Wilkie Collins - "The Fallen Leaves"

Carolyn Wells - "Marjorie's Vacation"

Chamisso et. al. - "Peter Schlemihl etc."

Arthur M. Winfield - "The Rover Boys in the Jungle"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Memories of Hawthorne

R >> Rose Hawthorne Lathrop >> Memories of Hawthorne




But it is said that I notified the inspectors of their suspension by a
certain person, who is named. I have required an explanation of this
person, and he at once avowed that, being aware of this contemplated
movement, and being in friendly relations with these two men, he
thought it his duty to inform them of it; but he most distinctly
states that he did it without my authority or knowledge, and that he
will testify to this effect whenever I call upon him so to do. I did
not inquire what communication he had with the two inspectors, or with
either of them; for I look upon his evidence as clearing me, whatever
may have passed between him and them. But my idea is (I may be
mistaken, but it is founded on some observation of the manoeuvres of
small politicians, and knowing the rigid discipline of custom houses
as to party subscriptions) that there really was an operation, to
squeeze an assessment out of the recusant inspectors, under the terror
of an impending removal or suspension; that one of the inspectors
turned traitor, and was impelled, by the threats and promises of Mr.
U. and his coadjutors, to bring his evidence to a pretty direct point
on me; and that Mr. U., in his memorial to the Treasury Department,
defined and completed the lie, in such shape as I have given it above.
But I do not see how it can stand for a moment against my defense.

The head clerk (the same Mr. Burchmore whose letter I transmitted to
you) was turned out a week ago, and will gladly give his evidence at
any moment, proving the grounds on which I acted. The other person who
is said to have acted as messenger is still in office, a weigher and
gauger, at a salary of $1500 per annum. He is a poor man, having been
in office but two years, and expended all his income in paying debts
for which he was an indorser, and he now wishes to get a few hundred
dollars to carry him to California, or give him some other start in
life. Still, he will come forward if I call upon him, but, of course,
would rather wait for his removal, which will doubtless take place
before the session of Congress. Meantime, I have no object to obtain,
worth purchasing at the sacrifice which he must make. My surveyorship
is lost, and I have no expectation, nor any desire, of regaining it.
My purpose is simply to make such a defense to the Senate as will
insure the rejection of my successor, and thus satisfy the public that
I was removed on false or insufficient grounds. Then, if Mr. U. should
give me occasion,--or perhaps if he should not,--I shall do my best to
kill and scalp him in the public prints; and I think I shall succeed.

I mean soon to comply with your kind invitation to come and see you,
not on the above business, but because I think of writing a
schoolbook,--or, at any rate, a book for the young,--and should highly
prize your advice as to what is wanted, and how it should be achieved.
I mean, as soon as possible,--that is to say, as soon as I can find a
cheap, pleasant, and healthy residence,--to remove into the country,
and bid farewell forever to this abominable city; for, now that my
mother is gone, I have no longer anything to keep me here.

Sophia and the children are pretty well. With my best regards to Mrs.
Mann, I am, Very truly yours,

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

P. S. Do pardon me for troubling you with this long letter: but I am
glad to put you in possession of the facts, in case of accidents.

I will insert here some letters that relate to this time, though
written in 1884:--

PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, September 15.

DEAR MRS. LATHROP, . . . That matter of the memorial fountain, or
monument [in honor of "The Town Pump "], which the death of Mrs.
Brooks prevented our going on with, I trust may yet in the fullness of
time be accomplished. I have a plan which may fructify, although some
years may intervene before any decided steps can be taken. Perhaps it
will be just as well to wait, after all, until some of those wretches
who delight in vilifying your father perish from the face of the
earth. Let us have patience. They are fast becoming superannuated, and
the "venom of their spleen" will perish with them. They comprehend him
not, and are willfully blind and deaf. Dr. Wheatland estimates that
less than a score of these strange malignants are now to be met with
on the streets of Salem. But he has not like me

"Unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair,
Where growling low, a fierce old bear,
Lies amid bones and blood."

By the bye, I found once that Miss Savage had wholly forgotten
Hawthorne's reference to the Town Pump which closes his Custom House
chapter, and so I put "The Scarlet Letter" into my valise (she having
lost her copy), and two or three weeks ago I called at her house and
read her the passage. Afterwards, I dropped in to see Mullet, and I
left the book with him, as he had not read it for many years. I think
you will like to see a note he has written me, so I inclose it.

Faithfully yours,

GEORGE H. HOLDEN.


February 5.

