Ch. 7 - Last Years - Page 2

in the
uninterruptedness of American prosperity which I have spoken of as the
religion of the old-fashioned American in general, and the
old-fashioned Democrat in particular. It was not a propitious time for
cultivating the Muse; when history herself is so hard at work,
fiction has little left to say. To fiction, directly, Hawthorne did
not address himself; he composed first, chiefly during the year 1862,
the chapters of which our _Our Old Home_ was afterwards made up. I
have said that, though this work has less value than his purely
imaginative things, the writing is singularly good, and it is well to
remember, to its greater honour, that it was produced at a time when
it was painfully hard for a man of Hawthorne's cast of mind to fix his
attention. The air was full of battle-smoke, and the poet's vision was
not easily clear. Hawthorne was irritated, too, by the sense of being
to a certain extent, politically considered, in a false position. A
large section of the Democratic party was not in good odour at the
North; its loyalty was not perceived to be of that clear strain which
public opinion required. To this wing of the party Franklin Pierce
had, with reason or without, the credit of belonging; and our author
was conscious of some sharpness of responsibility in defending the
illustrious friend of whom he had already made himself the advocate.
He defended him manfully, without a grain of concession, and described
the ex-President to the public (and to himself), if not as he was,
then as he ought to be. _Our Old Home_ is dedicated to him, and about
this dedication there was some little difficulty. It was represented
to Hawthorne that as General Pierce was rather out of fashion, it
might injure the success, and, in plain terms, the sale of his book.
His answer (to his publisher), was much to the point.

"I find that it would be a piece of poltroonery in me to
withdraw either the dedication or the dedicatory letter. My
long and intimate personal relations with Pierce render the
dedication altogether proper, especially as regards this
book, which would have had no existence without his
kindness; and if he is so exceedingly unpopular that his
name ought to sink the volume, there is so much the more
need that an old friend should stand by him. I cannot,
merely on account of pecuniary profit or literary
reputation, go back from what I have deliberately felt and
thought it right to do; and if I were to tear out the
dedication I should never look at the volume again without
remorse and shame. As for the literary public, it must
accept my book precisely as I think fit to give it, or let
it alone. Nevertheless I have no fancy for making myself a
martyr when it is honourably and conscientiously