Chapter III: Hawthorne (4)

The first part of Chapter I. of "The Dolliver Romance" came to me from the Wayside on the 1st of December. Hawthorne was very anxious to see it in type as soon as possible, in order that he might compose the rest in a similar strain, and so conclude the preliminary phase of Dr. Dolliver. He was constantly imploring me to send him a good pen, complaining all the while that everything had failed him in that line. In one of his notes begging me to hunt him up something that he could write with, he says:--

"Nobody ever suffered more from pens than I have, and I am glad that
my labor with the abominable little tool is drawing to a close."

In the month of December Hawthorne attended the funeral of Mrs. Franklin Pierce, and, after the ceremony, came to stay with us. He seemed ill and more nervous than usual. He said he found General Pierce greatly needing his companionship, for he was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of his wife. I well remember the sadness of Hawthorne's face when he told us he felt obliged to look on the dead. "It was," said he, "like a carven image laid in its richly embossed enclosure, and there was a remote expression about it as if the whole had nothing to do with things present." He told us, as an instance of the ever-constant courtesy of his friend General Pierce, that while they were standing at the grave, the General, though completely overcome with his own sorrow, turned and drew up the collar of Hawthorne's coat to shield him from the bitter cold.

The same day, as the sunset deepened and we sat together, Hawthorne began to talk in an autobiographical vein, and gave us the story of his early life, of which I have already written somewhat. He said at an early age he accompanied his mother and sister to the township in Maine, which his grandfather had purchased. That, he continued, was the happiest period of his life, and it lasted through several years, when he was sent to school in Salem. "I lived in Maine," he said, "like a bird of the air, so perfect was the freedom I enjoyed. But it was there I first got my cursed habits of solitude." During the moonlight nights of winter he would skate until midnight all alone upon Sebago Lake, with the deep shadows of the icy hills on either hand. When he found himself far away from his home and weary with the exertion of skating, he would sometimes take refuge in a log-cabin, where half a tree would be burning on the broad hearth. He would sit in the ample chimney and look at the stars through the great aperture through which the flames went roaring up. "Ah," he said, "how well I recall the summer days also, when, with my gun, I roamed at will through the woods of Maine. How sad middle life looks to people of erratic temperaments. Everything is beautiful in youth, for all things are allowed to it then."

The early home of the Hawthornes in Maine must have been a lonely dwelling-place indeed. A year ago (May 12, 1870) the old place was visited by one who had a true feeling for Hawthorne's genius, and who thus graphically described the spot.

"A little way off the main-travelled road in the town of Raymond
there stood an old house which has much in common with houses of its
day, but which is distinguished from them by the more evident marks
of neglect and decay. Its unpainted walls are deeply stained by
time. Cornice and window-ledge and threshold are fast falling with
the weight of years. The fences were long since removed from all the
enclosures, the garden-wall is broken down, and the garden itself is
now grown up to pines whose shadows fall dark and heavy upon the old
and mossy roof; fitting roof-trees for such a mansion, planted there
by the hands of Nature herself, as if she could not realize that her
darling child was ever to go out from his early home. The highway
once passed its door, but the location of the road has been changed;
and now the old house stands solitarily apart from the busy world.
Longer than I can remember, and I have never learned how long, this
house has stood untenanted and wholly unused, except, for a few
years, as a place of public worship; but, for myself, and for all
who know its earlier history, it will ever have the deepest
interest, for it was _the early home of Nathaniel Hawthorne_.

