



Produced by Anne Soulard, Eric Eldred, John R. Bilderback
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










CONFESSIONS AND CRITICISMS

BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

    I. A PRELIMINARY CONFESSION
   II. NOVELS AND AGNOSTICISM
  III. AMERICANISM IN FICTION
   IV. LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN
    V. THE MORAL AIM IN FICTION
   VI. THE MAKER OF MANY BOOKS
  VII. MR. MALLOCK'S MISSING SCIENCE
 VIII. THEODORE WINTHROP'S WRITINGS
   IX. EMERSON AS AN AMERICAN
    X. MODERN MAGIC
   XI. AMERICAN WILD ANIMALS IN ART




CONFESSIONS AND CRITICISMS.




CHAPTER I.

A PRELIMINARY CONFESSION.


In 1869, when I was about twenty-three years old, I sent a couple of
sonnets to the revived _Putnam's Magazine_. At that period I had no
intention of becoming a professional writer: I was studying civil
engineering at the Polytechnic School in Dresden, Saxony. Years before,
I had received parental warnings--unnecessary, as I thought--against
writing for a living. During the next two years, however, when I was
acting as hydrographic engineer in the New York Dock Department, I
amused myself by writing a short story, called "Love and Counter-Love,"
which was published in _Harper's Weekly_, and for which I was paid
fifty dollars. "If fifty dollars can be so easily earned," I thought,
"why not go on adding to my income in this way from time to time?" I
was aided and abetted in the idea by the late Robert Carter, editor of
_Appletons' Journal_; and the latter periodical and _Harper's Magazine_
had the burden, and I the benefit, of the result. When, in 1872, I was
abruptly relieved from my duties in the Dock Department, I had the
alternative of either taking my family down to Central America to watch
me dig a canal, or of attempting to live by my pen. I bought twelve
reams of large letter-paper, and began my first work,--"Bressant." I
finished it in three weeks; but prudent counsellors advised me that it
was too immoral to publish, except in French: so I recast it, as the
phrase is, and, in its chastened state, sent it through the post to a
Boston publisher. It was lost on the way, and has not yet been found. I
was rather pleased than otherwise at this catastrophe; for I had in
those days a strange delight in rewriting my productions: it was,
perhaps, a more sensible practice than to print them. Accordingly, I
rewrote and enlarged "Bressant" in Dresden (whither I returned with my
family in 1872); but--immorality aside--I think the first version was
the best of the three. On my way to Germany I passed through London,
and there made the acquaintance of Henry S. King, the publisher, a
charming but imprudent man, for he paid me one hundred pounds for the
English copyright of my novel: and the moderate edition he printed is,
I believe, still unexhausted. The book was received in a kindly manner
by the press; but both in this country and in England some surprise and
indignation were expressed that the son of his father should presume to
be a novelist. This sentiment, whatever its bearing upon me, has
undoubtedly been of service to my critics: it gives them something to
write about. A disquisition upon the mantle of Nathaniel Hawthorne, and
an analysis of the differences and similarities between him and his
successor, generally fill so much of a notice as to enable the reviewer
to dismiss the book itself very briefly. I often used to wish, when,
years afterwards, I was myself a reviewer for the London _Spectator_,
that I could light upon some son of his father who might similarly
lighten my labors. Meanwhile, I was agreeably astonished at what I
chose to consider the success of "Bressant," and set to work to surpass
it in another romance, called (for some reason I have forgotten)
"Idolatry." This unknown book was actually rewritten, in whole or in
part, no less than seven times. _Non sum qualis eram_. For seven or
eight years past I have seldom rewritten one of the many pages which
circumstances have compelled me to inflict upon the world. But the
discipline of "Idolatry" probably taught me how to clothe an idea in
words.

By the time "Idolatry" was published, the year 1874 had come, and I was
living in London. From my note-books and recollections I compiled a
series of papers on life in Dresden, under the general title of "Saxon
Studies." Alexander Strahan, then editor of the _Contemporary Review_,
printed them in that periodical as fast as I wrote them, and they were
reproduced in certain eclectic magazines in this country,--until I
asserted my American copyright. Their publication in book form was
followed by the collapse of both the English and the American firm
engaging in that enterprise. I draw no deductions from that fact: I
simply state it. The circulation of the "Studies" was naturally small;
but one copy fell into the hands of a Dresden critic, and the manner in
which he wrote of it and its author repaid me for the labor of
composition and satisfied me that I had not done amiss.

After "Saxon Studies" I began another novel, "Garth," instalments of
which appeared from month to month in _Harper's Magazine_. When it had
run for a year or more, with no signs of abatement, the publishers felt
obliged to intimate that unless I put an end to their misery they
would. Accordingly, I promptly gave Garth his quietus. The truth is, I
was tired of him myself. With all his qualities and virtues, he could
not help being a prig. He found some friends, however, and still shows
signs of vitality. I wrote no other novel for nearly two years, but
contributed some sketches of English life to _Appletons' Journal_, and
produced a couple of novelettes,--"Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds" and
"Archibald Malmaison,"--which, by reason of their light draught, went
rather farther than usual. Other short tales, which I hardly care to
recall, belong to this period. I had already ceased to take pleasure in
writing for its own sake,--partly, no doubt, because I was obliged to
write for the sake of something else. Only those who have no reverence
for literature should venture to meddle with the making of it,--unless,
at all events, they can supply the demands of the butcher and baker
from an independent source.

In 1879, "Sebastian Strome" was published as a serial in _All the Year
Round_. Charley Dickens, the son of the great novelist, and editor of
the magazine, used to say to me while the story was in progress, "Keep
that red-haired girl up to the mark, and the story will do." I took a
fancy to Mary Dene myself. But I uniformly prefer my heroines to my
heroes; perhaps because I invent the former out of whole cloth, whereas
the latter are often formed of shreds and patches of men I have met.
And I never raised a character to the position of hero without
recognizing in him, before I had done with him, an egregious ass.
Differ as they may in other respects, they are all brethren in that;
and yet I am by no means disposed to take a Carlylese view of my actual
fellow-creatures.

I did some hard work at this time: I remember once writing for
twenty-six consecutive hours without pausing or rising from my chair;
and when, lately, I re-read the story then produced, it seemed quite as
good as the average of my work in that kind. I hasten to add that it
has never been printed in this country: for that matter, not more than
half my short tales have found an American publisher. "Archibald
Malmaison" was offered seven years ago to all the leading publishers in
New York and Boston, and was promptly refused by all. Since its recent
appearance here, however, it has had a circulation larger perhaps than
that of all my other stories combined. But that is one of the accidents
that neither author nor publisher can foresee. It was the horror of
"Archibald Malmaison," not any literary merit, that gave it vogue,--its
horror, its strangeness, and its brevity.

On Guy Fawkes's day, 1880, I began "Fortune's Fool,"--or "Luck," as it
was first called,--and wrote the first ten of the twelve numbers in
three months. I used to sit down to my table at eight o'clock in the
evening and write till sunrise. But the two remaining instalments were
not written and published until 1883, and this delay and its
circumstances spoiled the book. In the