Hawthorne and His Circle. Julian Hawthorne

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       Julian Hawthorne

      Hawthorne and His Circle

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066214050

Table of Contents

       INTRODUCTION

       I

       II

       III

       IV

       V

       VI

       VII

       VIII

       IX

       X

       XI

       XII

       XIII

       XIV

       XV

       XVI

       XVII

       XVIII

       XIX

      ILLUSTRATIONS (not available to this edition) NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (From a crayon drawing by Samuel Rowse)

       BIRTHPLACE OF NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE AT SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS

       HERMAN MELVILLE

       JAMES T. FIELDS

       THE WAYSIDE (Showing Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife)

       EDWIN P. WHIPPLE

       JAMES T. FIELDS, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, AND WILLIAM D. TICKNOR

       RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES

       ROBERT BROWNING

       FRANCIS BANNOCH

       REV. WILLIAM HENRY CHANNING, 1855

       MARIA MITCHELL

       WILLIAM WETMORE STORY

       PENCIL SKETCHES IN ITALY, BY MRS. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

       THE MARBLE FAUN

       HIRAM POWERS

INTRODUCTION

       Table of Contents

      Inheritance of friendships—Gracious giants—My own good

       fortune—My father the central figure—What did his gift to

       me cost him?—A revelation in Colorado—Privileges make

       difficulties—Lights and shadows of memory—An informal

       narrative—Contrast between my father's life and mine.

      The best use we can make of good fortune is to share it with our fellows. Those to whom good things come by way of inheritance, however, are often among the latest to comprehend their own advantage; they suppose it to be the common condition. And no doubt I had nearly arrived at man's estate before it occurred to me that the lines of few fishers of men were cast in places so pleasant as mine. I was the son of a man of high desert, who had such friends as he deserved; and these companions and admirers of his gave to me in the beginning of my days a kindly welcome and encouragement generated from their affection and reverence for him. Without doing a stroke of work for it, I found myself early in the enjoyment of a principality of good will and fellowship—a species of freemasonry, I might call it, though the secret was patent enough—for the rights in which, unaided, I might have contended my lifetime long in vain. Men and women whose names are consecrated apart in the dearest thoughts of thousands were familiars and playmates of my childhood; they supported my youth and bade my manhood godspeed. But to me, for a long while, the favor of these gracious giants of mind and character seemed agreeable indeed, but nothing out of the ordinary; my tacit presumption was that other children as well as I could if they would walk hand in hand with Emerson along the village street, seek in the meadows for arrow-heads with Thoreau, watch Powers thump the brown clay of the "Greek Slave," or listen to the voice of Charlotte Cushman, which could sway assembled thousands, modulate itself to tell stories to the urchin who leaned, rapt, against her knees. Were human felicity so omnipresent as a happy child imagines it, what a world would this be!

      In time, my misapprehension was corrected, rather, I think, through the application to it of cold logic than by any rude awakening. I learned of my riches not by losing them—the giants did not withdraw their graciousness—but by comparing the lot of others with my own. And yet, to tell the truth—perhaps I might better leave it untold; only in these chapters, especially, I will not begin with reserves—to say truth, then, my world, during my father's lifetime, and afterwards for I will not say how long, was divided into two natural parts, my father being one of them, and everybody else the other. Hence I was led to regard the parties of the latter part, rich or poor, giants or pygmies, as being, after all, of much the same stature and value. The brightness (in the boy's estimation) of the paternal figure rendered distinctions between other brightnesses unimportant. The upshot was, in short, that I inclined to the opinion that while compassion was unquestionably due to other children for not having a father like mine, yet in other respects my condition was not egregiously superior to theirs. They might not know the Brownings or the Julia Ward Howes; but then, very likely, the Smiths and the Joneses, whom they did know, were nearly as good.

      After fifty years, of course, such prepossessions yield to experience. My father was the best friend I ever had, and he will always stand in my estimation distinct from all other friends and persons; but I can now recognize that in addition to the immeasurable debt I owe him for being to me what he was in his own person, he bestowed upon me a privilege also immeasurable in the hospitality of these shining ones who were his intimates. Did the gift cost him nothing? Nothing, in one sense. But, again, what does it cost a man to walk upright and cleanly during the years of his pilgrimage: to deal justly with all, and charitably: diligently to cultivate and develop every natural endowment: always to seek truth, tell it, and vindicate it: to discharge to the utmost