"Often have I, when passing through that town, turned aside to study
the features of that landscape, and to reflect upon the influence
which his surroundings had upon the development of this author's
genius. A few rods to the north runs a little mill-stream, its
sloping bank once covered with grass, now so worn and washed by the
rains as to show but little except yellow sand. Less than half a
mile to the west, this stream empties into an arm of Sebago Lake.
Doubtless, at the time the house was built, the forest was so much
cut away in that direction as to bring into view the waters of the
lake, for a mill was built upon the brook about half-way down the
valley, and it is reasonable to suppose that a clearing was made
from the mill to the landing upon the shore of the pond; but the
pines have so far regained their old dominion as completely to shut
out the whole prospect in that direction. Indeed, the site affords
but a limited survey, except to the northwest. Across a narrow
valley in that direction lie open fields and dark pine-covered
slopes. Beyond these rise long ranges of forest-crowned hills, while
in the far distance every hue of rock and tree, of field and grove,
melts into the soft blue of Mount Washington. The spot must ever
have had the utter loneliness of the pine forests upon the borders
of our northern lakes. The deep silence and dark shadows of the old
woods must have filled the imagination of a youth possessing
Hawthorne's sensibility with images which later years could not
dispel.

"To this place came the widowed mother of Hawthorne in company with
her brother, an original proprietor and one of the early settlers of
the town of Raymond. This house was built for her, and here she
lived with her son for several years in the most complete seclusion.
Perhaps she strove to conceal here a grief which she could not
forget. In what way, and to what extent, the surroundings of his
boyhood operated in moulding the character and developing the genius
of that gifted author, I leave to the reader to determine. I have
tried simply to draw a faithful picture of his early home."

On the 15th of December Hawthorne wrote to me:--

"I have not yet had courage to read the Dolliver proof-sheet, but
will set about it soon, though with terrible reluctance, such as I
never felt before.... I am most grateful to you for protecting me
from that visitation of the elephant and his cub. If you happen to
see Mr. ---- of L----, a young man who was here last summer, pray
tell him anything that your conscience will let you, to induce him
to spare me another visit, which I know he intended. I really am not
well and cannot be disturbed by strangers without more suffering
than it is worth while to endure. I thank Mrs. P---- and yourself
for your kind hospitality, past and prospective. I never come to see
you without feeling the better for it, but I must not test so
precious a remedy too often."

The new year found him incapacitated from writing much on the Romance. On the 17th of January, 1864, he says:--

"I am not quite up to writing yet, but shall make an effort as soon
as I see any hope of success. You ought to be thankful that (like
most other broken-down authors) I do not pester you with decrepit
pages, and insist upon your accepting them as full of the old spirit
and vigor. That trouble, perhaps, still awaits you, after I shall
have reached a further stage of decay. Seriously, my mind has, for
the present, lost its temper and its fine edge, and I have an
instinct that I had better keep quiet. Perhaps I shall have a new
spirit of vigor, if I wait quietly for it; perhaps not."

The end of February found him in a mood which is best indicated in this letter, which he addressed to me on the 25th of the month:--

"I hardly know what to say to the public about this abortive
Romance, though I know pretty well what the case will be. I shall
never finish it. Yet it is not quite pleasant for an author to
announce himself, or to be announced, as finally broken down as to
his literary faculty. It is a pity that I let you put this work in
your programme for the year, for I had always a presentiment that it
would fail us at the pinch. Say to the public what you think best,
and as little as possible; for example: 'We regret that Mr.
Hawthorne's Romance, announced for this magazine some months ago,
still lies upon the author's writing-table, he having been
interrupted in his labor upon it by an impaired state of health';
or, 'We are sorry to hear (but know not whether the public will
share our grief) that Mr. Hawthorne is out of health and is thereby
prevented, for the present, from proceeding with another of his
promised (or threatened) Romances, intended for this magazine'; or,
'Mr. Hawthorne's brain is addled at last, and, much to our
satisfaction, he tells us that he cannot possibly go on with the
Romance announced on the cover of the January magazine. We consider
him finally shelved, and shall take early occasion to bury him under
a heavy article, carefully summing up his merits (such as they were)
and his demerits, what few of them can be touched upon in our
limited space'; or, 'We shall commence the publication of Mr.
Hawthorne's Romance as soon as that gentleman chooses to forward it.
We are quite at a loss how to account for this delay in the
fulfilment of his contract; especially as he has already been most
liberally paid for the first number.' Say anything you like, in
short, though I really don't believe that the public will care what
you say or whether you say anything. If you choose, you may publish
the first chapter as an insulated fragment, and charge me with the
overpayment. I cannot finish it unless a great change comes over me;
and if I make too great an effort to do so, it will be my death; not
that I should care much for that, if I could fight the battle
through and win it, thus ending a life of much smoulder and scanty
fire in a blaze of glory. But I should smother myself in mud of my
own making. I mean to come to Boston soon, not for a week but for a
single day, and then I can talk about my sanitary prospects more
freely than I choose to write. I am not low-spirited, nor fanciful,
nor freakish, but look what seem to be realities in the face, and am
ready to take whatever may come. If I could but go to England now, I
think that the sea voyage and the 'Old Home' might set me all right.

