Chapter III: Hawthorne (3)

We met in London early in May, and, as our lodgings were not far apart, we were frequently together. I recall many pleasant dinners with him and mutual friends in various charming seaside and country-side places. We used to take a run down to Greenwich or Blackwall once or twice a week, and a trip to Richmond was always grateful to him. Bennoch was constantly planning a day's happiness for his friend, and the hours at that pleasant season of the year were not long enough for our delights. In London we strolled along the Strand, day after day, now diving into Bolt Court, in pursuit of Johnson's whereabouts, and now stumbling around the Temple, where Goldsmith at one time had his quarters. Hawthorne was never weary of standing on London Bridge, and watching the steamers plying up and down the Thames. I was much amused by his manner towards importunate and sometimes impudent beggars, scores of whom would attack us even in the shortest walk. He had a mild way of making a severe and cutting remark, which used to remind me of a little incident which Charlotte Cushman once related to me. She said a man in the gallery of a theatre (I think she was on the stage at the time) made such a disturbance that the play could not proceed. Cries of "Throw him over" arose from all parts of the house, and the noise became furious. All was tumultuous chaos until a sweet and gentle female voice was heard in the pit, exclaiming, "No! I pray you don't throw him over! I beg of you, dear friends, don't throw him over, but--_kill him where he is_."

One of our most royal times was at a parting dinner at the house of Barry Cornwall. Among the notables present were Kinglake and Leigh Hunt. Our kind-hearted host and his admirable wife greatly delighted in Hawthorne, and they made this occasion a most grateful one to him. I remember when we went up to the drawing-room to join the ladies after dinner, the two dear old poets, Leigh Hunt and Barry Cornwall, mounted the stairs with their arms round each other in a very tender and loving way. Hawthorne often referred to this scene as one he would not have missed for a great deal.

His renewed intercourse with Motley in England gave him peculiar pleasure, and his genius found an ardent admirer in the eminent historian. He did not go much, into society at that time, but there were a few houses in London where he always seemed happy.

I met him one night at a great evening-party, looking on from a nook a little removed from the full glare of the _soirée_. Soon, however, it was whispered about that the famous American romance-writer was in the room, and an enthusiastic English lady, a genuine admirer and intelligent reader of his books, ran for her album and attacked him for "a few words and his name at the end." He looked dismally perplexed, and turning to me said imploringly in a whisper, "For pity's sake, what shall I write? I can't think of a word to add to my name. Help me to something." Thinking him partly in fun, I said, "Write an original couplet,--this one, for instance,--

'When this you see,
Remember me,'"

and to my amazement he stepped forward at once to the table, wrote the foolish lines I had suggested, and, shutting the book, handed it very contentedly to the happy lady.

We sailed from England together in the month of June, as we had previously arranged, and our voyage home was, to say the least, an unusual one. We had calm summer, moonlight weather, with no storms. Mrs. Stowe was on board, and in her own cheery and delightful way she enlivened the passage with some capital stories of her early life.

When we arrived at Queenstown, the captain announced to us that, as the ship would wait there six hours, we might go ashore and see something of our Irish friends. So we chartered several jaunting-cars, after much tribulation and delay in arranging terms with the drivers thereof, and started off on a merry exploring expedition. I remember there was a good deal of racing up and down the hills of Queenstown, much shouting and laughing, and crowds of beggars howling after us for pence and beer. The Irish jaunting-car is a peculiar institution, and we all sat with our legs dangling over the road in a "dim and perilous way." Occasionally a horse would give out, for the animals were sad specimens, poorly fed and wofully driven. We were almost devoured by the ragamuffins that ran beside our wheels, and I remember the "sad civility" with which Hawthorne regarded their clamors. We had provided ourselves before starting with much small coin, which, however, gave out during our first mile. Hawthorne attempted to explain our inability further to supply their demands, having, as he said to them, nothing less than a sovereign in his pocket, when a voice from the crowd shouted, "Bedad, your honor, I can change that for ye"; and the knave actually did it on the spot.

