In the romances in which he is, by common consent, our greatest practitioner, to be placed first indeed of all who have written fiction of whatever kind on American soil, Hawthorne never forsakes—­subtle, spiritual, elusive, even intangible as he may seem—­the firm underfooting of mother earth.  His themes are richly human, his psychologic truth (the most modern note of realism) unerring in its accuracy and insight.  As part of his romantic endowment, he prefers to place plot and personages in the dim backward of Time, gaining thus in perspective and ampleness of atmosphere.  He has told us as much in the preface to “The House of The Seven Gables,” that wonderful study in subdued tone-colors.  That pronunciamento of a great artist (from which in an earlier chapter quotation has been made) should not be overlooked by one who essays to get a hint of his secret.  He is always exclusively engaged with questions of conscience and character; like George Meredith, his only interest is in soul-growth.  This is as true in the “Marble Faun” with its thought of the value of sin in the spiritual life, or in “The Blithedale Romance,” wherein poor Zenobia learns how infinitely hard it is for a woman to oppose the laws of society, as it is in the more obvious lesson of “The Scarlet Letter.”  In this respect the four romances are all of a piece:  they testify to their spiritual parentage.  “The Scarlet Letter,” if the greatest, is only so for the reason that the theme is deepest, most fundamental, and the by-gone New England setting most sympathetic to the author’s loving interest.  Plainly an allegory, it yet escapes the danger of becoming therefore poor fiction, by being first of all a study of veritable men and women, not lay-figures to carry out an argument.  The eyes of the imagination can always see Esther Prynne and Dimmesdale, honest but weak man of God, the evil Chillingworth and little Pearl who is all child, unearthly though she be, a symbol at once of lost innocence and a hope of renewed purity.  No pale abstractions these; no folk in fiction are more believed in:  they are of our own kindred with whom we suffer or fondly rejoice.  In a story so metaphysical as “The House of The Seven Gables,” full justice to which has hardly been done (it was Hawthorne’s favorite), while the background offered by the historic old mansion is of intention low-toned and dim, there is no obscurity, though plenty of innuendo and suggestion.  The romance is a noble specimen of that use of the vague which never falls into the confusion of indeterminate ideas.  The theme is startlingly clear:  a sin is shown working through generations and only to find expiation in the fresh health of the younger descendants:  life built on a lie must totter to its fall.  And the shell of all this spiritual seething—­the gabled Salem house—­may at last be purified and renovated for a posterity which, because it is not paralyzed by the dark past, can also start anew with hope and health, while every room of the old home is swept through and cleansed by the wholesome winds of heaven.