"This letter is for your own eye, and I wish especially that no echo
of it may come back in your notes to me.

"P.S. Give my kindest regards to Mrs. F----, and tell her that one
of my choicest ideal places is her drawing-room, and therefore I
seldom visit it."

On Monday, the 28th of March, Hawthorne came to town and made my house his first station on a journey to the South for health. I was greatly shocked at his invalid appearance, and he seemed quite deaf. The light in his eye was beautiful as ever, but his limbs seemed shrunken and his usual stalwart vigor utterly gone. He said to me with a pathetic voice, "Why does Nature treat us like little children! I think we could bear it all if we knew our fate; at least it would not make much difference to me now what became of me." Toward night he brightened up a little, and his delicious wit flashed out, at intervals, as of old; but he was evidently broken and dispirited about his health. Looking out on the bay that was sparkling in the moonlight, he said he thought the moon rather lost something of its charm for him as he grew older. He spoke with great delight of a little story, called "Pet Marjorie," and said he had read it carefully through twice, every word of it. He had much to say about England, and observed, among other things, that "the extent over which her dominions are spread leads her to fancy herself stronger than she really is; but she is not to-day a powerful empire; she is much like a squash-vine, which runs over a whole garden, but, if you cut it at the root, it is at once destroyed." At breakfast, next morning, he spoke of his kind neighbors in Concord, and said Alcott was one of the most excellent men he had ever known. "It is impossible to quarrel with him, for he would take all your harsh words like a saint."

He left us shortly after this for a journey to Washington, with his friend Mr. Ticknor. The travellers spent several days in New York, and then proceeded to Philadelphia. Hawthorne wrote to me from the Continental Hotel, dating his letter "Saturday evening," announcing the severe illness of his companion. He did not seem to anticipate a fatal result, but on Sunday morning the news came that Mr. Ticknor was dead. Hawthorne returned at once to Boston, and stayed here over night. He was in a very excited and nervous state, and talked incessantly of the sad scenes he had just been passing through. We sat late together, conversing of the friend we had lost, and I am sure he hardly closed his eyes that night. In the morning he went back to his own home in Concord.

His health, from that time, seemed to give way rapidly, and in the middle of May his friend, General Pierce, proposed that they should go among the New Hampshire hills together and meet the spring there.

The first letter we received from Mrs. Hawthorne[*] after her husband's return to Concord in April gave us great anxiety. It was dated "Monday eve," and here are some extracts from it:--