Hawthorne's love for the sea amounted to a passionate worship; and while I (the worst sailor probably on this planet) was longing, spite of the good company on board, to reach land as soon as possible, Hawthorne was constantly saying in his quiet, earnest way, "I should like to sail on and on forever, and never touch the shore again." He liked to stand alone in the bows of the ship and see the sun go down, and he was never tired of walking the deck at midnight. I used to watch his dark, solitary figure under the stars, pacing up and down some unfrequented part of the vessel, musing and half melancholy. Sometimes he would lie down beside me and commiserate my unquiet condition. Seasickness, he declared, he could not understand, and was constantly recommending most extraordinary dishes and drinks, "all made out of the _artist's_ brain," which he said were sovereign remedies for nautical illness. I remember to this day some of the preparations which, in his revelry of fancy, he would advise me to take, a farrago of good things almost rivalling "Oberon's Feast," spread out so daintily in Herrick's "Hesperides." He thought, at first, if I could bear a few roc's eggs beaten up by a mermaid on a dolphin's back, I might be benefited. He decided that a gruel made from a sheaf of Robin Hood's arrows would be strengthening. When suffering pain, "a right gude willie-waught," or a stiff cup of hemlock of the Socrates brand, before retiring, he considered very good. He said he had heard recommended a dose of salts distilled from the tears of Niobe, but he didn't approve of that remedy. He observed that he had a high opinion of hearty food, such as potted owl with Minerva sauce, airy tongues of sirens, stewed ibis, livers of Roman Capitol geese, the wings of a Phoenix not too much done, love-lorn nightingales cooked briskly over Aladdin's lamp, chicken-pies made of fowls raised by Mrs. Carey, Nautilus chowder, and the like. Fruit, by all means, should always be taken by an uneasy victim at sea, especially Atalanta pippins and purple grapes raised by Bacchus & Co. Examining my garments one day as I lay on deck, he thought I was not warmly enough clad, and he recommended, before I took another voyage, that I should fit myself out in Liverpool with a good warm shirt from the shop of Nessus & Co. in Bold Street, where I could also find stout seven-league boots to keep out the damp. He knew another shop, he said, where I could buy raven-down stockings, and sable clouds with a silver lining, most warm and comfortable for a sea voyage.

His own appetite was excellent, and day after day he used to come on deck after dinner and describe to me what he had eaten. Of course his accounts were always exaggerations, for my amusement. I remember one night he gave me a running catalogue of what food he had partaken during the day, and the sum total was convulsing from its absurdity. Among the viands he had consumed, I remember he stated there were "several yards of steak," and a "whole warrenful of Welsh rabbits." The "divine spirit of Humor" was upon him during many of those days at sea, and he revelled in it like a careless child.

That was a voyage, indeed, long to be remembered, and I shall ever look back upon it as the most satisfactory "sea turn" I ever happened to experience. I have sailed many a weary, watery mile since then, but _Hawthorne_ was not on board!

The summer after his arrival home he spent quietly in Concord, at the Wayside, and illness in his family made him at times unusually sad. In one of his notes to me he says:--

"I am continually reminded nowadays of a response which I once heard
a drunken sailor make to a pious gentleman, who asked him how he
felt, 'Pretty d--d miserable, thank God!' It very well expresses my
thorough discomfort and forced acquiescence."

Occasionally he wrote requesting me to make a change, here and there, in the new edition of his works then passing through the press. On the 23d of September, 1860, he writes:--

"Please to append the following note to the foot of the page, at the
commencement of the story called 'Dr. Heidegger's Experiment,' in
the 'Twice-Told Tales': 'In an English Review, not long since, I
have been accused of plagiarizing the idea of this story from a
chapter in one of the novels of Alexandra Dumas. There has
undoubtedly been a plagiarism, on one side or the other; but as my
story was written a good deal more than twenty years ago, and as the
novel is of considerably more recent date, I take pleasure in
thinking that M. Dumas has done me the honor to appropriate one of
the fanciful conceptions of my earlier days. He is heartily welcome
to it; nor is it the only instance, by many, in which the great
French romancer has exercised the privilege of commanding genius by
confiscating the intellectual property of less famous people to his
own use and behoof.'"

Hawthorne was a diligent reader of the Bible, and when sometimes, in my ignorant way, I would question, in a proof-sheet, his use of a word, he would almost always refer me to the Bible as his authority. It was a great pleasure to hear him talk about the Book of Job, and his voice would be tremulous with feeling, as he sometimes quoted a touching passage from the New Testament. In one of his letters he says to me:--

"Did not I suggest to you, last summer, the publication of the Bible
in ten or twelve 12mo volumes? I think it would have great success,
and, at least (but, as a publisher, I suppose this is the very
smallest of your cares), it would result in the salvation of a great
many souls, who will never find their way to heaven, if left to
learn it from the inconvenient editions of the Scriptures now in
use. It is very singular that this form of publishing the Bible in a
single bulky or closely printed volume should be so long continued.
It was first adopted, I suppose, as being the universal mode of
publication at the time when the Bible was translated. Shakespeare,
and the other old dramatists and poets, were first published in the
same form; but all of them have long since been broken into dozens
and scores of portable and readable volumes; and why not the Bible?"

During this period, after his return from Europe, I saw him frequently at the Wayside, in Concord. He now seemed happy in the dwelling he had put in order for the calm and comfort of his middle and later life. He had added a tower to his house, in which he could be safe from intrusion, and where he could muse and write. Never was poet or romancer more fitly shrined. Drummond at Hawthornden, Scott at Abbotsford, Dickens at Gad's Hill, Irving at Sunnyside, were not more appropriately sheltered. Shut up in his tower, he could escape from the tumult of life, and be alone with only the birds and the bees in concert outside his casement. The view from this apartment, on every side, was lovely, and Hawthorne enjoyed the charming prospect as I have known, few men to enjoy nature.

