, with conti-nental dignity.

The pulpit, however, was his especialsphere. There he reigned supreme ; there

he exhorted, rebuked, and advised, as inthe days of Mather. There he inspiredthat profound reverence, of which he wasso proud, and which induced the matronsof the village, when he was coming tomake a visit, to bedizen the children intheir Sunday suits, to parade the besttea-pot, and to offer the most capaciouschair. In the pulpit he delivered every-thing with the pompous cadence of theelder New England clergy, and a sly jokeis told at the expense of his even temper,that on one occasion, when loftily read-

ing the hymn, he encountered a blot uponthe page quite obliterating the word,but without losing the cadence, althoughin a very vindictive tone at the truant

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word, or the culprit who erased it, hefinished the reading as follows :

He sits upon the throne above,

Attending- angels bless,While Justice, Mercy, Truth, and (an-other word which is blotted out)

Compose his princely dress.


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We linger around the old Manse andits occupants as fondly as Hawthorne,but no more fondly than all who havebeen once within the influence of itsspell. There glimmers in my memory afew hazy days, of a tranquil and half-pen-sive character, which I am conscious werepassed in and around the house, and theirpensiveness I know to be only that touchof twilight which inhered in the houseand its associations. Beside the fewchance visitors I have named, there werecity friends, occasionally, figures quiteunknown to the village, who came pre-ceded by the steam-shriek of the locomo-tive, were dropped at the gate-posts, andwere seen no more. The owner was asmuch a vague name to me as any one.

During Hawthorne's first year's resi-

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dence in Concord, I had driven up witlisome friends to an aesthetic tea at Mr.Emerson's. It was in the winter and agreat wood-fire blazed upon the hos-pitable hearth. There were various menand women of note assembled, and I,who listened attentively to all the fine

things that were said, was for some timescarcely aware of a man who sat uponthe edge of the circle, a little withdrawn,his head slightly thrown forward uponhis breast, and his bright eyes clearlyburning under his black brow. As Idrifted down the stream of talk, this per-son, who sat silent as a shadow, lookedto me, as Webster might have looked hadhe been a poet, a kind of poetic Web-ster. He rose and walked to the win-dow, and stood quietly there for a longtime, watching the dead white landscape.

No appeal was made to him, nobodylooked after him, the conversation flowedsteadily on as if everyone understoodthat his silence was to be respected. Itwas the same thing at table. In vain the

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IPlatbaniel Ibawtbotne

silent man imbibed aesthetic tea. What-ever fancies it inspired did not flower athis lips. But there was a light in his eyewhich assured me that nothing was lost.So supreme was his silence that it pres-ently engrossed me to the exclusion ofeverything else. There was very bril-liant discourse, but this silence was muchmore poetic and fascinating. Fine thingswere said by the philosophers, but muchfiner things were implied by the dumb-ness of this gentleman with heavy browsand black hair. When he presently roseand went, Emerson, with the " slow, wisesmile " that breaks over his face like dayover the sky, said :

"Hawthorne rides well his horse of thenight."

Thus he remained in my memory, ashadow, a phantom, until more than ayear afterward. Then I came to live inConcord. Bvery day I passed his house,but when the villagers, thinking thatperhaps I had some clue to the mystery,said :

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*' Do you kuow this Mr. Hawthorne ? "I said : ** No," and trusted to Time.

Time justified my confidence and oneday I, too, went down the avenue, anddisappeared in the house. I mountedthose mysterious stairs to that apocry-phal study. I saw *' the cheerful coat ofpaint, and golden-tinted paper-hangings,lighting up the small apartment ; while

the shadow of a willow tree, that sweptagainst the overhanging eaves, atem-pered the cheery western sunshine." Ilooked from the little northern windowwhence the old Pastor watched the bat-tle, and in the small dining-room beneathit, upon the first floor there were

Dainty chicken, snow-white bread,


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your imagination, some poet whose spellhad held you, and would hold you, forever, was housed as such a poet should be.During the lapse of the three yearssince the bridal tour of twenty milesended at the " two tall gate-posts of roughhewn stone," a little wicker wagon hadappeared at intervals upon the avenue,and a placid babe, whose eyes the softConcord day had touched with the blueof its beauty, lay looking tranquilly upat the grave old trees, which sighed loftylullabies over hsr sleep. The tranquillityof the golden-haired Una was the livingand breathing type of the dreamy life ofthe old Manse. Perhaps, that being at-tained, it was as well to go. Perhaps ourauthor was not surprised nor displeasedwhen the hints came, ** growing moreand more distinct, that the owner of theold house was pining for his native air."One afternoon I entered the study, andlearned from its occupant that the last

story he should ever write there waswritten . The son of the old pastor yearned219


for his homestead. The light of anothersummer would seek its poet in the OldManse, but in vain.

