ve. We fell into
talk about his future prospects, and he was, as I feared I should find
him, in a very desponding mood. 'Now,' said I, 'is the time for you to
publish, for I know during these years in Salem you must have got
something ready for the press.' 'Nonsense,' said he, 'what heart had I
to write anything, when my publishers have been so many years trying
to sell a small edition of the _Twice-told Tales_.' I still pressed
upon him the good chances he would have now with something new. 'Who
would risk publishing a book for me, the most unpopular writer in
America?' 'I would,' said I, 'and would start with an edition of 2,000
copies of anything you would write.' 'What madness!' he exclaimed.
'Your friendship for me gets the better of your judgment.' 'No, no!'
he continued, 'I have no money to indemnify a publisher's losses on my
account.' I looked at my watch, and found that the train would be soon
starting for Boston, and I knew that there was not much time to lose
in trying to discover what had been his literary work during these
last few years in Salem. I remember that I pressed him to reveal to me
what he had been writing. He shook his head and gave me to understand
that he had produced nothing. At that moment I caught sight of a
bureau or set of drawers near where we were sitting; and immediately
it occurred to me that hidden in that article of furniture was a story
or stories by the author of _Twice-told Tales_; and I became so
positive of it that I charged him vehemently with the fact. He seemed
surprised, I thought, but shook his head again; and I rose to take my
leave, begging him not to come into the cold entry, saying I would
come back and see him again in a few days. I was hurrying down the
stairs when he called after me from the chamber, asking me to stop a
moment. Then quickly stepping into the entry with a roll of MS. in his
hands, he said: 'How in heaven's name did you know this thing was
there? As you found me out, take what was written, and tell me, after
you get home and have time to read it, if it is good for anything. It
is either very good or very bad--I don't know which!' On my way to
Boston I read the germ of _The Scarlet Letter_."

Hawthorne's original plan was to write a number of stories, of which
this particular one was to be the longest. He was going to call his
book of tales, _Old-Time Legends: together with Sketches, Experimental
and Ideal_,--a title which Woodberry calls "ghostly wit