MY DEAR MRS. LATHROP,--Rummaging among my papers, last evening, I ran
across another letter from our "bright-eyed" and noble-hearted friend
Mullet, which I think you will be glad to read, because Mullet wrote
it. I therefore inclose the letter. Mullet is very hard of hearing,
and on that account goes out but little. During the twelve years that
I lived in Salem I am sure I never once met him on the street. In
fact, I think I never heard of him, even, till after I moved to
Providence. I heard of him one day at the "Gazette" office, and
forthwith dug him out. He is a great reader. The Harpers have sent me
all of Rolfe's Shakespeare, and I found that I have duplicate copies
of three or four of the Plays. These duplicates I shall ask Mullet to
oblige me by accepting. Mullet is not the chap who bored your father
so fearfully by endless talk about Shakespeare and Napoleon, but he is
a prodigious admirer of the great dramatist. He has the Plays in one
huge, unwieldy volume, and for that reason reads them less than he
would if they were in a more handy form. Mullet is a great reader of
the old English poets (I don't mean so far back as Chaucer and
Spenser), and I suppose he can repeat from memory thousands of lines.
I have found no chance to call upon him since I fruitlessly rang his
doorbell, as stated in his letter.

Please remind me to tell you about an African fetich which Mullet gave
me one day, and a reminiscence of your father linked therewith. Ever
faithfully,

GEORGE H. HOLDEN.


SALEM, September 10, 1884.

DEAR MR. HOLDEN,--It was my good fortune during the year 1850 to be
presented with a copy of "The Scarlet Letter," together with "the
compliments of the author." Of course, the gift was highly prized; but
its fate was that of many other volumes, borrowed and never returned.
A volume of the same, from the late edition issued last year, proved a
most welcome visitor to my enforced seclusion. After the lapse of many
years I once more had the real pleasure of reading over that popular
work. The enjoyment derived from a fresh perusal of the introductory
chapter on the Custom House was great indeed. It seemed like living
over that period of my existence again. The scenes described in such a
masterly manner were vividly before me; and while reading I frequently
stopped to laugh at the scrupulously nice delineation. The zest with
which I read was heightened by the reproduction of the characters in
that superlative picture of word-painting, for they together with the
artist were vividly--I had almost said palpably--before me, as though
it were a thing of yesterday. How real the "patriarchal body of
veterans" appeared, "tipped back in chairs," and "at times asleep; but
occasionally might be heard talking together in voices between speech
and a snore. There was no more vivacity than in the drowsy drone of
so many bumblebees." However much others may be entertained by reading
that chapter of exquisite humor, those who were the daily witnesses of
the scenes for several years can best appreciate its nicety and
drollery. The "veteran shipmaster," concerning whom Hawthorne says,
"scarcely a day passed that he did not stir me to laughter and
admiration by his marvelous gift as a story-teller," was Captain
Stephen Burchmore, the public storekeeper. The stories of themselves
were generally extravagant and grotesque. It was "the marvelous gift"
of narration that carried people off their legs. I have known the
company present to roar with laughter, and not one more convulsed than
Mr. Hawthorne. Truly yours,

GEORGE W. MULLET.


SALEM, October 1, 1883.

DEAR MR. HOLDEN,--You request me to "write the particulars about the
good turn I had done Hawthorne in sacrificing my own interests in his
behalf."

Mr. Hawthorne had not been thought of in connection with any office in
the Custom House until after arrangements were made to have them
filled with others. Richard Lindsay was supported for the surveyorship
and myself for the naval office. All necessary documents had been
forwarded to Washington, duly authenticated, and tidings of the
appointments daily looked for.

At this late stage Hawthorne was first suggested for Surveyor. The
matter was urgently pushed. To accomplish it, Lindsay must be
prevailed upon to withdraw. All were agreed that I was the one to
engineer the matter, Lindsay and myself being fast friends, and our
relations uninterruptedly pleasant. That he would willingly consent
was not expected, and indeed it was problematical if he would at all.
I felt exceedingly delicate about suggesting the business, as I had in
person been through the country obtaining signatures from resident
committees favoring his appointment. I therefore voluntarily offered
to withdraw my application for the naval office in favor of Hawthorne,
but that found no favor.

Finally, to secure the desideratum, I proposed that Lindsay and self
both withdraw, and have the offices filled with others. I desired my
friend should understand that I asked for no sacrifice I was not
willing to share. My withdrawal was stoutly opposed as entirely
unnecessary, but it was my ultimatum; on no other condition would I
move in the matter. The business was then broken by me to Lindsay, and
it required all the persuasion I could exercise to reconcile him to
the arrangement. The expedient of my own withdrawal brought it about;
otherwise it would not have been accomplished.

