Memories of Hawthorne

r. Mansfield-writes to Mrs. Hawthorne for the pleasure of the thing; and one fairly hears the drone

anuary

et my whimsical nature find some other occupation; and the "Up-Country Letters" may lie as they are, not unlikely for the next thousand years. I am absorbed and busied with Bishop Butler's Analogy, which is all things to me at this present; a

gold sunsets," etc.; and I am glad to get so good an authority for the fact of mixed colors in sunrising. In my little book, I speak somewhere of "the silver and rose tint flame of the morning." . . . My wife, who sends her love, has taken possession of your note, and is to keep it some

MANS

Janu

y in a world of his own as not to be pleased at knowing that his friends recognize as such any impertinence that may be said about him. In this case also it comes home to the question which I submitted in the "Up-Country Letters," which I sent you. Now I will say (and I venture to say that I am one of twenty thousand respectable people that would say the same) that t

tter, and believe me, wi

MANS

es of every-day

like a goldfish close to the horizon. I began to bui

with the children, to meet papa. I told

the children along the road, tel

the third edition of the "Twice-Told Tal

id; the soft hues of the mountains, the slumbering sunshine, and the sparkling snow which towards sunset became violet color. He stooped down to lap up snow, and shouted, "O

ould begin to read his book ["The House of

eading during which I can ponder and muse. The reading closed with a legend, so graphic, so powerful, with such a strain of grace and witchery through it, that I seemed to be in a trance. Such a vis

nly of Maule's Well. The sunset

How transparent are all events in life to my husband's awful power of insight

he has no more as yet to read. This morning Julian sat down in a little chair and took his father's foot on his lap. "I want to be papa's toadstool!" said Julian, making one of his funniest mistakes. My husb

to find him, and there he was, grinding oats. The children were much grieved and

or. I was rejoiced to see her. She stayed two hours. In

with the children, and had a delightful talk. In the evening Anna and Caroline Tappan came; and we had cham

ning my husband

all over to myself "T

" in ma

w! Anna Greene only began the glories of arrivals. I cannot tell how glad I was to see h

e vocal by him. He reads so wonderfully. Each person is so distinct; his tones are so various, apt, and r

which was to appoint him an honorary member of the Prescott Lite

ven Gables," which I read with fresh interes

ke, and across it, and Julian and I on the sunn

ut on the ice-bound lake. He read al

ay. She is seven year

lens

graved heads of Mr. Hawthorne

Mr. Hawthorne's portr

letter from Elizabeth Bartol. My

hampagne foam, manufactured of beaten eggs, loaf sugar, and champagne. He invite

to a heart-breaking cry. To comfort him, I told him I would read him "The Bear and the Skrattel," and "Sam, the Cockerel," which made him laugh through floods of tears.

wn pet lamb. It is now snowing thickly. I cannot see the Lake; no farther than the fringe of trees upon the banks. The lambs look anything but snow-white, half covered with snowflakes. Julian ran for his slate, and drew one pretty well. Then Midnight came [dog, man, or cat is not known] and frightened them away, and Julian

were alone on a great mountain, without papa!" I have clipped off the ends of his long curls; and all of these he has tenderly shut up in a domino-box, to distribute among his friends hereafter. After his dinner, I dressed him to go out. He hopes to meet his father, and get into the wagon. But before he went out I took down the "Twice-Told Tales" from the shelf, to look at the e

is sends a let

March

ntil now to tell you that I had returned, had I not wished to tell you at the same time something of the delights that kept me so long away. For, like a young lover, I think, of course, that no on

mall paper, only that I may not send you preserved in cold ink those frui

y to my memory; alas! with nothing summery now, I fancy, but your rage at the equinoctial. Does Mrs. Hawthorne yet remember that she sent me a golden key to the stu

E W.

from friends there w

bri

ead your "Twice-Told Tales" with great wonderment and delight, "desire you of more

LLOW.

e novelist, lived some

e betwee

, MASS., 4t

of the minors and four of the majors. . . . Of what I have read, I am inclined to say, "the devil a barrel a better herring." All contain great inaccuracies of style and grammar; and few display a trace of original thought. As far as I have gone, it is all desk-fancy and "book larning"-parrotism, in short. . . . I was exceedingly sorry

r, G. P.

