While Hawthorne had been quietly writing in the "most delightful
little nook of a study", Mr. Polk had been elected President, and Mr.
Bancroft, in the cabinet, did not forget his old friend, the surveyor
in the custom-house. There came suggestions and offers of various
attractions. Still loving New England, would he tarry there, or, as
inspector of woods and forests in some far-away island of the southern
sea, some hazy strip of distance seen from Florida, would he taste the
tropics? He meditated all the chances, without immediately deciding.
Gathering up his household gods, he passed out of the Old Manse as its
heir entered, and before the end of summer was domesticated in the
custom-house of his native town of Salem. This was in the year 1846.
Upon leaving the Old Manse he published the _Mosses_, announcing that
it was the last collection of tales he should put forth. Those who
knew him and recognized his value to our literature trembled lest this
was the last word from one who spoke only pearls and rubies. It was a
foolish fear. The sun must shine, the sea must roll, the bird must
sing, and the poet write. During his life in Salem, of which the
introduction to _The Scarlet Letter_ describes the official aspect, he
wrote that romance. It is inspired by the spirit of the place. It
presents more vividly than any history the gloomy picturesqueness of
early New England life. There is no strain in our literature so
characteristic or more real than that which Hawthorne had successfully
attempted in several of his earlier sketches, and of which _The
Scarlet Letter_ is the great triumph. It became immediately popular,
and directly placed the writer of stories for a small circle among the
world's masters of romance.

Times meanwhile changed, and presidents with them. General Taylor was
elected, and the Salem collector retired. It is one of the romantic
points of Hawthorne's quiet life that its changes have been so