Part 12

It was to this same house that James T. Fields came in the following winter and found Hawthorne in despondent mood sitting in the upper room huddled over a small stove. The preceding half-year had been the most trying period in his life. Discouragement over the loss of his position and the prospect of meager returns for his literary work was followed by serious pecuniary embarrassment, for Mrs. Hawthorne's store of gold was, after all, a tiny one. The illness and death of his mother had left him in a nervous state from the great strain of emotion, and this was followed by the sickness of every member of the household, himself included. The story of how Fields left the house with the manuscript of "The Scarlet Letter" in his pocket is well known. The immediate success of the novel proved to be the tonic that restored the author to health and happiness, and when he left Mall Street in the following spring he was no longer the "obscurest man of letters in America."

The old Salem Custom House is the best-known building in the town. As we stood before it and looked upon the great eagle above the portico, with "a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw" and a "truculent attitude" that seemed "to threaten mischief to the inoffensive community," it seemed as though we might fairly expect the former surveyor, or his ghost, to open the door and walk down the old granite steps.

I have already mentioned the apparent indifference toward Hawthorne of a certain old citizen of Salem--a feeling which characterizes a large part of the population, particularly those whose ancestors have lived longest in the town. One would naturally expect Salem to be proud of her most distinguished citizen, to delight in honoring him, and to extend a cordial welcome to thousands of strangers who come to pay him homage. Shakespeare is the principal asset of Stratford-on-Avon, Scott of Melrose, Burns of Ayr, and Wordsworth of the English Lakes. Every citizen is ready to talk of them. Not so of Hawthorne and Salem. The town is quite independent, and would hold up its head if there had never been any Hawthorne. The later generation, it is true, recognize his greatness, but the prejudice of the older families is sufficient to check any manifestation of enthusiasm.

This old Custom House upon which we are looking furnishes the explanation. When Hawthorne took possession as surveyor, he found offices ornamented with rows of sleepy officials, sitting in old-fashioned chairs which were tilted on their hind legs against the walls. These old gentlemen made an irresistible appeal to his sense of humor, such that he could scarcely have avoided the impulse to write a description of their whimsicalities. After his "decapitation" he yielded to the impulse and prepared in the best of good humor the amusing description of his former associates in the "Introduction" to "The Scarlet Letter." It brought the wrath of Salem upon his head. These old fellows did not fancy being caricatured as "wearisome old souls," who "seemed to have flung away all the golden grain of practical wisdom which they had enjoyed so many opportunities of harvesting, and most carefully to have stored their memories with the husks." Especially enraged were the family of the Old Inspector of whom Hawthorne said nothing worse than that he remembered all the good dinners he had eaten. "There were flavors on his palate that had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast," said Hawthorne with fine humor. "He called one of them a pig," said a Salemite to me, indignantly.

After all, Salem never really knew Hawthorne. Though the town was his birthplace, he had little liking for it, and was seldom there. During the four years of his incumbency of the Custom House, he kept aloof from the townspeople, most of whom had no knowledge whatever of his literary efforts. When the fame of "The Scarlet Letter" had made Hawthorne's name a familiar one throughout America and England, the author was no longer a resident of Salem, for immediately after the publication of his first and most famous novel, he was glad to seek relief from the gloomy memories of Mall Street in the fresh mountain air of the Berkshires.

Hawthorne, though apparently glad to escape, still allowed his thought to dwell in Salem, for in the same year of the completion of "The Scarlet Letter" and his removal to Lenox, Massachusetts, he began "The House of the Seven Gables." The identity of this house has long been a matter of curiosity. Three old Salem houses, two of which have since disappeared, have been pointed out as originals, the authenticity of all of which has been denied by George Parsons Lathrop, Hawthorne's son-in-law, who maintains that the author's statement, that he built his house only of "materials long in use for constructing castles in the air," must be taken literally.

It must not be supposed that an author need ever describe such a building in detail or provide for its future identification. He may do as Scott often did, put the details of three or four houses into one structure, taking his material, not "out of the air," but from recollections of many places he has seen. It does not detract from the supposed "original" to find that the author has made material, even radical, departures from the original plan. The real point of interest is to know whether the old landmark suggested anything to the author, and if so, how much.

To those who follow this line of reasoning, an old house at the foot of Turner Street, now commonly known as "The House of the Seven Gables," has many points of interest. It is a weather-stained old building dating back to 1669, and contains so many gables that you are reasonably content to accept seven as the number, though I believe it has eight, not counting the one over the rear porch, recently added.