thorne w

happy about it all, but thought I would not add to the trouble by complaining, as I did not see how I could remedy the matter. I never intend to have a guest again for so long as father stayed, on Mr. Hawthorne's account. It fairly destroys both his artistic and his domestic life. He has no other life-never visiting, and having not

e substantial friendship

July 24

. As to the gin, I cannot speak of its quality, for the bottle has not yet been opened, and will probably remain corked until cold weather, when I mean to tak

from the consideration that she is to be the daughter of my age-the comfort (at least, so it is to be hoped) of my declining years-the last child whom I expect or intend to have. What a sad account you give of your solitude, in your letter! I am not likely ever to have the feeling of loneliness which you express; and I most h

with easy access to the sea. Very little land would suit my purpose, but I want a good house, with space enough inside, and which will not need any considerable repairs. I find that I do not feel at home among these hills, and should not like to consider myself permanently settled here. I do not get acclimated to the peculiar state of the atmosphere, and, except in mid-winter, I am continually ca

had rather you would like the book than not. At any rate, it has sold finely, and seems to have pleased a good many people better than the others, and I must confess that I myself am among the number. It is more characteristic of the author, and a more natural book for me to write, tha

ong to see you, and to talk about a thousand things relating to this world and the next. I am very glad of your testimony in favor of spiritual intercourse. I have heard and read much on the subject, and it appears to me to be the strangest and most bewildering affair I ever heard of. I should be very glad to believe that these rappers are,

atin, or French, or German, or indeed, almost any other language, in which there would have been a more extensive and attainable literature than in the Swedish. But if it turns out to be a pleasure and improvement to yourself, the end is attained. You will never, I fear (you see that

just now, and it is of no use trying to say any real

frien

IEL HA

have contracted such a habit of scra

delightfully straightforward,-even more so in their unabridged state than as they now stand; showing unconsciousness of the methods of a devious subtlety of penetration, though sensitiveness to its influence, as an ox slowly turns his great eye about at the sound of a bee, but never catches a glimpse of him; showing a restful stupidity that nevertheless had enough intellectual fire to take a kind, eager delight in telling, as it were, the sculptor that his clay was gray and his marble white. To a mind whose subtlety could never bewilder itself by no matter what intricacies of sudden turning,

July 24, 1851," one of the frolicsome letters which it requires second

y afte

arious things, not incessantly though; but enough to require my frequent tinkerings; and this is the height of the haying season, and my nag is dragging home his winter's dinners all the time. And so, one way and another, I am not a disengaged man, but shall be very soon. Meantime, the earliest good chanc

X

ag

D, Monday

-giving and exultation-breeding letter is not my reward for my ditcher's work with that book, but is the good goddess's bonus over and above what was stipulated for-for not one man in five cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative recognition from his fellows, or any one of them. Appreciation! Recognition! Is love appreciated? Why, ever since Adam, who has got to the meaning of his great allegory- the world? Th

ow I can't write what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then-your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me this moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialiti

nity of feeling. Now, sympathizing with the paper, my angel turns over another page. You did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book-and that you praised. Was it not so? You were a

rts strike together, the concussion is a little stunning. Farewell. Don't write a word about the book. That would be robbing me of my miserly delight. I am heartily sorry I ever wrote anything about you-it was paltry. Lor

not precisely the same that just took it up and put it on this paper. Lord, when shall we be done changing? Ah! it 's a long stage, and no inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. But with y

ld get such gibberish! Mention me to Mrs. Hawthorne and t

RM

the house, and so have an endless riband of foolscap rolling in upon my desk; and upon that endless riband I should write a thousand-a million-billion thou

mmediate reply to it-and so keep both of us delving over a writing-desk eternally. No

while his wife visits her mother, which

August

y have neglected to put it in, I write again. If thou wilt start from West Newton on Thursday next,

d keeps himself happy f

he same. Give my

e, N

9, Sa

ly well; and I am eager for thy coming only because it is unpleasant to remain torn asunder. Thou wilt write to tell me finally what day thou decidest upon; but unles

yesterday with Herman Melvi

is perfect

est,

en of the past. The picturing of Mrs. Peters always impressed me very much, and she no doubt stood for a suggestion of Aunt Keziah in "Septimius Felton." She was an invaluable tyrant, an unloaded weapon, a creature who seemed to say, "Forget my q

ne writes to

n. Just now, Dr. Holmes and Mr. Upham's son Charles drove up. They came in, a few moments. First came Dr. Holmes, to peep at the Lake through the boudoir window,-for he was afraid to leave the horse, even tied; then he went out for Charles to come in; and Mr. Hawthorne insisted upon holding the horse

ate child