While Hawthorne had been quietlywriting in the ** most delightful nook ofa study," Mr. Polk had been electedPresident, and Mr. Bancroft in the Cabi-net did not forget his old friend the sur-veyor in the custom-house. There camesuggestions and offers of various attrac-tions. Still loving New England, wouldhe tarry there, or, as inspector of woodsand forests in some far-away island of theSouthern Sea, some hazy strip of distanceseen from Florida, would he taste the

tropics ? He meditated all the chances,without immediately deciding. Gather-ing up his household gods, he passed outof the Old Manse as its heir entered, andbefore the end of summer was domesti-cated in the custom-house of his nativetown of Salem. This was in the year1846.

Upon leaving the Old Manse he pub-


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lished the Mosses, announcing that it was220


the last collection of tales he should putforth. Those who knew him and recog-nized his value to our literature, trembledlest this was the last word from one whospoke only pearls and rubies. It was afoolish fear. The sun must shine thesea must roll the bird must sing, andthe poet write. During his life in Salem,of which the introduction to the ScarletLetter describes the official aspect, hewrote that romance. It is inspired bythe spirit of the place. It presents morevividly than any history the gloomy pic-turesqueness of early New England life.There is no strain in our literature so

characteristic or more real than thatwhich Hawthorne had successfully at-tempted in several of his earlier sketches,and of which the Scarlet Letter is thegreat triumph. It became immediatelypopular, and directly placed the writer ofstories for a small circle among theworld's masters of romance.

Times meanwhile changed, and Presi-dents with them. General Tyler was

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elected, and the Salem Collector retired.It is one of the romantic points of Haw-thorne's quiet life, that its changes havebeen so frequently determined by politi-cal events, which, of all others, are themost entirely foreign to his tastes and

habits. He retired to the hills of Berk-shire, the eye of the world now regard-ing his movements. There he lived ayear or two in a little red cottage uponthe "Stockbridge Bowl," as a small lakenear that town is called. In this retreathe wrote the House of the Seven Gables,which more deeply confirmed the literaryposition already acquired for him by thefirst romance. The scene is laid in Salem,


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as if he could not escape a strange fasci-nation in the witch-haunted town of ourearly history. It is the same black can-vas upon which plays the rainbow-flashof his fancy, never, in its brightest mo-ment, more than illuminating the gloom.This marks all his writings. They havea terrible beauty, like the Siren, and theirfascination is sure.

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After six years of absence, Hawthornehas returned to Concord, where he haspurchased a small house formerly occu-pied by Orphic Alcott. When that phi-losopher came into possession, it was amiserable house of two peaked gables.

But the genius which recreated itself indevising graceful summer-houses, likethat for Mr. Emerson, already noticed,soon smoothed the new residence intosome kind of comeliness. It was an oldhouse when Mr. Alcott entered it, buthis tasteful finger touched it with pic-turesque grace. Not like a tired olddrudge of a house, rusting into unhon-ored decay, but with a modest freshnessthat does not belie the innate sobriety ofa venerable New England farm-house,the present residence of our author stands

withdrawn a few yards from the highroad to Boston, along which marched theBritish soldiers to Concord bridge. Itlies at the foot of a wooded hill, a neathouse of a ''rusty olive hue," with aporch in front, and a central peak and a223

IRatbanfel Ibawtborne

piazza at each end. The genius for sum-mer-houses has had full play upon thehill behind. Here, upon the homelysteppes of Concord, is a strain of Persia.Mr. Alcott built terraces, and arbors, andpavilions, of boughs and rough stems oftrees, revealing somewhat inadequately,perhaps the hanging gardens of delightthat adorn the Babylon of his Orphic