His favorite walk lay near his house,--indeed it was part of his own grounds,--a little hillside, where he had worn a foot-path, and where he might be found in good weather, when not employed in the tower. While walking to and fro on this bit of rising ground he meditated and composed innumerable romances that were never written, as well as some that were. Here he, first announced to me his plan of "The Dolliver Romance," and, from what he told me of his design of the story as it existed in his mind, I thought it would have been the greatest of his books. An enchanting memory is left of that morning when he laid out the whole story before me as he intended to write it. The plot was a grand one, and I tried to tell him how much I was impressed by it. Very soon after our interview, he wrote to me:--

"In compliance with your exhortations, I have begun to think
seriously of that story, not, as yet, with a pen in my hand, but
trudging to and fro on my hilltop.... I don't mean to let you see
the first chapters till I have written the final sentence of the
story. Indeed, the first chapters of a story ought always to be the
last written.... If you want me to write a good book, send me a good
pen; not a gold one, for they seldom suit me; but a pen flexible and
capacious of ink, and that will not grow stiff and rheumatic the
moment I get attached to it. I never met with a good pen in my
life."

Time went on, the war broke out, and he had not the heart to go on with his new Romance. During the month of April, 1862, he made a visit to Washington with his friend Ticknor, to whom he was greatly attached. While on this visit to the capital he sat to Leutze for a portrait. He took a special fancy to the artist, and, while he was sitting to him, wrote a long letter to me. Here is an extract from it:--

"I stay here only while Leutze finishes a portrait, which I think
will be the best ever painted of the same unworthy subject. One
charm it must needs have,--an aspect of immortal jollity and
well-to-doness; for Leutze, when the sitting begins, gives me a
first-rate cigar, and when he sees me getting tired, he brings out a
bottle of splendid champagne; and we quaffed and smoked yesterday,
in a blessed state of mutual good-will, for three hours and a half,
during which the picture made a really miraculous progress. Leutze
is the best of fellows."

In the same letter he thus describes the sinking of the Cumberland, and I know of nothing finer in its way:--

"I see in a newspaper that Holmes is going to write a song on the
sinking of the Cumberland; and feeling it to be a subject of
national importance, it occurs to me that he might like to know her
present condition. She lies with her three masts sticking up out of
the water, and careened over, the water being nearly on a level with
her maintop,--I mean that first landing-place from the deck of the
vessel, after climbing the shrouds. The rigging does not appear at
all damaged. There is a tattered bit of a pennant, about a foot and
a half long, fluttering from the tip-top of one of the masts; but
the flag, the ensign of the ship (which never was struck, thank
God), is under water, so as to be quite invisible, being attached to
the gaff, I think they call it, of the mizzen-mast; and though this
bald description makes nothing of it, I never saw anything so
gloriously forlorn as those three masts. I did not think it was in
me to be so moved by any spectacle of the kind. Bodies still
occasionally float up from it. The Secretary of the Navy says she
shall lie there till she goes to pieces, but I suppose by and by
they will sell her to some Yankee for the value of her old iron.

"P.S. My hair really is not so white as this photograph, which I
enclose, makes me. The sun seems to take an infernal pleasure in
making me venerable,--as if I were as old as himself."

Hawthorne has rested so long in the twilight of impersonality, that I hesitate sometimes to reveal the man even to his warmest admirers. This very day Sainte-Beuve has made me feel a fresh reluctance in unveiling my friend, and there seems almost a reproof in these words, from the eloquent French author:--

"We know nothing or nearly nothing of the life of La Bruyère, and
this obscurity adds, it has been remarked, to the effect of his
work, and, it may be said, to the piquant happiness of his destiny.
If there was not a single line of his unique book, which from the
first instant of its publication did not appear and remain in the
clear light, so, on the other hand, there was not one individual
detail regarding the author which was well known. Every ray of the
century fell upon each page of the book and the face of the man who
held it open in his hand was veiled from our sight."

Beautifully said, as usual with Sainte-Beuve, but I venture, notwithstanding such eloquent warning, to proceed.

After his return home from Washington Hawthorne sent to me, during the month of May, an article for the Atlantic Monthly, which he entitled "Chiefly about War-Matters." The paper, excellently well done throughout, of course, contained a personal description of President Lincoln, which I thought, considered as a portrait of a living man, and drawn by Hawthorne, it would not be wise or tasteful to print. The office of an editor is a disagreeable one sometimes, and the case of Hawthorne on Lincoln disturbed me not a little. After reading the manuscript, I wrote to the author, and asked his permission to omit his description of the President's personal appearance. As usual,--for he was the kindest and sweetest of contributors, the most good-natured and the most amenable man to advise I ever knew,--he consented to my proposal, and allowed me to print the article with the alterations. If any one will turn to the paper in the Atlantic Monthly (it is in the number for July, 1862), it will be observed there are several notes; all of these were written by Hawthorne himself. He complied with my request without a murmur, but he always thought I was wrong in my decision. He said the whole description of the interview and the President's personal appearance were, to his mind, the only parts of the article worth publishing. "What a terrible thing," he complained, "it is to try to let off a little bit of truth into this miserable humbug of a world!" President Lincoln is dead, and as Hawthorne once wrote to me, "Upon my honor, it seems to me the passage omitted has an historical value," I will copy here verbatim what I advised my friend, both on his own account and the President's, not to print nine years ago. Hawthorne and his party had gone into the President's room, annexed, as he says, as supernumeraries to a deputation from a Massachusetts whip-factory, with a present of a splendid whip to the Chief Magistrate:--

