nny, for which the children scrambled."

LIV

HAWTHORNE AND THE SCARLET LETTER

On June 8, 1849, Hawthorne walked out of the Salem Custom House--a man
without a job. Taylor's Whig administration had come in, so our
Democratic friend, Mr. Hawthorne, walked out. The job he left was not
in our modern eyes a very lucrative one, it was worth $1,200 a year
and Hawthorne had had it for three years. But he went out "mad," for
he knew he had not meddled in politics and he thought that as an
author--even if he was the "most obscure man of letters in
America"--he was entitled to some consideration.

And then there were the wife and children! As he walked home to tell
them the doleful news, he was much depressed by thoughts of them. He
had paid his old debts; but he had saved nothing. He seemed to lack
money, friends, and influence. He had written to a friend in
Boston,--"I shall not stand upon my dignity; that must take care of
itself.... Do not think anything too humble to be mentioned to me. The
intelligence has just reached me, and Sophia has not yet heard it. She
will bear it like a woman,--that is to say better than a man." What a
noble tribute to woman's fortitude! Hawthorne's belief in the
sustaining love of his wife reminds us of a tradition which says that
he never read a letter from his wife without first washing his hands.
To him the act was sacred, and like a priest of old before handling
the symbols of love he performed the rites of purification.

His son tells us how the wife met the news with which he greeted her
on his arrival at home, "that he had left his head behind." She
exclaimed, "Oh, then you can write your book!" And when he with the
prudence of a practical man wanted to know where the bread and rice
were to come from while he was writing the book, she like all good
wives--of olden times, at least--brought forth a "pile of gold" which
she had saved from the household weekly expenses. When the pile of
gold had been subjected to mathematical accuracy it dwindled to $150,
but it was enough to tide over immediate wants.

It was in the early winter that James T. Fields, the publisher who
plays such a prominent part in the early history of American
literature, descended upon the quiet Salem household like the
"godmother in a fairy story." Fields has told the story of his visit:
"I found him alone in a chamber over the sitting-room of the dwelling;
and as the day was cold, he was hovering near a sto