Hawthorne | Page 9

fair scholar, but not a brilliant one; and it is very probable that
as the standard of scholarship at Bowdoin was not high, he graduated none the less
comfortably on this account. Mr. Lathrop is able to testify to the fact, by no means a
surprising one, that he wrote verses at college, though the few stanzas that the biographer
quotes are not such as to make us especially regret that his rhyming mood was a transient
one.
"The ocean hath its silent caves, Deep, quiet and alone. Though there be fury on the
waves, Beneath them there is none."
That quatrain may suffice to decorate our page. And in connection with his college days I
may mention his first novel, a short romance entitled Fanshawe, which was published in
Boston in 1828, three years after he graduated. It was probably also written after that
event, but the scene of the tale is laid at Bowdoin (which figures under an altered name),
and Hawthorne's attitude with regard to the book, even shortly after it was published, was
such as to assign it to this boyish period. It was issued anonymously, but he so repented
of his venture that he annihilated the edition, of which, according to Mr. Lathrop, "not
half a dozen copies are now known to be extant." I have seen none of these rare volumes,
and I know nothing of Fanshawe but what the writer just quoted relates. It is the story of
a young lady who goes in rather an odd fashion to reside at "Harley College" (equivalent
of Bowdoin), under the care and guardianship of Dr. Melmoth, the President of the
institution, a venerable, amiable, unworldly, and henpecked, scholar. Here she becomes
very naturally an object of interest to two of the students; in regard to whom I cannot do
better than quote Mr. Lathrop. One of these young men "is Edward Wolcott, a wealthy,
handsome, generous, healthy young fellow from one of the sea-port towns; and the other
Fanshawe, the hero, who is a poor but ambitious recluse, already passing into a decline
through overmuch devotion to books and meditation. Fanshawe, though the deeper nature
of the two, and intensely moved by his new passion, perceiving that a union between
himself and Ellen could not be a happy one, resigns the hope of it from the beginning.
But circumstances bring him into intimate relation with her. The real action of the book,
after the preliminaries, takes up only some three days, and turns upon the attempt of a
man named Butler to entice Ellen away under his protection, then marry her, and secure
the fortune to which she is heiress. This scheme is partly frustrated by circumstances, and
Butler's purpose towards Ellen thus becomes a much more sinister one. From this she is
rescued by Fanshawe, and knowing that he loves her, but is concealing his passion, she
gives him the opportunity and the right to claim her hand. For a moment the rush of
desire and hope is so great that he hesitates; then he refuses to take advantage of her

generosity, and parts with her for a last time. Ellen becomes engaged to Wolcott, who had
won her heart from the first; and Fanshawe, sinking into rapid consumption, dies before
his class graduates." The story must have had a good deal of innocent lightness; and it is
a proof of how little the world of observation lay open to Hawthorne, at this time, that he
should have had no other choice than to make his little drama go forward between the
rather naked walls of Bowdoin, where the presence of his heroine was an essential
incongruity. He was twenty-four years old, but the "world," in its social sense, had not
disclosed itself to him. He had, however, already, at moments, a very pretty writer's touch,
as witness this passage, quoted by Mr. Lathrop, and which is worth transcribing. The
heroine has gone off with the nefarious Butler, and the good Dr. Melmoth starts in pursuit
of her, attended by young Wolcott.
"'Alas, youth, these are strange times,' observed the President, 'when a doctor of divinity
and an undergraduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his squire, in search of a stray
damsel. Methinks I am an epitome of the church militant, or a new species of polemical
divinity. Pray Heaven, however, there be no such encounter in store for us; for I utterly
forgot to provide myself with weapons.'
"'I took some thought for that matter, reverend knight,' replied Edward, whose
imagination was highly tickled by Dr. Melmoth's chivalrous comparison.
"'Aye, I see that you have girded on a sword,' said the divine. 'But wherewith shall I
defend myself? my hand being empty except of this golden-headed staff, the gift of Mr.
Langton.'
"'One