It now only remained for us to write to Washington, withdrawing our
candidatures, and transferring all our support to the applications of
Hawthorne for Surveyor and Howard for Naval Officer. Soon their
commissions came, and Lindsay and myself were subsequently appointed
as inspectors under Hawthorne.

At that time I regarded Hawthorne's appointment as decidedly popular
with the party, with men of letters, and with the increasing multitude
who admired him as one of the brightest stars in the literary
firmament.

Never have I experienced the least regret for waiving my own advantage
to bring the pleasing result about. For nearly four years it brought
me almost daily into proximity with him, either officially or
casually. The recollection well repays the little sacrifice made. His
port, his placidity, his hours of abstraction, his mild, pleasant
voice,--no sweeter ever uttered by mortal lips,--are all readily
recalled. Truly yours,

G. W. MULLET.




CHAPTER V

FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE


Plans for retiring into the depths of the country were made, and
Horatio Bridge was requested to see what chance there was for a home
near the ocean, to which Hawthorne always turned as to the most
desirable neighbor. Mr. Bridge responds in part:--

UNITED STATES NAVY YARD, PORTSMOUTH, N. H.

August 6, 1849.

DEAR HAWTHORNE,--. . . I have looked at a house, which you will probably
like . . . and it commands a fine sea view. If it can be hired, it is
just the place. . . . We are busy in fixing ourselves in our new
quarters, where we shall be most happy to see you. Mrs. Bridge joins
me in kind regards to Mrs. H. and yourself. Love to Una and the unseen
Julian.

Yours ever, H. B.

A letter from Mrs. Bridge, which does not mention the year, is a
specimen of many similar ones from other friends:--

PHILADELPHIA, July 1.

MY DEAR MRS. HAWTHORNE,--I heard yesterday by way of Africa that you
had not received a note which I left at the Winthrop House for you
last summer. You must have thought me very neglectful. I should have
acknowledged the receipt of any book you might have sent me; but most
sincerely did I thank you for that which had given me so much
pleasure. I remember very distinctly my past knowledge of Mr.
Hawthorne as an author, and the bitter tears I shed over "The Gentle
Boy." When I had read it until I thought myself quite hardened to its
influence, I offered to read it to our dear old nurse, who had been
the patient listener to the whole family for many a year. I prided
myself upon my nursery reputation for stoicism, which I should lose if
my voice faltered. I was beginning to doubt my ability to get calmly
through the next page, when the old lady exclaimed, in such a truly
yet ludicrously indignant tone, "Dretful creturs!" that I had a fair
right to laugh while she wiped the tears off of her spectacles. The
time gained placed me on a firmer footing, and I got safely through
thereby. I enjoy Mr. Hawthorne's writings none the less now that I
can laugh and cry when I am inclined. Will you give him my kindest
regards. He is very often mentioned by Mr. Bridge, who, by the way,
goes to the Mediterranean in September. I hope to join him there.

With much regard, truly yours,

C. M. BRIDGE.

Promptly, in their hour of misfortune, arrived a letter from one of
Mrs. Hawthorne's dearest friends, which I give here:--

STATEN ISLAND, September 10, 1849.

Thank you, my dear Sophia, for your letter. I have been thinking a
great deal of you lately, and was glad to know of your plans. Before I
heard from you, I had expended a great amount of indignation upon
"General Taylor" and his myrmidons, and politics and parties, and the
whole host of public blessings which produce private misfortunes. I
am glad you are going to Lenox, because it is such a beautiful place,
and you have so many warm friends there. Life is a pretty sad affair,
dear Sophia; at least, I find it so. . . . We have felt, that Bob
[Colonel Robert Shaw] required to be removed from home influences, as
he has no brothers; and, being unwilling to send him to a school of
the usual order, we chose the Jesuit College at Fordham, near New
York, where there are a hundred and fifty boys, and a great many holy
fathers to teach and take care of them. I inclose a check from Frank,
which he hopes Mr. Hawthorne will accept as it is offered, and as lie
would do if the fate had been reversed. He does not ask you to accept
his gift,--so pay it back when you don't want it, here or hereafter,
or never. I only wish it was a thousand. Dear Sophia, when I think of
such men as your husband, Page, and some others, so pinched and
cramped for this abominable money, it makes me outrageous. If it were
one of those trials that do people good, it would be bearable; but it
kills one down so. Shakespeare felt it when he said:--

"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert
a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity."