"I have just sent Mr. Hawthorne to bed, and so have a moment to
speak to you. Generally it has been late and I have not liked to
disturb him by sitting up after him, and so I could not write since
he returned, though I wished very much to tell you about him, ever
since he came home. He came back unlooked for that day; and when I
heard a step on the piazza, I was lying on a couch and feeling quite
indisposed. But as soon as I saw him I was frightened out of all
knowledge of myself,--so haggard, so white, so deeply scored with
pain and fatigue was the face, so much more ill he looked than I
ever saw him before. He had walked from the station because he saw
no carriage there, and his brow was streaming with a perfect rain,
so great had been the effort to walk so far.... He needed much to
get home to me, where he could fling off all care of himself and
give way to his feelings, pent up and kept back for so long,
especially since his watch and ward of most excellent, kind Mr.
Ticknor. It relieved him somewhat to break down as he spoke of that
scene.... But he was so weak and weary he could not sit up much, and
lay on the couch nearly all the time in a kind of uneasy somnolency,
not wishing to be read to even, not able to attend or fix his
thoughts at all. On Saturday he unfortunately took cold, and, after
a most restless night, was seized early in the morning with a very
bad stiff neck, which was acutely painful all Sunday. Sunday night,
however, a compress of linen wrung in cold water cured him, with
belladonna. But he slept also most of this morning.... He could as
easily build London as go to the Shakespeare dinner. It tires him so
much to get entirely through his toilet in the morning, that he has
to lie down a long time after it. To-day he walked out on the
grounds, and could not stay ten minutes, because I would not let him
sit down in the wind, and he could not bear any longer exercise. He
has more than lost all he gained by the journey, by the sad event.
From being the nursed and cared for,--early to bed and late to
rise,--led, as it were, by the ever-ready hand of kind Mr. Ticknor,
to become the nurse and night-watcher with all the responsibilities,
with his mighty power of sympathy and his vast apprehension of
suffering in others, and to see death for the first time in a state
so weak as his,--the death also of so valued a friend,--as Mr.
Hawthorne says himself, 'it told upon him' fearfully. There are
lines ploughed on his brow which never were there before.... I have
been up and alert ever since his return, but one day I was obliged,
when he was busy, to run off and lie down for fear I should drop
before his eyes. My head was in such an agony I could not endure it
another moment. But I am well now. I have wrestled and won, and now
I think I shall not fail again. Your most generous kindness of
hospitality I heartily thank you for, but Mr. Hawthorne says he
cannot leave home. He wants rest, and he says when the wind is
_warm_ he shall feel well. This cold wind ruins him. I wish he were
in Cuba or on some isle in the Gulf Stream. But I must say I could
not think him able to go anywhere, unless I could go with him. He is
too weak to take care of himself. I do not like to have him go up
and down stairs alone. I have read to him all the afternoon and
evening and after he walked in the morning to-day. I do nothing but
sit with him, ready to do or not to do, just as he wishes. The
wheels of my small _ménage_ are all stopped. He is my world and all
the business of it. He has not smiled since he came home till
to-day, and I made him laugh with Thackeray's humor in reading to
him; but a smile looks strange on a face that once shone like a
thousand suns with smiles. The light for the time has gone out of
his eyes, entirely. An infinite weariness films them quite. I thank
Heaven that summer and not winter approaches."

[Footnote *: As I write this paragraph, my friend, the Reverend James Freeman Clarke, puts into my hand the following note, which Hawthorne sent to him nearly thirty years ago:--

54 PINCKNEY STREET, Friday, July 8, 1842.

MY DEAR SIR,--Though personally a stranger to you, I am about to
request of you the greatest favor which I can receive from any man.
I am to be married to Miss Sophia Peabody; and it is our mutual
desire that you should perform the ceremony. Unless it should be
decidedly a rainy day, a carriage will call for you at half past
eleven o'clock in the forenoon.

Very respectfully yours,

NATH. HAWTHORNE.

Rev. JAMES F. CLARKE, Chestnut Street.]

On Friday evening of the same week Mrs. Hawthorne sent off another despatch to us:--

"Mr. Hawthorne has been miserably ill for two or three days, so that I could not find a moment to speak to you. I am most anxious to have him leave Concord again, and General Pierce's plan is admirable, now that the General is well himself. I think the serene jog-trot in a private carriage into country places, by trout-streams and to old farm-houses, away from care and news, will be very restorative. The boy associations with the General will refresh him. They will fish, and muse, and rest, and saunter upon horses' feet, and be in the air all the time in fine weather. I am quite content, though I wish I could go for a few _petits sions_. But General Pierce has been a most tender, constant nurse for many years, and knows how to take care of the sick. And his love for Mr. Hawthorne is the strongest passion of his soul, now his wife is departed. They will go to the Isles of Shoals together probably, before their return.