"By and by there was a little stir on the staircase and in the
passage way, and in lounged a tall, loose-jointed figure, of an
exaggerated Yankee port and demeanor, whom (as being about the
homeliest man I ever saw, yet by no means repulsive or disagreeable)
it was impossible not to recognize as Uncle Abe.

"Unquestionably, Western man though he be, and Kentuckian by birth,
President Lincoln is the essential representative of all Yankees,
and the veritable specimen, physically, of what the world seems
determined to regard as our characteristic qualities. It is the
strangest and yet the fittest thing in the jumble of human
vicissitudes, that he, out of so many millions, unlooked for,
unselected by any intelligible process that could be based upon his
genuine qualities, unknown to those who chose him, and unsuspected
of what endowments may adapt him for his tremendous responsibility,
should have found the way open for him to fling his lank personality
into the chair of state,--where, I presume, it was his first impulse
to throw his legs on the council-table, and tell the Cabinet
Ministers a story. There is no describing his lengthy awkwardness,
nor the uncouthness of his movement; and yet it seemed as if I had
been in the habit of seeing him daily, and had shaken hands with him
a thousand times in some village street; so true was he to the
aspect of the pattern American, though with a certain extravagance
which, possibly, I exaggerated still further by the delighted
eagerness with which I took it in. If put to guess his calling and
livelihood, I should have taken him for a country schoolmaster as
soon as anything else. He was dressed in a rusty black frock-coat
and pantaloons, unbrushed, and worn so faithfully that the suit had
adapted itself to the curves and angularities of his figure, and had
grown to be an outer skin of the man. He had shabby slippers on his
feet. His hair was black, still unmixed with gray, stiff, somewhat
bushy, and had apparently been acquainted with neither brush nor
comb that morning, after the disarrangement of the pillow; and as to
a nightcap, Uncle Abe probably knows nothing of such effeminacies.
His complexion is dark and sallow, betokening, I fear, an
insalubrious atmosphere around the White House; he has thick black
eyebrows and an impending brow; his nose is large, and the lines
about his mouth are very strongly defined.

"The whole physiognomy is as coarse a one as you would meet anywhere
in the length and breadth of the States; but, withal, it is
redeemed, illuminated, softened, and brightened by a kindly though
serious look out of his eyes, and an expression of homely sagacity,
that seems weighted with rich results of village experience. A great
deal of native sense; no bookish cultivation, no refinement; honest
at heart, and thoroughly so, and yet, in some sort, sly,--at least,
endowed with a sort of tact and wisdom that are akin to craft, and
would impel him, I think, to take an antagonist in flank, rather
than to make a bull-run at him right in front. But, on the whole, I
liked this sallow, queer, sagacious visage, with the homely human
sympathies that warmed it; and, for my small share in the matter,
would as lief have Uncle Abe for a ruler as any man whom it would
have been practicable to put in his place.

"Immediately on his entrance the President accosted our member of
Congress, who had us in charge, and, with a comical twist of his
face, made some jocular remark about the length of his breakfast. He
then greeted us all round, not waiting for an introduction, but
shaking and squeezing everybody's hand with the utmost cordiality,
whether the individual's name was announced to him or not. His
manner towards us was wholly without pretence, but yet had a kind of
natural dignity, quite sufficient to keep the forwardest of us from
clapping him on the shoulder and asking for a story. A mutual
acquaintance being established, our leader took the whip out of its
case, and began to read the address of presentation. The whip was an
exceedingly long one, its handle wrought in ivory (by some artist in
the Massachusetts State Prison, I believe), and ornamented with a
medallion of the President, and other equally beautiful devices; and
along its whole length there was a succession of golden bands and
ferrules. The address was shorter than the whip, but equally well
made, consisting chiefly of an explanatory description of these
artistic designs, and closing with a hint that the gift was a
suggestive and emblematic one, and that the President would
recognize the use to which such an instrument should be put.

"This suggestion gave Uncle Abe rather a delicate task in his reply,
because, slight as the matter seemed, it apparently called for some
declaration, or intimation, or faint foreshadowing of policy in
reference to the conduct of the war, and the final treatment of the
Rebels. But the President's Yankee aptness and not-to-be-caughtness
stood him in good stead, and he jerked or wiggled himself out of
the dilemma with an uncouth dexterity that was entirely in
character; although, without his gesticulation of eye and
mouth,--and especially the flourish of the whip, with which he
imagined himself touching up a pair of fat horses,--I doubt whether
his words would be worth recording, even if I could remember them.
The gist of the reply was, that he accepted the whip as an emblem of
peace, not punishment; and, this great affair over, we retired out
of the presence in high good-humor, only regretting that we could
not have seen the President sit down and fold up his legs (which is
said to be a most extraordinary spectacle), or have heard him tell
one of those delectable stories for which he is so celebrated. A
good many of them are afloat upon the common talk of Washington, and
are certainly the aptest, pithiest, and funniest little things
imaginable; though, to be sure, they smack of the frontier freedom,
and would not always bear repetition in a drawing-room, or on the
immaculate page of the Atlantic."

