Clear understanding of anything from a
writer with so much of the boomerang in his mind was not to be expected.
But neither would one easily guess the revolting vulgarity with which he
was about to view "The Scarlet Letter." He could discover in it nothing
but a deliberate attempt to attract readers by pandering to the basest
taste. He imagines that Hawthorne "selects the intrigue of an adulterous
minister, as the groundwork of his ideal" of Puritan times, and asks,
"Is the French era actually begun in our literature?" Yet, being in some
points, or professing to be, an admirer of the author, "We are glad," he
says, "that 'The Scarlet Letter' is, after all, little more than an
experiment, and need not be regarded as a step necessarily fatal." And
in order to save Mr. Hawthorne, and stem the tide of corruption, he is
willing to point out his error. Nevertheless, he is somewhat at a loss
to know where to puncture the heart of the offence, for "there is a
provoking concealment of the author's motive," he confesses, "from the
beginning to the end of the story. We wonder what he would be at:
whether he is making fun of all religion, or only giving a fair hint of
the essential sensualism of enthusiasm. But, in short, we are astonished
at the kind of incident he has selected for romance." The phraseology,
he finds, is not offensive: but this is eminently diabolical, for "the
romance never hints the shocking words that belong to its things, but,
like Mephistopheles, hints that the arch-fiend himself is a very
tolerable sort of person, if nobody would call him Mr.
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