"Mr. Hawthorne cannot walk ten minutes now without wishing to sit down, as I think I told you, so that he cannot take sufficient air except in a carriage. And his horror of hotels and rail-cars is immense, and human beings beset him in cities. He is indeed very weak. I hardly know what takes away his strength. I now am obliged to superintend my workman, who is arranging the grounds. Whenever my husband lies down (which is sadly often) I rush out of doors to see what the gardener is about.

"I cannot feel rested till Mr. Hawthorne is better, but I get along. I shall go to town when he is safe in the care of General Pierce."

On Saturday this communication from Mrs. Hawthorne reached us:--

"General Pierce wrote yesterday to say he wished to meet Mr.
Hawthorne in Boston on Wednesday, and go from thence on their way.

"Mr. Hawthorne is much weaker. I find, than he has been before at
any time, and I shall go down with him, having a great many things
to do in Boston; but I am sure he is not fit to be left by himself,
for his steps are so uncertain, and his eyes are very uncertain too.
Dear Mr. Fields, I am very anxious about him, and I write now to say
that he absolutely refuses to see a physician officially, and so I
wish to know whether Dr. Holmes could not see him in some ingenious
way on Wednesday as a friend; but with his experienced, acute
observation, to look at him also as a physician, to note how he is
and what he judges of him comparatively since he last saw him. It
almost deprives me of my wits to see him growing weaker with no aid.
He seems quite bilious, and has a restlessness that is infinite. His
look is more distressed and harassed than before; and he has so
little rest, that he is getting worn out. I hope immensely in regard
of this sauntering journey with General Pierce.

"I feel as if I ought not to speak to you of anything when you are
so busy and weary and bereaved. But yet in such a sad emergency as
this, I am sure your generous, kind heart will not refuse me any
help you can render.... I wish Dr. Holmes would feel his pulse; I do
not know how to judge of it, but it seems to me irregular."

His friend, Dr. O.W. Holmes, in compliance with Mrs. Hawthorne's desire, expressed in this letter to me, saw the invalid, and thus describes his appearance in an article full of tenderness and feeling which was published in the "Atlantic Monthly" for July, 1864:--

"Late in the afternoon of the day before he left Boston on his last
journey I called upon him at the hotel where he was staying. He had
gone out but a moment before. Looking along the street, I saw a form
at some distance in advance which could only be his,--but how
changed from his former port and figure! There was no mistaking the
long iron-gray locks, the carriage of the head, and the general look
of the natural outlines and movement; but he seemed to have shrunken
in all his dimensions, and faltered along with an uncertain, feeble
step, as if every movement were an effort. I joined him, and we
walked together half an hour, during which time I learned so much
of his state of mind and body as could be got at without worrying
him with suggestive questions,--my object being to form an opinion
of his condition, as I had been requested to do, and to give him
some hints that might be useful to him on his journey.

"His aspect, medically considered, was very unfavorable. There were
persistent local symptoms, referred especially to the
stomach,--'boring pain,' distension, difficult digestion, with great
wasting of flesh and strength. He was very gentle, 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.

"With all his obvious depression, there was no failing noticeable in
his conversational powers. There was the same backwardness and
hesitancy which in his best days it was hard for him to overcome, so
that talking with him was almost like love-making, and his shy,
beautiful soul had to be wooed from its bashful prudency like an
unschooled maiden. The calm despondency with which he spoke about
himself confirmed the unfavorable opinion suggested by his look and
history."

I saw Hawthorne alive, for the last time, the day he started on this his last mortal journey. His speech and his gait indicated severe illness, and I had great misgivings about the jaunt he was proposing to take so early in the season. His tones were more subdued than ever, and he scarcely spoke above a whisper. He was very affectionate in parting, and I followed him to the door, looking after him as he went up School Street. I noticed that he faltered from weakness, and I should have taken my hat and joined him to offer my arm, but I knew he did not wish to _seem_ ill, and I feared he might be troubled at my anxiety. Fearing to disturb him, I followed him with my eyes only, and watched him till he turned the corner and passed out of sight.