So runs the passage which caused some good-natured discussion nine years ago, between the contributor and the editor. Perhaps I was squeamish not to have been, willing to print this matter at that time. Some persons, no doubt, will adopt that opinion, but as both President and author have long ago met on the other side of criticism and magazines, we will leave the subject to their decision, they being most interested in the transaction. I did what seemed best in 1862. In 1871 "circumstances have changed" with both parties, and I venture to-day what I hardly dared then.

* * * * *

Whenever I look at Hawthorne's portrait, and that is pretty often, some new trait or anecdote or reminiscence comes up and clamors to be made known to those who feel an interest in it. But time and eternity call loudly for mortal gossip to be brief, and I must hasten to my last session over that child of genius, who first saw the light on the 4th of July, 1804.

One of his favorite books was Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott, and in 1862 I dedicated to him the Household Edition of that work. When he received the first volume, he wrote to me a letter of which I am so proud that I keep it among my best treasures.

"I am exceedingly gratified by the dedication. I do not deserve so
high an honor; but if you think me worthy, it is enough to make the
compliment in the highest degree acceptable, no matter who may
dispute my title to it. I care more for your good opinion than for
that of a host of critics, and have an excellent reason for so
doing; inasmuch as my literary success, whatever it has been or may
be, is the result of my connection with you. Somehow or other you
smote the rock of public sympathy on my behalf, and a stream gushed
forth in sufficient quantity to quench my thirst though not to drown
me. I think no author can ever have had publisher that he valued so
much as I do mine."

He began in 1862 to send me some articles from his English Journal for the Atlantic magazine, which he afterwards collected into a volume and called "Our Old Home." On forwarding one for December of that year he says:--

"I hope you will like it, for the subject seemed interesting to me
when I was on the spot, but I always feel a singular despondency and
heaviness of heart in reopening those old journals now. However, if
I can make readable sketches out of them, it is no matter."

In the same letter he tells me he has been re-reading Scott's Life, and he suggests some additions to the concluding volume. He says:--

"If the last volume is not already printed and stereotyped, I think
you ought to insert in it an explanation of all that is left
mysterious in the former volumes,--the name and family of the lady
he was in love with, etc. It is desirable, too, to know what have
been the fortunes and final catastrophes of his family and intimate
friends since his death, down to as recent a period as the death of
Lockhart. All such matter would make your edition more valuable; and
I see no reason why you should be bound by the deference to living
connections of the family that may prevent the English publishers
from inserting these particulars. We stand in the light of
posterity to them, and have the privileges of posterity.... I
should be glad to know something of the personal character and life
of his eldest son, and whether (as I have heard) he was ashamed of
his father for being a literary man. In short, fifty pages devoted
to such elucidation would make the edition unique. Do come and see
us before the leaves fall."

While he was engaged in copying out and rewriting his papers on England for the magazine he was despondent about their reception by the public. Speaking of them, one day, to me, he said: "We must remember that there is a good deal of intellectual ice mingled with this wine of memory." He was sometimes so dispirited during the war that he was obliged to postpone his contributions for sheer lack of spirit to go on. Near the close of the year 1862 he writes:--

"I am delighted at what you tell me about the kind appreciation of
my articles, for I feel rather gloomy about them myself. I am really
much encouraged by what you say; not but what I am sensible that you
mollify me with a good deal of soft soap, but it is skilfully
applied and effects all you intend it should.... I cannot come to
Boston to spend more than a day, just at present. It would suit me
better to come for a visit when the spring of next year is a little
advanced, and if you renew your hospitable proposition then, I shall
probably be glad to accept it; though I have now been a hermit so
long, that the thought affects me somewhat as it would to invite a
lobster or a crab to step out of his shell."

He continued, during the early months of 1863, to send now and then an article for the magazine from his English Note-Books. On the 22d of February he writes:--

"Here is another article. I wish it would not be so wretchedly long,
but there are many things which I shall find no opportunity to say
unless I say them now; so the article grows under my hand, and one
part of it seems just about as well worth printing as another.
Heaven sees fit to visit me with an unshakable conviction that all
this series of articles is good for nothing; but that is none of my
business, provided the public and you are of a different opinion. If
you think any part of it can be left out with advantage, you are
quite at liberty to do so. Probably I have not put Leigh Hunt quite
high enough for your sentiments respecting him; but no more genuine
characterization and criticism (so far as the writer's purpose to be
true goes) was ever done. It is very slight. I might have made more
of it, but should not have improved it.

