ELSIE. Why should I live? Do I not know The life of woman is full of woe?

Toiling on, and on, and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, And silent lips, and in the soul The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies!

Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy; no, not one!

URSULA. It is the malediction of Eve!

ELSIE. In place of it, let me receive The benediction of Mary, then.

GOTTLIEB. Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me!

Most wretched am I among men.

URSULA. Alas! that I should live to see Thy death, beloved, and to stand Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

ELSIE. Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie Beneath the flowers of another land; For at Salerno, far away Over the mountains, over the sea, It is appointed me to die!

And it will seem no more to thee Than if at the village on market day I should a little longer stay Than I am used.

URSULA. Even as thou sayest!

And how my heart beats when thou stayest!

I can not rest until my sight Is satisfied with seeing thee.

What, then, if thou wert dead?

GOTTLIEB. Ah me, Of our old eyes thou art the light!

The joy of our old hearts art thou!

And wilt thou die?

URSULA. Not now! not now!

ELSIE. Christ died for me, and shall not I Be willing for my Prince to die?

You both are silent; you can not speak.

This said I, at our Saviour's feast, After confession, to the priest, And even he made no reply.

Does he not warn us all to seek The happier, better land on high, Where flowers immortal never wither; And could he forbid me to go thither?

GOTTLIEB. In G.o.d's own time, my heart's delight!

When He shall call thee, not before!

ELSIE. I heard Him call. When Christ ascended Triumphantly, from star to star, He left the gates of heaven ajar.

I had a vision in the night, And saw Him standing at the door Of His Father's mansion, vast and splendid, And beckoning to me from afar.

I can not stay!

GOTTLIEB. She speaks almost As if it were the Holy Ghost Spake through her lips and in her stead!

What if this were of G.o.d?

URSULA. Ah, then Gainsay it dare we not.

GOTTLIEB. Amen!

The old house under the elms is still the poet's home, and dear, as such, to every lover of poetry. It is a stately building, of the style of more than one hundred years ago, and is a very home-like place in its general appearance. Entering by the main door-way, which is in the center of the house, the visitor finds himself in a wide, old-fashioned hall, with doors opening upon it on either hand.

"The library of the poet is the long north-eastern room upon the lower floor," said a writer seventeen years ago. "It opens upon the garden, which retains still the quaint devices of an antique design, harmonious with the house. The room is surrounded with handsome book-cases, and one stands also between two Corinthian columns at one end, which imparts dignity and richness to the apartment. A little table by the northern window, looking upon the garden, is the usual seat of the poet. A bust or two, the rich carvings of the cases, the s.p.a.ciousness of the room, a leopard-skin lying upon the floor, and a few shelves of strictly literary curiosities, reveal not only the haunt of the elegant scholar and poet, but the favorite resort of the family circle. But the northern gloom of a New England winter is intolerant of this serene delight, this beautiful domesticity, and urges the inmates to the smaller room in front of the house, communicating with the library, and the study of General Washington. This is still distinctively 'the study,' as the rear room is 'the library,' Books are here, and all the graceful detail of an elegant household, and upon the walls hang crayon portraits of Emerson, Sumner, and Hawthorne.

"Emerging into the hall, the eyes of the enamored visitor fall upon the ma.s.sive old staircase, with the clock upon the landing. Directly he hears a singing in his mind:

'Somewhat back from the village street, Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw, And from its station in the hall An ancient time-piece says to all, "Forever--never!

Never--forever!"'

"But he does not see the particular clock of the poem, which stood upon another staircase, in another quaint old mansion,--although the verse belongs truly to all old clocks in all old country-seats, just as the 'Village Blacksmith' and his smithy are not alone the stalwart man and dingy shop under the 'spreading chestnut-tree' which the Professor daily pa.s.ses on his way to his college duties, but belong wherever a smithy stands. Through the meadows in front flows the placid Charles."