The identification of this house as the one which, more than any other, suggested to Hawthorne the idea of a house of seven gables, rests upon two facts. The first is that in 1782 it came into the possession of Captain Samuel Ingersoll, whose wife was a niece of Hawthorne's grandfather. It passed, later, to their only surviving daughter, Susannah. Her portrait, which now hangs in the parlor of the old house, shows that, as a young woman, she was not unattractive. An unfortunate love affair caused her to withdraw from society and to live a life of solitude in the old house, from which all male visitors were rigidly excluded. An exception seems to have been made in favor of her cousin Nathaniel Hawthorne, who, it is said, was a frequent visitor and listened with interest to the legends of the house as told by his elder cousin.

The second fact of identification rests upon more recent evidence. The building was purchased in 1908 by a generous resident of Salem and turned into a settlement house. This lady, who possesses the highest antiquarian instincts, determined to restore the house to its original form. In doing so she discovered traces of four gables which had been removed. These, with three that remained, made the desired seven, but, unfortunately, about the same time an old plan was unearthed which proved that the house at one time must have had eight gables! So the house has been restored to its full quota of eight. When Hawthorne was calling there it had only three gables, and his elderly kinswoman must have told traditions of the time when it had seven or eight, as the case may be. And so the question of gables becomes as bewildering as Tom Sawyer's aunt's spoons.

Aside from this not very profitable speculation, the house is an interesting survival of the time when Salem was a seaport town of some importance. A secret staircase has been reconstructed according to the recollections of the man who took it down a quarter of a century ago. It opens by a secret spring in a panel of the wall in the third-story front room, now known as "Clifford's chamber," and ascends through a false fireplace in the dining-room. It will be remembered how Clifford mysteriously disappeared from his room, and as mysteriously reappeared in the parlor where Judge Pyncheon sat in the easy-chair, dead. Perhaps he came down this secret stairway, though Hawthorne forgot to mention it.

A little shop, where real gingerbread "Jim Crows" are sold, makes the present "House of the Seven Gables" seem real, so that when the bell tinkles as you open the door, you would not be at all surprised if Hepzibah Pyncheon herself should appear, entering from the quaint little New England kitchen on the right. A sunny chamber upstairs now called "Phoebe's room," and a pleasant little garden in the rear, still further heighten the illusion and make one feel that if this is not the real "House of the Seven Gables," it certainly ought to be.

The conditions under which "The House of the Seven Gables" was written were quite the reverse of those which brought forth "The Scarlet Letter." Instead of obscurity, ill health, and financial difficulties, the author was now in the full flush of his fame, reveling in the friendship of the most distinguished men of letters, enjoying the best of health himself, and happy in the consciousness that his dear wife was also well, and living amid the most delightful surroundings, free from care and taking no anxious thought for the morrow.

The people of Salem are now preparing to make ample amends for any neglect of Hawthorne in the past. A committee of prominent citizens has been at work for several years upon a plan to erect a handsome statue upon the Common, the design for which has been made by a well-known artist, and a portion of the funds collected. With this monument before them, we may reasonably hope that future generations will be able to forgive the frankness which irritated their ancestors, though it was kindly meant, and eventually open their hearts to adopt Hawthorne as their very own, just as Stratford does Shakespeare, acknowledging the full extent of their obligation for the luster which his brilliant genius has shed upon their town.

III

PORTSMOUTH

If Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day and could enter the front door of his grandfather's house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange feeling of suddenly renewed youth, for his eyes would rest upon the same rooms and many of the same furnishings as those which greeted him in 1849, when he returned to the old house, a lad of twelve, to enter upon those happy boyish experiences so pleasantly related in "The Story of a Bad Boy." And then, as he passed from room to room and gazed once more upon the old familiar sights, he would experience a deeper and richer joy--a sense of pride, mingled with love and gratitude, for this unique and splendid tribute to his memory, from his faithful wife and many loyal friends.

In the summer of 1907, following the death of Mr. Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of that year, it was suggested in a local newspaper of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old Bailey house, where "Tom Bailey" lived with his "Grandfather Nutter," should be purchased by the town and refurnished as a permanent memorial to its distinguished son. The response was instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial Association was at once formed, and a fund of ten thousand dollars was raised by popular subscriptions, in sums varying from one dollar to one thousand dollars. The house, which had fallen into alien hands and had not been kept in good repair, was purchased and restored to its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave back all that had been taken away at the death of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, the restored house was formally dedicated by a distinguished representation of Aldrich's friends, including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel L. Clemens, and many others whose names are well known.

The "Nutter" house, or the "Aldrich Memorial" as it is officially known, impresses one with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, so difficult has it been to secure a sufficient number of relics to furnish the rooms; others impress me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; others have the cold, touch-me-not aspect of a museum; and some are overloaded with busts, pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an impression of the greatness of the former occupant. The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off to the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigail and Kitty Collins, after "tidying" the rooms to perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the neighbors. The visitor has a feeling that real people are living there and is surprised to learn that at a certain hour each day the attendants go away and lock it up for the night.

Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband took her there for the first time, as his bride, the old house made such a strong impression upon her mind that when she came to restore the place, many years afterward, she remembered distinctly where every piece of furniture used to stand. The perfection of her work is seen in the hundreds of little touches--the shawl thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, the fan lying on the sofa, the books on the center table, the music on the old-fashioned square piano, grandfather's Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table, the embroidered coverlet in the "blue-chintz room," the netting over Aunt Abigail's bed, the clothing in the closets, and even the night-clothes carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. I fancy the most loving touches of all were given to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey slept. There is the little window out of which Tom swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins's clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o'clock, and tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night before "the Fourth." The "pretty chintz curtain" may not be the one Tom knew, but it is very like it; and there is a very good imitation of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted two hundred and sixty-eight birds, each individual one of which he admired, although no such bird ever existed. He knew the exact number because he once counted them when laid up with a black eye and dreamed that the whole flock flew out of the window. The little bed has "a patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat," and across it lies a clean white waistcoat waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-morrow would be Sunday. Above the head of the bed are the two oak shelves, holding the very books that Tom loved. In front of the window is the "high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coffin," and on the right "a chest of carved mahogany drawers" and "a looking-glass in a filigreed frame." A little swallow-tailed coat, once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey is expected home to-night!

Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow should be stormy. "Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, weary with the march of life." One slight liberty has been taken, in placing "The Rivermouth Theater" in one corner of the attic, next to Kitty Collins's room, but this may be forgiven in view of the fact that the barn, where the "Theater" really was, has disappeared.

In our anxiety to see Tom's room and the attic, we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms with more leisure.

In the front of the house, on the second floor, and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, is Grandfather Nutter's room. It was too near for Tom's convenience, and that is why the young gentleman lowered himself from the window by a rope--at least, that was the reason he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without awakening him. Still he would have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail's room at the head of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose of "hot drops," which his aunt considered a certain cure for any known ailment, from a black eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain Nutter, who "swooped down on him," at the funeral of the captain's wife, "with a bandbox in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the other." Though apparently intending to stay only a few days, she decided that her presence was indispensable to the captain, and whether he wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might have stayed longer had not death released her from the self-imposed duty.

On the right of Tom's room is "the blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed to penetrate." But it was "thrown open and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses" on the occasion of Nelly Glentworth's visit, and a very delightful room Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, under the skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich.

Across the hall from Aunt Abigail's room is the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair by the window, with a Bible and candle conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the visitor every opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of mind before taking a plunge into the depths of the snow-white mountain of feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous height for his comfort.

Descending now to the main floor (for we are inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual order), we step into the large corner room at our left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven to distraction by the monotonous click-click of Aunt Abigail's knitting-needles, but sometimes happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going to sleep over his newspaper and setting fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he held in his hand.

Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom open except on Sundays, and was "pervaded by a strong smell of center table." Here again we fancy Tom sitting in one corner, "crushed." All his favorite books are banished to the sitting-room closet until Monday morning. There is nothing to do and nothing to read except Baxter's "Saint's Rest." "Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished." It was no fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass andirons from which a wonderful amount of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano in one corner and some shelves of books in another were capable of providing boundless entertainment, had the room been accessible on any other day than Sunday.

Passing down through the hall we enter a door on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of July, by reading from the Rivermouth "Barnacle" an account of the burning of the stage-coach the night before? "Miscreants unknown," read the grandfather, while Tom's hair stood on end. "Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them," continued the old gentleman, while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And the sly old fox knew all about it and had already settled Tom's share of the damages!

We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we ought to have visited first, as everybody else does. A more delightful New England kitchen could scarcely be imagined. This was the only place where Sailor Ben felt at home--and no wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room and found relief in Kitty Collins's funny Irish stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around the table while he spun his yarn "all about a man as has made a fool of hisself."

This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house of to-day--every room brings back memories of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are so perfect that we should not have been surprised if any one of these old friends had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon their personalities and upon "The Story of a Bad Boy." The illusion is so complete that we scarcely gave a thought to the author of the tale until we entered the Memorial building at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished and with him all the other ghosts of the old house. We stood in the presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multitude of delightful tales, and the man of genial personality. Here, in a single large room, are brought together the priceless autographs, manuscripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the little table on which he wrote "The Story of a Bad Boy," and there are cases containing countless presents, trophies, and expressions of regard from his friends. The walls are hung with manuscripts, framed in connection with portraits of their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have them. At the end of the room is a handsome oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led his family to bring together the material for a memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and tasteful arrangement of details.

Even the garden in the rear of the house is made to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for here are growing all the flowers mentioned in his poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting harmoniously their richness of color in one graceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of his verse.