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XIII. THE Loss AND THE GAIN
This book was not designed as a biography, but is rather a portrait.And, to speak more carefully still, it is not so much this, as myconception of what a portrait of Hawthorne should be. For I cannot writewith the authority of one who had known him and had been formallyintrusted with the task of describing his life. On the other hand, I donot enter upon this attempt as a mere literary performance, but havebeen assisted in it by an inward impulse, a consciousness of sympathywith the subject, which I may perhaps consider a sort of inspiration. Myguide has been intuition, confirmed and seldom confuted by research.Perhaps it is even a favoring fact that I should never have seen Mr.Hawthorne; a personality so elusive as his may possibly yield its traitsmore readily to one who can never obtrude actual intercourse betweenhimself and the mind he is meditating upon. An honest report uponpersonal contact always has a value denied to the reviews ofafter-comers, yet the best criticism and biography is not always that ofcontemporaries.
Our first studies will have a biographical scope, because a certaingrouping of facts is essential, to give point to the view which I amendeavoring to present; and as Hawthorne's early life has hitherto beenbut little explored, much of the material used in the earlier chaptersis now for the first time made public. The latter portion of the careermay be treated more sketchily, being already better known; thoughpassages will be found throughout the essay which have been developedwith some fulness, in order to maintain a correct atmosphere,compensating any errors which mere opinions might lead to. Specialemphasis, then, must not be held to show neglect of points which myspace and scope prevent my commenting on. But the first outlinerequiring our attention involves a distant retrospect.
The history of Hawthorne's genius is in some sense a summary of all New
England history.
From amid a simple, practical, energetic community, remarkable for itsactivity in affairs of state and religion, but by no means given todreaming, this fair flower of American genius rose up unexpectedlyenough, breaking the cold New England sod for the emission of a lightand fragrance as pure and pensive as that of the arbutus in our woods,in spring. The flower, however, sprang from seed that rooted in the oldcolonial life of the sternly imaginative pilgrims and Puritans.Thrusting itself up