Great Fortunes, and How They Were Made

by James Dabney McCabe

The life he led at Concord was very secluded. He avoided the society of the village people, who sought in vain to penetrate his retirement and satisfy their curiosity concerning him. But they were disappointed. He lived on in his deep seclusion, happy in having his wife and child with him, but caring for no other society. During the day he remained in his study, which overlooked the old battle-field, or, passing down the lawn at the back of the house to the river, spent the afternoon in rowing on the pretty stream. At night he would take long walks, or row up the river to the bridge by which the British crossed the stream, and enjoy his favorite luxury—a bath. The village people were full of curiosity to know something about him, for he was absolutely unknown to them; and any one who understands what the curiosity of a New England villager is can readily imagine the feelings with which the people of Concord regarded their mysterious neighbor. They were never satisfied, however, for Hawthorne shrank from prying eyes with indescribable horror. He kept his ways, and compelled them to let him alone. He could easily avoid the town in his walks or his rides upon the river, and he was rarely seen passing through the streets unless compelled to do so by matters which needed his attention in Concord.

Yet the "Old Manse" was not without its guests. Hawthorne was a man of many friends, and these came often to see him. They were men after his own heart, and among them were Emerson, Ellery, Channing, Thoreau, Whittier, Longfellow, and George William Curtis. The last-named has left us this pleasant picture of our author in the midst of his friends:

"During Hawthorne's first year's residence in Concord, I had driven up with some friends to an esthetic tea at Mr. Emerson's. It was in the winter, and a great wood-fire blazed upon the hospitable hearth. There were various men and women of note assembled, and I, who listened attentively to all the fine things that were said, was for some time scarcely aware of a man who sat upon the edge of the circle, a little withdrawn, his head slightly thrown forward upon his breast, and his bright eyes clearly burning under his black brow. As I drifted down the stream of talk, this person who sat silent as a shadow looked to me as Webster might have looked had he been a poet—a kind of poetic Webster. He rose and walked to the window, and stood quietly there for a long time, watching the dead white landscape. No appeal was made to him, nobody looked after him, the conversation flowed as steadily on as if every one understood that his silence was to be respected. It was the same thing at table. In vain the silent man imbibed esthetic tea. Whatever fancies it inspired did not flower at his lips. But there was a light in his eye which assured me that nothing was lost. So supreme was his silence, that it presently engrossed me to the exclusion of every thing else. There was brilliant discourse, but this silence was much more poetic and fascinating. Fine things were said by the philosophers, but much finer things were implied by the dumbness of this gentleman with heavy brows and black hair. When presently he rose and went, Emerson, with the 'slow, wise smile' that breaks over his face, like day over the sky, said: 'Hawthorne rides well his horse of the night.'" Later on, after he knew him better, Curtis added to this picture, "His own sympathy was so broad and sure, that, although nothing had been said for hours, his companion knew that not a thing had escaped his eye, nor had a single pulse of beauty in the day, or scene, or society failed to thrill his heart. In this way his silence was most social. Every thing seemed to have been said."

At the close of the third year of his residence at Concord, Hawthorne was obliged to give up the "Old Manse," as the owner was coming back to occupy it. The Democrats had now come into power again under Mr. Polk, and Mr. Bancroft was in the Cabinet. The Secretary, mindful of his friend, procured him the post of Surveyor of the Port of Salem, and Hawthorne went with his little family to live in his native town. The Salem Custom-house was a sleepy sort of a place, and his duties were merely nominal. He had an abundance of leisure time, and from that leisure was born his masterpiece, "The Scarlet Letter"—the most powerful romance which ever flowed from an American author's pen. It was published in 1850, and in the preface to it the reader will find an excellent description of the author's life in Salem. He held his position in that place for three years, and then the election of General Taylor obliged him to retire.

He withdrew to the Berkshire Hills, and took a house in the town of Lenox. It was a little red cottage, and was situated on the shore of a diminutive lake called the Stockbridge Bowl. He was now the most famous novelist in America, and had thousands of admirers in the Old World. His "Scarlet Letter" had won him fame, and had brought his earlier works more prominently before the public than ever.

During his residence at Lenox, he wrote "The House of the Seven Gables," which was published in Boston in 1851. It was not less successful than the "Scarlet Letter," though it was not so finished a piece of workmanship.

Yet, though so famous, he was not freed from the trials incident to the first years of an author's life. Mr. Tuckerman says of him at this time: "He had the fortitude and pride, as well as the sensitiveness and delicacy, of true and high genius. Not even his nearest country neighbors knew aught of his meager larder or brave economies. He never complained, even when editors were dilatory in their remuneration and friends forgetful of their promises. When the poor author had the money, he would buy a beefsteak for dinner; when he had not, he would make a meal of chestnuts and potatoes. He had the self-control and the probity to fulfill that essential condition of self-respect, alike for those who subsist by brain work and those who inherit fortunes—he always lived within his income; and it was only by a kind of pious fraud that a trio of his oldest friends occasionally managed to pay his rent." His friend and publisher, Mr. Ticknor, "received and invested the surplus earnings of the absentee author when American Consul at Liverpool, and had obtained from Hawthorne a promise on the eve of his departure for his post, ... that he would send him all he could spare from his official income, to be carefully nursed into a competence for his family. Never was better advice given or wiser service performed by publisher to author. The investments thus made became the means of comfort to the returned writer in the maturity of his years and his fame."

In 1852 he returned to Concord and purchased a small house which had once been the residence of the philosopher Alcott. Here he made his permanent home and gathered about him his household treasures. In the Presidential campaign of 1852, his friend Franklin Pierce was the candidate of the Democracy, and Hawthorne wrote a short biography of him which was used by the Democrats as a campaign document. It was a labor of love, for the friendship that had been begun between these two men in their college days had never been broken, and though naturally averse to every thing that savored of politics, our author made this contribution to the cause of his friend with all the heartiness of his nature. Pierce was profoundly touched by this unexpected aid, for he knew how utterly Hawthorne detested political strife, and when seated in the Presidential chair he showed his appreciation of it by offering his friend the consulship to Liverpool—one of the most lucrative offices within the gift of the executive. Hawthorne broke up his home in Concord and sailed for Liverpool in 1853, and remained there until 1857, when he resigned his consulship and traveled on the continent with his family, residing for some time in Italy for the benefit of his health. His European residence had the effect of drawing him out of his shyness and reserve to a certain extent, and during the closing years of his life he was more social with the persons about him than he had ever been. After his return he went back to Concord, where he enlarged and beautified his old home, intending to remain there for the balance of his life. He wrote the "Marble Faun" and "Our Old Home" just after his return from Europe. The former was suggested by his residence in Italy, and the latter was a collection of English sketches and reminiscences.

The war between the two sections of the country affected him very deeply. It seemed to him a terrible tragedy, to which there could be no end but utter ruin for the country. He sympathized strongly with the cause of the Union, but at the same time his heart bled at the sufferings of the people of the south. It was one long agony to him, and only those who knew him intimately can understand how much he suffered during this unhappy period.

Mr. Moncure D. Conway gives the following reminiscence of him about this time: "I passed a night under the same roof with him at the house of Mr. Fields, his publisher. He seemed much dejected. Mr. Fields had invited a little company, but, after the first arrivals, Hawthorne made his escape to his room, from which he did not emerge until the next morning at breakfast time. He then came in with the amusing look of a naughty child, and pleaded that he had become lost the night before in Defoe's ghost stories until it was too late to make his appearance in the company. He must, I should think, have been contemplating some phantasmal production at that time, for I remember his asking me many questions about the ghost-beliefs of the negroes, among whom I had passed my early life."