"I mean to write two more of these articles, and then hold my hand.
I intend to come to Boston before the end of this week, if the
weather is good. It must be nearly or quite six months since I was
there! I wonder how many people there are in the world who would
keep their nerves in tolerably good order through such a length of
nearly solitary imprisonment?"

I advised him to begin to put the series in order for a volume, and to preface the book with his "Consular Experiences." On the 18th of April he writes:--

"I don't think the public will bear any more of this sort of
thing.... I had a letter from ----, the other day, in which he sends
me the enclosed verses, and I think he would like to have them
published in the Atlantic. Do it if you like, I pretend to no
judgment in poetry. He also sent this epithalamium by Mrs. ----, and
I doubt not the good lady will be pleased to see it copied into one
of our American newspapers with a few laudatory remarks. Can't you
do it in the Transcript, and send her a copy? You cannot imagine how
a little praise jollifies us poor authors to the marrow of our
bones. Consider, if you had not been a publisher, you would
certainly have been one of our wretched tribe, and therefore ought
to have a fellow-feeling for us. Let Michael Angelo write the
remarks, if you have not the time."

("Michael Angelo" was a clever little Irish-boy who had the care of my room. Hawthorne conceived a fancy for the lad, and liked to hear stories of his smart replies to persistent authors who called during my absence with unpromising-looking manuscripts.) On the 30th of April he writes:--

"I send the article with which the volume is to commence, and you
can begin printing it whenever you like. I can think of no better
title than this, 'Our Old Home; a Series of English Sketches, by,'
etc. I submit to your judgment whether it would not be well to print
these 'Consular Experiences' in the volume without depriving them
of any freshness they may have by previous publication in the
magazine?

"The article has some of the features that attract the curiosity of
the foolish public, being made up of personal narrative and gossip,
with a few pungencies of personal satire, which will not be the less
effective because the reader can scarcely find out who was the
individual meant. I am not without hope of drawing down upon myself
a good deal of critical severity on this score, and would gladly
incur more of it if I could do so without seriously deserving
censure.

"The story of the Doctor of Divinity, I think, will prove a good
card in this way. It is every bit true (like the other anecdotes),
only not told so darkly as it might have been for the reverend
gentleman. I do not believe there is any danger of his identity
being ascertained, and do not care whether it is or no, as it could
only be done by the impertinent researches of other people. It seems
to me quite essential to have some novelty in the collected volume,
and, if possible, something that may excite a little discussion and
remark. But decide for yourself and me; and if you conclude not to
publish it in the magazine, I think I can concoct another article in
season for the August number, if you wish. After the publication of
the volume, it seems to me the public had better have no more of
them.

"J---- has been telling us a mythical story of your intending to
walk with him from Cambridge to Concord. We should be delighted to
see you, though more for our own sakes than yours, for our aspect
here is still a little winterish. When you come, let it be on
Saturday, and stay till Monday. I am hungry to talk with you."

I was enchanted, of course, with the "Consular Experiences," and find from his letters, written at that time, that he was made specially happy by the encomiums I could not help sending upon that inimitable sketch. When the "Old Home" was nearly all in type, he began to think about a dedication to the book. On the 3d of May he writes:--

"I am of three minds about dedicating the volume. First, it seems
due to Frank Pierce (as he put me into the position where I made all
those profound observations of English scenery, life, and character)
to inscribe it to him with a few pages of friendly and explanatory
talk, which also would be very gratifying to my own lifelong
affection for him.

"Secondly, I want to say something to Bennoch to show him that I am
thoroughly mindful of all his hospitality and kindness; and I
suppose he might be pleased to see his name at the head of a book of
mine.

"Thirdly, I am not convinced that it is worth while to inscribe it
to anybody. We will see hereafter."

The book moved on slowly through the press, and he seemed more than commonly nervous about the proof-sheets. On the 28th of May he says in a note to me:--

"In a proof-sheet of 'Our Old Home' which I sent you to-day (page
43, or 4, or 5 or thereabout) I corrected a line thus, 'possessing a
happy faculty of seeing my own interest.' Now as the public interest
was my sole and individual object while I held office, I think that
as a matter of scanty justice to myself, the line ought to stand
thus, 'possessing a happy faculty of seeing my own interest and the
public's.' Even then, you see, I only give myself credit for half
the disinterestedness I really felt. Pray, by all means, have it
altered as above, even if the page is stereotyped; which it can't
have been, as the proof is now in the Concord post-office, and you
will have it at the same time with this.

"We are getting into full leaf here, and your walk with J---might
come off any time."

An arrangement was made with the liberal house of Smith and Elder, of London, to bring out "Our Old Home" on the same day of its publication in Boston. On the 1st of July Hawthorne wrote to me from the Wayside as follows:--

"I am delighted with Smith and Elder, or rather with you; for it is
you that squeeze the English sovereigns out of the poor devils. On
my own behalf I never could have thought of asking more than £50,
and should hardly have expected to get £10; I look upon the £180 as
the only trustworthy funds I have, our own money being of such a
gaseous consistency. By the time I can draw for it, I expect it will
be worth at least fifteen hundred dollars.