On the morning of the 19th of May, 1864, a telegram, signed by Franklin Pierce, stunned us all. It announced the death of Hawthorne. In the afternoon of the same day came this letter to me:--

"Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, N.H., Thursday morning, 5 o'clock

"My Dear Sir,--The telegraph has communicated to you the fact of our
dear friend Hawthorne's death. My friend Colonel Hibbard, who bears
this note, was a friend of H----, and will tell you more than I am
able to write.

"I enclose herewith a note which I commenced last evening to dear
Mrs. Hawthorne. O, how will she bear this shock! Dear mother--dear
children--

"When I met Hawthorne in Boston a week ago, it was apparent that he
was much more feeble and more seriously diseased than I had supposed
him to be. We came from Centre Harbor yesterday afternoon, and I
thought he was on the whole brighter than he was the day before.
Through the week he had been inclined to somnolency during the day,
but restless at night. He retired last night soon after nine
o'clock, and soon fell into a quiet slumber. In less than half an
hour changed his position, but continued to sleep. I left the door
open between his bedroom and mine,--our beds being opposite to each
other,--and was asleep myself before eleven o'clock. The light
continued to burn in my room. At two o'clock, I went to H----'s
bedside; he was apparently in a sound sleep, and I did not place my
hand upon him. At four o'clock I went into his room again, and, as
his position was unchanged, I placed my hand upon him and found that
life was extinct. I sent, however, immediately for a physician, and
called Judge Bell and Colonel Hibbard, who occupied rooms upon the
same floor and near me. He lies upon his side, his position so
perfectly natural and easy, his eyes closed, that it is difficult to
realize, while looking upon his noble face, that this is death. He
must have passed from natural slumber to that from which there is no
waking without the slightest movement.

"I cannot write to dear Mrs. Hawthorne, and you must exercise your
judgment with regard to sending this and the unfinished note,
enclosed, to her.

"Your friend,

"FRANKLIN PIERCE."

Hawthorne's lifelong desire that the end might be a sudden one was gratified. Often and often he has said to me, "What a blessing to go quickly!" So the same swift angel that came as a messenger to Allston, Irving, Prescott, Macaulay, Thackeray, and Dickens was commissioned to touch his forehead, also, and beckon him away.

The room in which death fell upon him,

"Like a shadow thrown
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,"

looks toward the east; and standing in it, as I have frequently done, since he passed out silently into the skies, it is easy to imagine the scene on that spring morning which President Pierce so feelingly describes in his letter.

On the 24th of May we carried Hawthorne through the blossoming orchards of Concord, and laid him down under a group of pines, on a hillside, overlooking historic fields. All the way from the village church to the grave the birds kept up a perpetual melody. The sun shone brightly, and the air was sweet and pleasant, as if death had never entered the world. Longfellow and Emerson, Channing and Hoar, Agassiz and Lowell, Greene and Whipple, Alcott and Clarke, Holmes and Hillard, and other friends whom he loved, walked slowly by his side that beautiful spring morning. The companion of his youth and his manhood, for whom he would willingly, at any time, have given up his own life, Franklin Pierce, was there among the rest, and scattered flowers into the grave. The unfinished Romance, which had cost him so much anxiety, the last literary work on which he had ever been engaged, was laid on his coffin.

"Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clew regain?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain."

Longfellow's beautiful poem will always be associated with the memory of Hawthorne, and most fitting was it that his fellow-student, whom he so loved and honored, should sing his requiem.

DICKENS

* * * * *

"_O friend with heart as gentle for distress,
As resolute with wise true thoughts to bind
The happiest with the unhappiest of our kind_"

John Forster.

_"All men are to an unspeakable degree brothers, each man's life a strange emblem of every man's; and Human Portraits, faithfully drawn, are of all pictures the welcomest on human walls."_--Carlyle.