Two white horses pulled the hearse into Concord’s Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, a top-hatted driver at the reins. A band of mourners followed on foot as they made their way toward Authors’ Ridge.
Except for the bright sunshine, this scene wouldn’t seem out of place in a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. But it happened a mere twenty years ago, on June 26, 2006. That was the day Hawthorne and his wife and daughter were reunited after his death separated them 142 years earlier.
In 1860, Nathaniel Hawthorne and his family returned to Concord after living abroad for seven years. Now, back in the home they called The Wayside, the Hawthornes would rejoin their circle of literary friends.
By 1845, the careers of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Edgar Allan Poe were on very different tracks. Hawthorne was a struggling writer living in Concord, Massachusetts, while Poe was in New York City, a celebrated writer and literary critic known around the country. Yet, in the 1840s, the two men’s careers became briefly entwined.
On July 9, 1842, a small wedding took place at the bookstore of Elizabeth Peabody at 13 West Street in Boston. After a highly secretive three-year engagement, 38-year-old struggling novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne married 33-year-old Sophia Amelia Peabody, the younger sister of the bookstore owner.
When doing research, you occasionally come across a colossal mess that makes you think, “Wow! This is so inappropriate!” And you can’t wait to share it. This article is the result of one of those moments. Are you ready?
“There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning! And, through the partially frosted window-panes, I love to watch the gradual beginning of the storm.” So writes Nathaniel Hawthorne in his sketch “Snowflakes,” one of many where the author takes his readers into the winter season. First published in 1838 and collected in the second volume of his Twice-Told Tales in 1842, the sketch describes everything from a winter storm (“reverently welcomed by me, her true-born son, be New England’s winter”) to a children’s snowball fight (“What pitched battles worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains!”) to the gloom of a winter burial (“Oh how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of Mother Earth has no warmth for her poor child!”). No matter the season, it seems, Hawthorne’s thoughts were never too far from the grave.
In the summer of 1842, Concord was like any other New England town. Sitting 18 miles west of Boston, the town of 2,000 souls was still very rural. The railroad wouldn’t come through for another two years, and there was no telegraph yet; only the daily stagecoach and the post office connected Concord to the rest of the world.
In 1853, American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne crossed paths with the infamous clipper transport ship The Yorkshire. While the man and the ship led separate lives, each was entwined with the sea and their fates were destined to meet again years later in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s final hometown of Concord, Massachusetts. This is that story.
In the wild places of Concord linger old Puritan superstitions and Transcendental possibilities. We begin in the year 1620 when, bearing sea-weary Puritan separatists, the Mayflower arrived off Cape Cod’s coast revealing what Pilgrim leader William Bradford noted as “a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts.”
To the Puritans, the Wilderness was the devil’s territory. Satan would not linger in the exposed coastal regions where the Puritans first settled and kept him at bay with devout prayer, but he was always there, in the wild forests, the swamps, the unexplored places, tempting them to leave the seaside settlements of early Massachusetts and stray from righteousness.
If you were asked to supply a few words describing the American gothic fiction author Nathaniel Hawthorne, it’s probably safe to assume ‘funny’ would not be
among them.
Known for his dark romances full of guilt, torment, suffering, and sin, with nary a happy ending to be found, it seems quite improbable that anything even remotely humorous could emerge from this brooding cobbler of words.