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imagination. The hill-side is no unaptemblem of his intellectual habit, whichgarnishes the arid commonplaces of lifewith a cold poetic aurora, forgetting thatit is the inexorable law of light to de-form as well as adorn. Treating life as agrand epic poem, the philosopher Alcottforgets that Homer must nod, or weshould all fall asleep. The world wouldnot be very beautiful nor interesting, if itwere all one huge summit of Mont Blanc.Unhappily, the terraced hill-side, likethe summer-house upon Mr. Emerson'slawn, "lacks technical arrangement,"and the wild winds play with these archi-tectural toys of fancy, like lions with224

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humming-birds. They are gradually fall-ing, shattered, and disappearing. Finelocust-trees shade them, and ornamentthe hill with perennial beauty. The hang-ing gardens of Semiramis were not morefragrant than Hawthorne's hill-side dur-ing the June blossoming of the locusts.A few young elms, some white pines andyoung oaks complete the catalogue oftrees. A light breeze constantly fans thebrow of the hill, making harps of thetree-tops, and singing to our author, who"with a book in my hand, or an unwrit-

ten book in my thoughts," lies stretchedbeneath them in the shade.

From the height of the hill the eyecourses, unrestrained, over the solitarylandscape of Concord, broad and still,broken only by the slight wooded undu-lations of insignificant hillocks. Theriver is not visible, nor any gleam oflake. Walden Pond is just behind thewood in front, and not far away over themeadows sluggishly steals the river. Itis the most quiet of prospects. Kight

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acres of good land lie in front of thehouse, across the road, and in the rear


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the estate extends a little distance overthe brow of the hill.

This latter is not good garden- ground,but it yields that other crop which thepoet ** gathers in a song." Perhaps theworld will forgive our author that he isnot a prize farmer, and makes but an in-different figure at the annual cattle-show.We have seen that he is more nomadicthan agricultural. He has wanderedfrom spot to spot, pitching a temporary-tent, then striking it for ** fresh fieldsand pastures new." It is natural, there-fore, that he should call his house * * TheWayside," a bench upon the road wherehe sits for a while before passing on. Ifthe wayfarer finds him upon that benchhe shall have rare pleasure in sittingwith him, yet shudder while he stays.For the pictures of our poet have morethan the shadows of Rembrandt. If youlisten to his story, the lonely pasturesand dull towns of our dear old homely

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New England shall become suddenly asradiant with grace and terrible with trag-edy as any country and any time. Thewaning afternoon in Concord, in whichthe blue-frocked farmers are reaping and

hoeing, shall set in pensive glory. Thewoods will forever after be haunted withstrange forms. You will hear whispers,and music *'i' the air." In the softestmorning you will suspect sadness ; in themost fervent noon, a nameless terror. Itis because the imagination of our authortreads the almost imperceptible line be-tween the natural and the supernatural.We are all conscious of striking it some-times. But we avoid it. We recoil andhurry away, nor dare to glance over ourshoulders lest we should see phantoms.

What are these tales of supernatural ap-pearances, as well authenticated as anynews of the day, and what is the spherewhich they imply? What is the moresubtle intellectual apprehension of fateand its influence upon imagination andlife? Whatever it is, it is the mystery227


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of the fascination of these tales. Theyconverse with that dreadful realm as withour real world. The light of our sun ispoured by genius upon the phantoms wedid not dare to contemplate, and lo?they are ourselves, unmasked, and play-ing our many parts. An unutterable sad-ness seizes the reader, as the inevitableblack thread appears. For here Geniusassures us what we trembled to suspect,but could not avoid suspecting, that theblack thread is inwoven with all formsof life, with all development of char-acter.

