Chapter Nathaniel Hawthorne of Index by Simonds History of American Literature

fairy tales . . . which Una and Julian had reveled in when our father had been at leisure in Lenox and Concord."

Hawthorne was greatly agitated by the breaking out of civil war. His politics identified him with the unpopular popular party in the North, and his stanch loyalty to his friend Pierce, then in disfavor, seemed to arouse in a degree public sentiment against himself. From his English note-books he had culled material which was published under the title Our Old Home, in 1863; this volume, in spite of some protests from his friends, he insisted upon dedicating to Franklin Pierce. The appropriateness of the dedication is easily seen; and probably it was appreciated by most of Hawthorne's readers then; still the novelist felt somewhat the stigma of personal unpopularity. He became despondent and his splendid health rapidly declined. He could not advance with the literary work in hand. He made a journey to Washington with his intimate friend, Ticknor, the publisher, in the endeavor to shake off his weariness and depression. Ticknor died suddenly in Philadelphia, and Hawthorne returned, very ill. Early in May, 1864, Mr. Pierce proposed that his former classmate should accompany him on a tour through the White Mountains, and the novelist left his home in Concord with a last farewell. At a hotel in Plymouth, New Hampshire, after his journey, Hawthorne retired to rest -- and fell asleep.

On the 23d of May, the body of our great romance-writer was laid in the village burial-place at Concord, a most distinguished company following to the grave. Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and Holmes were in the group. They were all his friends and admirers of his genius. The manuscript of the unfinished work, The Dolliver Romance, was laid on the coffin. It was this funeral which inspired Longfellow's tender tribute to Hawthorne:--

"Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream
   Dimly my thought defines;
I only see -- a dream within a dream --
   The hill-top hearsed with pines.

"I only hear above his place of rest
   Their tender undertone,
The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
   The voice so like his own.

"There in seclusion and remote from men
   The wizard hand lies cold,
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
   And left the tale half told."¹

After Publications.

The appearance of Hawthorne's writings did not cease with his death. The note-books, so continuously and so carefully kept, have been drawn upon, and much of their material published. Passages from the American Note-Books (1868), English Note-Books (1870), and French and Italian Note-Books (1871) have thus appeared. In 1872, the romance, Septimius Felton, unrevised and therefore unfinished, was published. A few fragmentary scenes from The Dolliver Romance were included in a volume with other hitherto unpublished pieces in 1876. The youthful production, Fanshawe, was reprinted. Another unfinished romance, Dr. Grimshawe's Secret, was issued in 1883, together with more sketches, tales, and studies. In the same year there appeared an edition of the Complete Works.

Place in Literature.

Hawthorne's place in our literature is established: he is the most commanding figure that America has produced in the field of romance. The universal superiority of his genius has been challenged by more than one critic; yet others have granted him the highest distinction even in this broader field. Henry James describes him as "the most beautiful and most eminent representative of a literature; . . . in the field of letters . . . the most valuable example of the American genius."² Some points in comparison may be helpful. It is obvious that he is altogether original; Irving, in his sketches, was as obviously working after earlier English models. Hawthorne's peculiar choice of theme -- the study of influences, supernatural in the noblest sense, acting on the human soul in its development -- lifts his effort to a much higher plane than was reached by Cooper, admirable story-teller that he was. Hawthorne's one contemporary rival in the domain of the short story was Edgar Allan Poe; while Hawthorne lacks the intensity and passion of Poe, he also escapes the morbidness which mars the beauty of Poe's art. In spite of occasional vagueness in outline and in details, together with an inclination to allegory which is perhaps too mechanical to be