"I shall think over the prefatory matter for 'Our Old Home' to-day,
and will write it to-morrow. It requires some little thought and
policy in order to say nothing amiss at this time; for I intend to
dedicate the book to Frank Pierce, come what may. It shall reach you
on Friday morning.

"We find ---- a comfortable and desirable guest to have in the
house. My wife likes her hugely, and for my part, I had no idea that
there was such a sensible woman of letters in the world. She is just
as healthy-minded as if she had never touched a pen. I am glad she
had a pleasant time, and hope she will come back.

"I mean to come to Boston whenever I can be sure of a cool day.

"What a prodigious length of time you stayed among the mountains!

"You ought not to assume such liberties of absence without the
consent of your friends, which I hardly think you would get. I, at
least, want you always within attainable distance, even though I
never see you. Why can't you come and stay a day or two with us, and
drink some spruce beer?"

Those were troublous days, full of war gloom and general despondency. The North was naturally suspicious of all public men, who did not bear a conspicuous part in helping to put down the Rebellion. General Pierce had been President of the United States, and was not identified, to say the least, with the great party which favored the vigorous prosecution of the war. Hawthorne proposed to dedicate his new book to a very dear friend, indeed, but in doing so he would draw public attention in a marked way to an unpopular name. Several of Hawthorne's friends, on learning that he intended to inscribe his book to Franklin Pierce, came to me and begged that I would, if possible, help Hawthorne to see that he ought not to do anything to jeopardize the currency of his new volume. Accordingly I wrote to him, just what many of his friends had said to me, and this is his reply to my letter, which bears date the 18th of July, 1863:--

"I thank you for your note of the 15th instant, and have delayed my
reply thus long in order to ponder deeply on your advice, smoke
cigars over it, and see what it might be possible for me to do
towards taking it. I find that it would be a piece of poltroonery in
me to withdraw either the dedication or the dedicatory letter. My
long and intimate personal relations with Pierce render the
dedication altogether proper, especially as regards this book,
which would have had no existence without his kindness; and if he is
so exceedingly unpopular that his name is enough to sink the volume,
there is so much the more need that an old friend should stand by
him. I cannot, merely on account of pecuniary profit or literary
reputation, go back from what I have deliberately felt and thought
it right to do; and if I were to tear out the dedication, I should
never look at the volume again without remorse and shame. As for the
literary public, it must accept my book precisely as I think fit to
give it, or let it alone.

"Nevertheless, I have no fancy for making myself a martyr when it is
honorably and conscientiously possible to avoid it; and I always
measure out my heroism very accurately according to the exigencies
of the occasion, and should be the last man in the world to throw
away a bit of it needlessly. So I have looked over the concluding
paragraph and have amended it in such a way that, while doing what I
know to be justice to my friend, it contains not a word that ought
to be objectionable to any set of readers. If the public of the
North see fit to ostracize me for this, I can only say that I would
gladly sacrifice a thousand or two of dollars rather than retain the
good-will of such a herd of dolts and mean-spirited scoundrels. I
enclose the rewritten paragraph, and shall wish to see a proof of
that and the whole dedication.

"I had a call from an Englishman yesterday, and kept him to dinner;
not the threatened ----, but a Mr. ----, introduced by ----. He says
he knows you, and he seems to be a very good fellow. I have strong
hopes that he will never come back here again, for J---- took him on
a walk of several miles, whereby they both caught a most tremendous
ducking, and the poor Englishman was frightened half to death by the
thunder.... On the other page is the list of presentation people,
and it amounts to twenty-four, which your liberality and kindness
allow me. As likely as not I have forgotten two or three, and I held
my pen suspended over one or two of the names, doubting whether they
deserved of me so especial a favor as a portion of my heart and
brain. I have few friends. Some authors, I should think, would
require half the edition for private distribution."

"Our Old Home" was published in the autumn of 1863, and although it was everywhere welcomed, in England the strictures were applied with a liberal hand. On the 18th of October he writes to me:--

"You sent me the 'Reader' with a notice of the book, and I have
received one or two others, one of them from Bennoch. The English
critics seem to think me very bitter against their countrymen, and
it is, perhaps, natural that they should, because their self-conceit
can accept nothing short of indiscriminate adulation; but I really
think that Americans have more cause than they to complain of me.
Looking over the volume, I am rather surprised to find that whenever
I draw a comparison between the two people, I almost invariably cast
the balance against ourselves. It is not a good nor a weighty book,
nor does it deserve any great amount either of praise or censure. I
don't care about seeing any more notices of it."

Meantime the "Dolliver Romance," which had been laid aside on account of the exciting scenes through which we were then passing, and which unfitted him for the composition of a work of the imagination, made little progress. In a note written to me at this time he says:--

"I can't tell you when to expect an instalment of the Romance, if
ever. There is something preternatural in my reluctance to begin. I
linger at the threshold, and have a perception of very disagreeable
phantasms to be encountered if I enter. I wish God had given me the
faculty of writing a sunshiny book."