It is for this peculiarity, which harmo-nizes so well with ancient places, whosepensive silence seems the trance of mem-ory musing over the young and lovely

life that illuminated its lost years, thatHawthorne is so intimately associatedwith the " Old Manse." Yet that wasbut the tent of a night for him. Alreadywith the Blithedale Romance, which isdated from Concord, a new interest be-gins to cluster around "The Wayside."228

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I know not how I can more fitly con-clude these reminiscences of Concord andHawthorne, whose own stories have al-ways a saddening close, than by relatingan occurrence which blighted to manyhearts the beauty of the quiet Concordriver, and seemed not inconsonant withits lonely landscape. It has the furtherfitness of typifying the operation of ourauthor's imagination : a tranquil stream,clear and bright with sunny gleams,

crowned with lilies and graceful withswaying grass, yet doing terrible deedsinexorably, and therefore forever after,of a shadowed beauty.

Martha was the daughter of a plainConcord farmer, a girl of delicate andshy temperament, who excelled so muchin study that she was sent to a fine acad-emy in a neighboring town, and won all


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details, in the incessant drudgery of apoor farmer's household, with no com-panions of any sympathy for the familyof a hard-working New England farmerare not the Chloes and Clarissas of pas-toral poetry, nor are cow-boys Corydons, with no opportunity of retirement andcultivation, for reading and studying,which is always voted "stuff" undersuch circumstances, the light suddenly231

Batbaniel Ibavvtborne

quenched out of life, what was she todo?

"Adapt herself to her circumstances.Why had she shot from her sphere in thissilly way?" demands unanimous com-

mon sense in valiant heroics.

The simple answer is, that she hadonly used all her opportunities, and that,although it was no fault of hers that theroutine of her life was in every way re-pulsive, she did struggle to accommodateherself to it, and failed. When shefound it impossible to drag on at home,she became an inmate of a refined andcultivated household in the village, whereshe had opportunity to follow her ownfancies, and to associate with educated

and attractive persons. But even hereshe could not escape the feeling that itwas all temporary, that her position wasone of dependence ; and her pride, nowgrown morbid often drove her from thevery society which alone was agreeableto her. This was all genuine. Therewas not the slightest strain of the femnie

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incomprise in her demeanor. She wasalways shy and silent, with a touchingreserve which won interest and confi-dence, but left also a vague sadness inthe mind of the observer. After a fewmonths she made another effort to rend


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the cloud which was gradually darken-ing around her, and opened a school foryoung children. But although the in-terest of friends secured for her a partialsuccess, her gravity and sadness failedto excite the sympathy of her pupils, whomissed in her the playful gayety alwaysmost winning to children. Martha, how-ever, pushed bravely on, a figure of tragicsobriety to all who watched her course.The farmers thought her a strange girl,and wondered at the ways of a farmer'sdaughter who was not content to milkcows, and chum butter, and fry pork,without further hope or thought. Thegood clergyman of the town, interestedin her situation, sought a confidence shedid not care to bestow, and so, dolingout a, b^ c, to a wild group of boys and233

IWatbanfel Ibawtborne

girls, she found that she could not untiethe Gordian knot of her life, and felt,with terror, that it must be cut.

One summer evening she left herfather's house and walked into the fieldsalone. Night came, but Martha did notreturn. The family became anxious,inquired if anyone had noticed the di-rection in which she went, learned from

the neighbors that she was not visiting,that there was no lecture nor meeting todetain her, and wonder passed into ap-prehension. Neighbors went into theadjacent woods and called, but receivedno answer. Every instant the awfulshadow of some dread event solemnizedthe gathering groups. Everyone thoughtwhat no one dared to whisper, until alow voice suggested " the river." Then,with the swiftness of certainty, all friends,far and near, were roused, and throngedalong the banks of the stream. Torches

flashed in boats that put off in the terriblesearch. Hawthorne, then living in theOld Manse, was summoned, and the man234



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whom the villagers had only seen atmorning as a musing spectre in his gar-den, now appeared among them at nightto devote his strong arm and steady heartto their service. The boats drifted slowlydown the stream the torches flaredstrangely upon the black repose of thewater, and upon the long, slim grassesthat, weeping, fringed the marge. Uponbanks, silent and awe-stricken crowdshastened along, eager and dreading tofind the slightest trace of what theysought. Suddenly they came upon afew articles of dress, heavy with thenight dew. No one spoke, for no onehad doubted the result. It was clear thatMartha had strayed to the river, andquietly gained the repose she sought.The boats gathered round the spot.With every implement that could beof service the melancholy task began.Long intervals of fearful silence ensued,but at length, toward midnight, the sweet

face of the dead girl was raised more

235

Tlatbanlel Ibawtborne

placidly to the stars than ever it had been

to the sun.

