Evidence: Nathaniel Hawthorne
In the early years of the 20th century, Nathaniel Hawthorne's novels had fallen into some obscurity. Thanks to a charismatic character, though, the novels made a reappearance--though somewhat changed. J. H. Castleman was a revered teacher of English in St. Louis who had a tidy sideline as an editor of classics for school editions. His edition was generally faithful, with less of the Bowdler than many of his contemporaries. The reissues became very common through the network of text acquisitions in American public schools, and much money was made.
Hawthorne's original publishers were a revered Boston house, Ticknor & Sons. Educational versions--plain bound, tough, and including various introductions and essays--outsold the originals substantially. Merrill, a New York publisher which specialized in large issues and reprints, was responsible for most of the work, with MacMillan also filling the demand.
Castleman's earliest educational edition was an anthology of Bryant; in letters, it's clear that Castleman and Bryant had a warm personal friendship. Bryant was very pleased with Castleman's work, and likely recommended him to Hawthorne's heirs for a similar treatment of "The House of the Seven Gables," which was the first of Castleman's Hawthorne editions, and which sold very well.
Castleman himself was leery of taking on "The Scarlet Letter." He had a contract to prepare several Shakespeare plays, and wrote to Merrill in 1909 that he was "dreadful busy." He also expressed to Bryant reservations about the Scarlet Letter's "prurient subject" and "unsuitability for students of less self-reliant stock, particularly Swedes and German Lutherans" who had begun to settle in St. Louis in large numbers.
Something happened to change his mind. Bryant alludes to it in a letter from Spring of 1910: "It's a hard spot I agree...but they will not let it drop and I fear I must counsel that you do what they want if you hope to maintain your work w. Merrill."
Later that year Castleman delivered his edition of The Scarlet Letter to Merrill, but they never brought out the book, probably because they feared that the wave of jingoistic conservatism sweeping the nation would not permit broad reading of a book built around an act of adultery. But the manuscripts were maintained, and eventually set for virtually all the public domain reprints. The novel text is unchanged because Castleman's omissions were never adopted—in 1933, Harvard's John Ritchie, upon finding that several of his students had read incomplete versions of the novel, famously described Castleman's as "the eunuch version."
But there was a change that became standard right under the noses of the American reading public. Hawthorne's famous introduction, the Custom House Sketch, began with an extended fly fishing metaphor. Presumably, under Castleman’s pen and at the direction of the Downies, the fly fishing reference was removed and replaced by a blander trope, along with some perhaps pointed language relying on a metaphor of frozen water.
There is no evidence that Hawthorne was an angler. Also, there is no direct evidence that the Downies ordered the expurgation of the fly-fishing reference from Hawthorne’s work. However, as we have seen, there is a considerable depth of circumstantial evidence that the Downies were behind it.
The Custom House Sketch is an autobiographical glimpse of Hawthorne; in fact, the passage in question directly addresses Hawthorne’s own hesitation to step into the focus of his work. Since it is distinct from the novel, the text has received little critical focus compared to the novel. This is the only reasonable explanation for the fact that the dueling editions of the text have not raised the attention of critics.
First, the original text as prepared by Hawthorne, from the Second Edition, Ticknor, 1860:
(Expurgations in bold face)
The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his line forth against the wind, the author presents his fly toward, not the many who will turn their noses aside from his offering and stop rising altogether, but the few who will consider each fly in turn, each a work of art though more in the mind of one than the other despite their better knowledge that it is a counterfeit of life. That is the offering of the true fisher of minds, in whom the personal is the truest pattern. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed, only and exclusively, to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, carefully dressed and wafted to the wider world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer’s own nature, and complete his drift of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But—as thoughts are calmed and utterance stilled, unless the speaker stand in some true regard to his audience—it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being alerted by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating the calming limits of the stream’s surface, whether it be cool and clear or frozen solid.
The current version of the Custom House Sketch:
The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him, better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed, only and exclusively, to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer’s own nature, and complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But—as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience—it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader’s rights or his own.