So calmly flows the poet's life. The old house has other charms for him now besides those with which his fancy invested it when he first set foot within its walls, for here have come to him the joys and sorrows of his maturer life, and here, "when the evening lamps are lighted," come to him the memories of the loved and lost, who but wait for him in the better land. Here, too, cl.u.s.ter the memories of those n.o.ble achievements in his glorious career which have made him now and for all times the people's poet. Others, as the years go by, will woo us with their lays, but none so winningly and tenderly as this our greatest master. There was but one David in Israel, and when he pa.s.sed away no other filled his place.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

There came to the old town of Salem, in the Province of Ma.s.sachusetts, in the early part of the seventeenth century, an English family named Hawthorne--Puritans, like all the other inhabitants of that growing town. They proved their fidelity to Puritan principles by entering readily into all the superst.i.tions of the day, and became noted for the zeal with which they persecuted the Quakers and hung the witches. The head of the family was a sea captain, and for many generations the men of the family followed the same avocation, "a gray-haired shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the gale, which had bl.u.s.tered against his sire and grandsire."

[Ill.u.s.tration: NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.]

Of such a race came NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, who was born at Salem, on the 4th, of July, 1804. His father was a sea captain, and died of the yellow fever at Havana, in 1810. His mother was a woman of great beauty and extreme sensibility, and it was from her that Nathaniel derived the peculiarities of character which distinguished him through life. The death of her husband filled her with the profoundest grief, and though the violence of her sorrow subsided with time, she pa.s.sed the remainder of her life in strict seclusion, constantly grieving in her quiet way for her departed lord. Her son grew up to the age of ten in this sad and lonely house, pa.s.sing four of the most susceptible years of his life in the society of his sorrowful mother. He became a shy boy, and avoided the company of other children. His health began to suffer from the effects of such an unnatural state of affairs, and at the age of ten he was sent to live on a farm belonging to the family, on the sh.o.r.e of Sebago Lake, in Maine. The active out-door life which he led here entirely restored his health, which was naturally strong and vigorous; here, also, he acquired that fondness for boating which was his chief amus.e.m.e.nt in after years. Returning to Salem, he completed his studies in the preparatory schools, after which he entered Bowdoin College, where he graduated in 1825, at the age of twenty-one. He was a cla.s.smate of Longfellow and George B. Cheever, with whom he was only slightly acquainted; and he formed a warm and lasting friendship with Franklin Pierce, who was in the cla.s.s next before him. Longfellow has preserved a recollection of him in his student days as "a shy youth in a bright-b.u.t.toned coat, flitting across the college grounds."

After graduating, he went back to his home in Salem, where he resided for many years, leading a life of seclusion, which he pa.s.sed in meditation and study. His strong literary inclination now vented itself in efforts which were in every way characteristic of the man. He wrote numerous wild tales, the most of which he burned, but a few of which found their way into the newspapers and magazines of the country. They were full of a wild gloominess, and were told with a power which proved that their author was no ordinary man. Few, however, dreamed that they were the work of the pale recluse of Salem, for he led a life of such strict seclusion that not even the members of his own family could tell with certainty what he did. His days were pa.s.sed in his chamber, and at night he took long walks alone on the sea-sh.o.r.e or into the woods. He shunned all society, and seemed to find companionship only in nature, and in the creations of his fancy. Yet he was not a morose or unhappy man. On the contrary, he seems to have been a very happy one, full of generous and kindly feelings, and finding only a strange pleasure where others would have found bitterness and cynicism. Like the melancholy Jacques, he might have said of his pensive shyness, "It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects; ... which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness."

In 1837 he collected his published tales, which, while they had charmed a few cultivated readers, had scarcely been noticed by the ma.s.ses, and published them in a volume to which he gave the name of "Twice-Told Tales." The book was well received by the public, but its circulation was limited, although Mr. Longfellow warmly welcomed it in the "North American Review," and p.r.o.nounced it the "work of a man of genius and a true poet." Still it was neglected by the ma.s.ses, and Hawthorne says himself that he was at that time "the most unknown author in America."