Oh I is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,

A tress o' gfolden hair,

O' drownM maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea ?"Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.

So ended the village tragedy. The

reader may possibly find in it the origi-nal of the thrilling conclusion of theBlithedale Romance, and learn anewthat dark as is the thread with whichHawthorne weaves his spells, it is nodarker than those with which tragediesare spun, even in regions apparently sotorpid as Concord.


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236

LITTLE JOURNEYS

TO THE HOMESOF GOOD MEN AND GREAT

SERIES FOR 1895.

Each number treats of recent visits madeby Mr. Elbert Hubbard to the homes andhaunts of various eminent persons. Thesubjects for the first twelve numbers are asfollows :

I. George Eliot. 2. Thomas Car-LYLE. 3. John Ruskin. 4. W. E. Glad-

stone. 5. J. M. W. Turner. 6. JonathanSwift. 7. Victor Hugo. 8. Wm. Words-worth. 9. W. M. Thackeray. 10.Charles Dickens. ii. Oliver Gold-smith. 12. Shakespeare.

Per number, 5 cents. Per set, 50 cents.

The series of 12 numbers in one volume isillustrated with twelve portraits, some ofwhich are in photogravure. i6mo, printedon deckel-edge paper, cloth bound, gilt tops,

$1.75.

*' The series is well conceived and excellently sus-tained. The most captious critic could not suggestan improvement. Never was there more satisfactorypacking, in more attractive shape, of matter worth atleast ten times the money." Buffalo Commercial.

" The series is particularly interesting, and it seemsto us that no one could write more delightfully ofauthors and their homes than does Mr. Hubbard." Boston Times.

"The publishers have succeeded in placing thisvolume of ' Little Journeys ' typographically amongthe beautiful books of the day. It is a lovely speci-men of the printers' art." 5a Francisco Call.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON


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The Philistine :

A Periodical of Protest.

IVouid to God my name wereNot so terrible to the enemy as it is I

Henry VIII.

Printed Every Little While forthe Society of The Philistinesand Published by Them Monthly.Subscription, One Dollar Yearly ;Single Copies lo cents.

The Philistine and Little Journeys, oneyear, One Dollar.

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New York Tribune,

The Philistine is calculated to lay the dust of con-vention and drive out the miasma of degeneracy, andwhile assailing the old gods may, in due time, rearnew ones to the delight of the healthy populace.

THE PHILISTINE,East Aurora, New York.

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Landscape Gardening.

Notes and Suggestions on Lawns andLawn-Planting, Laying Out and Arrange-ment of Country Places, Large and SmallPlots, Deciduous and Evergreen Treesand Shrubs. By Samuel Parsons, Jr.,


31/35

Superintendent of Parks, New York City.Large 8, with nearly 200 illustrations

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The Trees of Northeastern America.By Charles S. Newhall. With an In-troductory Note by Nath. L. Britton.With illustrations made from tracings ofthe leaves of the various trees. 8" $2 50

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THE COMPLETE WORKS OF

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

MOHAWK EDITION

To be completed in 32 volumes, largei2mo, handsomely printed, with illustrations,and substantially bound.

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Price, per Volume, $1.25.

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Section I. Comprises ; Section II. Comprises}

The Deerslayer fThe Pilot


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Red RoverWing and WingThe Water-WitchThe Two AdmiralsThe Sea-Lions

Last of the MohicansThe PathfinderThe PioneersThe PrairieThe Spy

Precaution Afloat and Ashore

Lionel Lincoln Wept of W^ish-ton-Wish

Homeward Bound The Bravo

Home as Found The Hidenmauer

Mercedes of Castile The Headsman

The Redskins The Monikins

The Chainbearer Miles Wallingford

Satanstoe Jack Tier

The Crater Oak Openings

Wyandotte The Ways of the Hour

The two sections in brackets are now ready.

Other sections will follow at brief inter-vals, until the set is completed.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York and London

HEROES OF THE NATIONS

>

Documents

Nathaniel Hawthorne - George William Curtis