I invited him to come to Boston and have a cheerful week among his old friends, and threw in as an inducement a hint that he should hear the great organ in the Music Hall. I also suggested that we could talk over the new Romance together, if he would gladden us all by coming to the city. Instead of coming, he sent this reply:--

"I thank you for your kind invitation to hear the grand instrument;
but it offers me no inducement additional to what I should always
have for a visit to your abode. I have no ear for an organ or a
jewsharp, nor for any instrument between the two; so you had better
invite a worthier guest, and I will come another time.

"I don't see much probability of my having the first chapter of the
Romance ready so soon as you want it. There are two or three
chapters ready to be written, but I am not yet robust enough to
begin, and I feel as if I should never carry it through.

"Besides, I want to prefix a little sketch of Thoreau to it,
because, from a tradition which he told me about this house of mine,
I got the idea of a deathless man, which is now taking a shape very
different from the original one. It seems the duty of a live
literary man to perpetuate the memory of a dead one, when there is
such fair opportunity as in this case: but how Thoreau would scorn
me for thinking that _I_ could perpetuate him! And I don't think so.

"I can think of no title for the unborn Romance. Always heretofore I
have waited till it was quite complete before attempting to name it,
and I fear I shall have to do so now. I wish you or Mrs. Fields
would suggest one. Perhaps you may snatch a title out of the
infinite void that will miraculously suit the book, and give me a
needful impetus to write it.

"I want a great deal of money..... I wonder how people manage to
live economically. I seem to spend little or nothing, and yet it
will get very far beyond the second thousand, for the present
year.... If it were not for these troublesome necessities, I doubt
whether you would ever see so much as the first chapter of the new
Romance.

"Those verses entitled 'Weariness,' in the last magazine, seem to me
profoundly touching. I too am weary, and begin to look ahead for the
Wayside Inn."

I had frequent accounts of his ill health and changed appearance, but I supposed he would rally again soon, and become hale and strong before the winter fairly set in. But the shadows even then were about his pathway, and Allan Cunningham's lines, which he once quoted to me, must often have occurred to him,--

"Cauld's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep."

We had arranged together that the "Dolliver Romance" should be first published in the magazine, in monthly instalments, and we decided to begin in the January number of 1864. On the 8th of November came a long letter from him:--

"I foresee that there is little probability of my getting the first
chapter ready by the 15th, although I have a resolute purpose to
write it by the end of the month. It will be in time for the
February number, if it turns out fit for publication at all. As to
the title, we must defer settling that till the book is fully
written, and meanwhile I see nothing better than to call the series
of articles 'Fragments of a Romance.' This will leave me to exercise
greater freedom as to the mechanism of the story than I otherwise
can, and without which I shall probably get entangled in my own
plot. When the work is completed in the magazine, I can fill up the
gaps and make straight the crookednesses, and christen it with a
fresh title. In this untried experiment of a serial work I desire
not to pledge myself, or promise the public more than I may
confidently expect to achieve. As regards the sketch of Thoreau, I
am not ready to write it yet, but will mix him up with the life of
The Wayside, and produce an autobiographical preface for the
finished Romance. If the public like that sort of stuff, I too find
it pleasant and easy writing, and can supply a new chapter of it for
every new volume, and that, moreover, without infringing upon my
proper privacy. An old Quaker wrote me, the other day, that he had
been reading my Introduction to the 'Mosses' and the 'Scarlet
Letter,' and felt as if he knew me better than his best friend; but
I think he considerably overestimates the extent of his intimacy
with me.

"I received several private letters and printed notices of 'Our Old
Home' from England. It is laughable to see the innocent wonder with
which they regard my criticisms, accounting for them by jaundice,
insanity, jealousy, hatred, on my part, and never admitting the
least suspicion that there may be a particle of truth in them. The
monstrosity of their self-conceit is such that anything short of
unlimited admiration impresses them as malicious caricature. But
they do me great injustice in supposing that I hate them. I would as
soon hate my own people.

"Tell Ticknor that I want a hundred dollars more, and I suppose I
shall keep on wanting more and more till the end of my days. If I
subside into the almshouse before my intellectual faculties are
quite extinguished, it strikes me that I would make a very pretty
book out of it; and, seriously, if I alone were concerned, I should
not have any great objection to winding up there."

On the 14th of November came a pleasant little note from him, which seemed to have been written in better spirits than he had shown of late. Photographs of himself always amused him greatly, and in the little note I refer to there is this pleasant passage:--

"Here is the photograph,--a grandfatherly old figure enough; and I
suppose that is the reason why you select it.

"I am much in want of _cartes de visite_ to distribute on my own
account, and am tired and disgusted with all the undesirable
likenesses as yet presented of me. Don't you think I might sell my
head to some photographer who would be willing to return me the
value in small change; that is to say, in a dozen or two of cards?"