There was more truth in this a.s.sertion than lies on its face, for the people who read the book supposed that the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne was merely a pseudonyme, and declared that as Nathaniel was evidently selected by the author because of the fondness of the old-time Puritans for Scripture names, so Hawthorne was chosen by him as expressive of one of the most beautiful features of the New England landscape. The merits of the book were too genuine, however, for it to lack admirers, and the small cla.s.s which greeted its first appearance with delight gradually increased, and finally the demand for the book became so great that in 1842 Hawthorne ventured to issue a second series of "Twice-Told Tales,"

the most of which had appeared in the "Democratic Review," then edited by his friend O'Sullivan. Of these volumes, Mr. George William Curtis says: "They are full of glancing wit, of tender satire, of exquisite natural description, of subtle and strange a.n.a.lysis of human life, darkly pa.s.sionate and weird."

In 1838 George Bancroft was Collector of the Port of Boston, and, having been deeply impressed with the genius displayed in the first volume of "Twice-Told Tales," sought out Hawthorne and offered him a place in the Boston Custom-House as weigher and gauger. Hawthorne accepted the position, and at once entered upon his duties. Leaving his solitude and the weird phantoms that had been his companions for so long, he pa.s.sed immediately into the busy bustle of the great New England port. It was a new world to him, and one which interested him keenly. His duties kept him constantly on the wharf, and threw him daily into contact with captains and sailors from all parts of the world. He became a great favorite with these, and they told him many a strange story of their adventures and of the sights they had seen in distant lands, and these, as they were listened to by him, took each a distinctive form in his imagination. Not less interesting to him were the men among whom his duties threw him. They were more to him than the ordinary beings that thronged the streets of the great city, for they had been victorious in many a battle with the mighty deep, and they had looked on the wondrous sights of the far-off lands of the Old World. Queer people they were, too, each a Captain Cuttle or a Dirk Hatteraick in himself, and many an hour did the dreamy writer spend with them, apparently listening to their rude stories, but really making keen studies of the men themselves.

He discharged his duties faithfully in the Boston Custom-House, performing each with an exactness thoroughly characteristic of him, until 1841, when the accession of President Harrison to power obliged him to withdraw to make way for a Whig.

From the Custom-house he went to live at Brook Farm as one of that singular community of dreamers and enthusiasts which was to inaugurate a new era of men and things in the world, but which came at last to a most inglorious termination. He was thrown into intimate a.s.sociation here with many who have since become prominent in our literary history, and for some of them conceived a warm attachment. He took his share of the farm labors, to which he was very partial, but remained at the community less than a year, and then returned to Boston. In his "Blithedale Romance" he has given us a picture of the life at Brook Farm, though he denies having sketched his characters from his old a.s.sociates at that place.

In 1843 he married Miss Peabody, a member of a family distinguished for their various achievements in the world of letters. Besides being an artist of no mean pretensions, she was herself a writer of considerable promise, though her writings had no other critics than her family and most intimate friends. "Her husband shrank from seeing her name in the reviews, and in this, as in all other things, his feelings were sacredly respected by her." She was a lady of rare strength of character and great beauty, and was in every respect a fitting wife for such a man.

The twenty-one years of their wedded life make up a period of unbroken happiness to both. Hawthorne was very proud of his wife, and in his quiet way never failed to show it. Their friends often remarked that the wedded life of this happy pair seemed like one long courtship.

Hawthorne took his bride on his wedding-day to a new home. He had rented the old parsonage adjoining the battle-field of Concord, from whose windows the pastor of those heroic days had watched his congregation fight the British in his yard. It was a gloomy and partially dilapidated "Old Manse," and doubtless Hawthorne had chosen it because of its quaint aspect. He has himself drawn the picture of it, and given us an exquisite collection of "Mosses" from it. It lay back from the main road, and was approached by an avenue of ancient black-ash trees, whose deep shade added much to the quiet appearance of "the gray front of the old parsonage." It was just the home for him, and here pa.s.sed three of the happiest years of his life. Here he wrote his "Mosses from an Old Manse," and here his first child was born.

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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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, Th.o.r.eau, 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 a.s.sembled, 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, n.o.body 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.