Susan Cheever notes that, although Hawthorne and Emerson were a part of the same literary and intellectual movement, they "never really liked each other. Emerson thought Hawthorne's writing too much about the past. Hawthorne thought Emerson too much of the Great Man about Concord."
Emerson was quite critical of Hawthorne in his journals as well.
September 18, 1839: “It is no easy matter to write a dialogue. Cooper, Sterling, Dickens, and Hawthorne cannot.”
September 1842: “Nathaniel Hawthorne’s reputation as a writer is a very pleasing fact, because his writing is not good for anything, and this is a tribute to the man.”
September 1842: “September 27 was a fine day, and Hawthorne and I set forth on a walk….
Our walk had no incidents. It needed none, for we were in excellent spirits, had much conversation, for we were both old collectors who had never had opportunity before to show each other our cabinets, so that we could have filled with matter much longer days.”
June 10, 1843: “Hawthorne and I talked of the number of superior young men we have seen. H. said, that he had seen several from whom he had expected much, but they had not distinguished themselves; and he had inferred that he must not expect a popular success from such; he had in nowise lost his confidence in their power.”
May 1846: “Hawthorne invites his readers too much into his study, opens the process before them. As if the confectioner should say to his customers, ‘Now, let us make the cake’.”
May 24, 1864: “Yesterday, May 23, we buried Hawthorne in Sleepy Hollow, in a pomp of sunshine and verdure, and gentle winds. James Freeman Clarke read the service in the church and at the grave. Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, Agassiz, Hoar, Dwight, Whipple, Norton, Alcott, Hillard, Fields, Judge Thomas, and I attended the hearse as pallbearers. Franklin Pierce was with the family. The church was copiously decorated with white flowers delicately arranged. The cropse was unwillingly shown, - only a few moments to this company of his friends. But it was noble and serene in its aspect, - nothing amiss, - a calm and powerful head. A large company filled the church and the grounds of the cemetery. All was so bright and quiet that pain or mourning was hardly suggested, and Holmes said to me that it looked like a happy meeting.
Clarke in the church said that Hawthorne had done more justice than any other to the shades of life, shown a sympathy with the crime in our nature, and, like Jesus, was the friend of sinners.
I thought there was a tragic element in the event, that might be more fully rendered, - in the painful solitude of the man, which, I suppose, could not longer be endured, and he died of it.
I have found in his death a surprise and disappointment. I thought him a greater man than any of his works betray, that there was still a great deal of work in him, and that he might one day show a purer power. Moreover, I have felt sure of him in his neighbourhood, and in his necessities of sympathy and intelligence, - that I could well wait his time, - his unwillingness and caprice, - and might one day conquer a friendship. It would have been a happiness, doubtless to both of us, to have come into habits of unreserved intercourse. It was easy to talk with him, - there were no barriers, - only, he said so little, that I talked too much, and stopped only because, as he gave no indications, I feared to exceed. He showed no egotism or self-assertion, rather a humility, and, at one time, a fear that he had written himself out. One day, when I found him on the top of his hill, in the woods, he paced back the path to his house, and said ‘This path is the only remembrance of me that will remain.’ Now it appears that I waited too long.”
Read more about Hawthorne here.
Griffin, Gerald R. "American Bloomsbury: Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau: Their Lives, Their Loves, Their Work." The New England Quarterly. 80.4 (2007): 721-723.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. The Heart of Emerson's Journals. Ed. Bliss Perry. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1926. Print.