God bless you, dear Sophia,--as He has, notwithstanding General
Taylor. Believe me ever most affectionately your friend, S. B. S.

Miss Elizabeth Hoar, engaged to Mr. Emerson's brother Charles, who
died in youth, writes letters of regret for the departure of the
Hawthornes from Concord:--

. . . Remember me to Mr. Hawthorne and beautiful Una. That you three
have lived here in Concord for so many fair days is a page of romance
which I shall not forget; whatever happens, so much we have and cannot
lose. Affectionately always,

E. HOAR.

. . . I should like very much to see you and Mr. Hawthorne, and your Una
and her brother, and have made two unsuccessful efforts to spend a day
with you in Salem. I was in New Haven at the time of the publication
of the "Mosses," and all my friends were reading them. I found myself
quite a lion because I knew Mr. Hawthorne; and became a sort of author
in my turn, by telling stories of the inhabitants of the Old Manse,
omitted in the printed books. Father was charmed with them, and wrote
to me quite at length about them. Pray remember me to Mr. Hawthorne,
and give him my thanks for writing the book. Mr. Emerson is in Paris
from May 6th to joth, then lectures in London six times, and sees
everybody and everything. I am heartily glad. He has letters which are
to show him Lamartine.

Affectionately yours,

ELIZABETH HOAR.

The first Mrs. Lowell, who had long been an intimate friend of my
mother's, sends beautiful letters, from which I will make selections,
too lovely to be set aside:--

"How blessed it is that God sends these 'perpetual messiahs' among us,
to lead us back to innocence and free-heartedness and faith. . . . I
have seen a picture of the Annunciation in which Mary is reading the
prophecy of the Messiah's coming. . . . Mary is a type of all women,
and I love the Roman Catholic feeling that enshrines and appeals to
her. It has its root in the very deepest principle of life. . . .
James is very well, and to say that he is very happy, too, is
unnecessary to any one who knows his elastic, joyful nature. . . .
When I feel well and strong, I feel so well and strong that I could,
like Atlas, bear the world about with me. . . . I love to work with my
hands; to nail, to glue, to scour, to dig; all these satisfy a
yearning in my nature for something substantial and honest. My mother
often tells me I was born to be a poor man's wife, I have such an
aptitude for all trades."

. . . Is not June the crown of the year, the Carnival of Nature, when
the very trees pelt each other with blossoms, and are stirring and
bending when no wind is near them, because they are so full of inward
life, and must shiver for joy to feel how fast the sap is rushing up
from the ground? On such days can you sing anything but, "Oh,
beautiful Love"? Doesn't it seem as if Nature wore your livery and
wished to show the joy of your heart in every possible form? The
everlasting hum and seething of myriad life satisfies and soothes me.
I feel as if something were going on in the world, else why all this
shouting, and bedecking of every weed in its best, this endless strain
from every tiny weed or great oaken flute? All that cannot sing,
dances; the gnats in the air and the long-legged spiders on the water.
Even the ants and beetles, the workers that are quoted for examples by
hoarding men, run about doing nothing, putting their busy antennae
into everything, tumbling over the brown mould for sheer enjoyment,
and running home at last without the little white paper parcel in
their mouths which gives them so respectable an air. Doubtless the
poor things are scolded by their infirm parents, who sit sunning
themselves at the door of the house. . . . Beetles seem to me to have
a pleasant life, because they, who have fed for two or three years
underground upon the roots, come forth at last winged, and find their
nourishment in the blooms of the very same tree. It comforts me,
because we have ourselves to eat many bitter roots here, whose perfect
flower shall one day delight us. This, dear Sophia, has been a long
ramble. I promised to copy that sonnet of James's for you, so I
inclose it.

With true sympathy and love, Affectionately yours,

MARIA WHITE.

From George S. Hillard came the following letter. On the envelope my
father has written Hillard's name and "The Scarlet Letter," showing
with what interest he preserved this friend's criticism and praise. On
the other side of the envelope is written, "Foi, Foi, Faith." No one
ever was more faithful to, and consequently ever had more faith in,
his friends than my father.

BOSTON, March 28, 1850.

MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,--You have written a most remarkable book; in point
of .literary talent, beyond all your previous efforts; a book full of
tragic power, nice observation, delicate tact, and rare knowledge of
the human heart. I think it will take a place in our literature among
the highest efforts of what may be called the Tragic Muse of fiction.
You are, intellectually speaking, quite a puzzle to me. How comes it
that with so thoroughly healthy an organization as you have, you have
such a taste for the morbid anatomy of the human heart, and such
knowledge of it, too? I should fancy from your books that you were
burdened with secret sorrow; that you had some blue chamber in your
soul, into which you hardly dared to enter yourself; but when I see
you, you give me the impression of a man as healthy as Adam was in
Paradise. For my own taste, I could wish that you would dwell more in
the sun, and converse more with cheerful thoughts and lightsome
images, and expand into a story the spirit of the Town Pump. But while
waiting for this, let me be thankful for the weird and sad strain
which breathes from "The Scarlet Letter," which I read with most
absorbing interest. Yours ever,

GEO. S. HILLARD.

The owner of the cottage which the Hawthornes hired in Lenox sends a
welcome:--

DEAR SOPHIA,--Since we came up here, I have examined the little house
you think of taking, and cannot but hope you will take the red house
in preference; for although that is not so large or convenient as I
wish it were for you, it is much more so than the little garden house.
You have a rough plan of that, which Mr. Tappan drew for Mr.
Hawthorne, and I will give you one of this. There are four good
sleeping-rooms upstairs, but without fireplaces, and could only be
ameliorated in winter by an entry stove. The house is pleasantly
situated, having a view of the Lake, as you know. The road passing by
the red house is so little traveled that it is no annoyance. Perhaps
you and Mr. Hawthorne would like to come and see the houses for
yourselves; if so, we shall be very glad to have you stay with us. I
have no time to tell you how lovely it is here, or how glad we are you
are coming.

Affectionately yours,

CAROLINE TAPPAN.

The search for a desirable hillside or meadow space where they might
make a new home, away from city streets and the hurrying prisoners
upon them, was pleasantly ended for the Hawthornes. The transfer of
the little family to Lenox soon occurred, and to the "red house,"
which was in existence until lately. I will quote a description of the
cottage and the views about the spot, given in a Stockbridge paper not
long after the small dwelling disappeared:--

"On a stand in the curious old hotel in Stockbridge is a charred chunk
of an oaken house-beam that is as carefully treasured as if it were of
gold; and every guest strolling through the parlor wherein it is shown
halts and gazes at it with a singular interest. A placard pinned to
the cinder explains in these words why it is treasured and why the
people gaze at it: 'Relic from the Hawthorne Cottage.' The Hawthorne
Cottage stood half a mile out of Stockbridge on the road to Lenox. It
was burned two months ago. It was a little red story-and-a-half house
on a lonely farm, and an old farmer, himself somewhat of a bookworm,
dwelt in it with his family at the time it mysteriously took fire. The
cottage was a landmark, because Nathaniel Hawthorne dwelt therein in
1850 and 1851 for a year and a half. A great many people go out to
see the ruins of it.

"Drive along a lonely winding road through a homely New England
district several hundred yards west of the pretentious mansions of
Stockbridge, pass through a breezy open patch of pines, and one comes
to a characteristic hillside New England orchard, the branches of
whose trees just now are bright with ripening red apples. On the
hillslope in the middle of the orchard and overlooking the famous
'Stockbridge Bowl'--a round deep tarn among the hills--are the brick
cellar walls and brick underpinning of what was a very humble
dwelling--the Hawthorne Cottage. About the ruins is a quiet, modest,
New England neighborhood. There is not much to see at the site of the
Hawthorne Cottage, yet every day fashionable folk from New York and
Boston and a score of western cities drive thither with fine equipages
and jingling harness, halt, and look curiously for a minute or two at
the green turf of the dooryard and the crumbling brick walls of the
cottage site."

To go from Salem to Lenox was to contrast very forcibly the somewhat
oppressed spirits of historical association with the healthy grandeur
of nature. The books my father wrote here embrace this joy of
untheoried, peaceful, or gloriously perturbed life of sky and land.
Theory of plot or principle was as much beneath him as the
cobble-stones; from self-righteous harangues he turned as one who had
heard a divine voice that alone deserved to declare. He taught as
Nature does, always leading to thoughts of something higher than the
dictum of men, and nobler than their greatest beauty of action. He
said it was difficult for him to write in the presence of such a view
as the "little red house" commanded. It certainly must have been a
scene that expressed otherwise unutterable sublimity. But if my father
struggled to bring his human power forward in the presence of an
outlook that so reminded him of God, he did bring it forward there,
and we perceive the aroma and the color which his work could not have
gained so well in a town or a village covert.