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24th. In the evening my husband read De Quincey.

Sunday, 26th. I read all over to myself "The House of the Seven
Gables," in manuscript.

29th. In the midst of a storm, who should appear at the door of our
shanty but Sarah Shaw! Anna Greene only began the glories of arrivals.
I cannot tell how glad I was to see her. It was perfectly delightful
to talk with her again, after a separation of four years.

February I. In the evening my husband read "David Copperfield." I
cannot express how much I enjoy it, made vocal by him. He reads so
wonderfully. Each person is so distinct; his tones are so various,
apt, and rich. I believe that in his breast is Gabriel's harp. It is
better than any acting I ever saw on the stage.

5th. My husband answered a letter from Robert Adair, of Kentucky,
which was to appoint him an honorary member of the Prescott Literary
Society there. I took a walk with the children to the brook.

9th. Two proofs came of "The House of the Seven Gables," which I read
with fresh interest. There never was such perfection of style.

12th. We all walked out, papa and Una to the Lake, and across it, and
Julian and I on the sunny side of the house. There was a golden
sunset.

19th. My husband took the children out on the ice-bound lake. He read
aloud "Samson Agonistes" in the evening.

March 3. Una's birthday. She is seven years old. My husband began
"Wallenstein."

5th. Mr. Ticknor sent five engraved heads of Mr. Hawthorne. The face
is very melancholy.

8th. Mr. Tappan thinks Mr. Hawthorne's portrait looks like Tennyson.

10th. Mrs. Sedgwick brought me a letter from Elizabeth Bartol. My
husband read me Pope's "Epistles."

12th. At dusk arrived Herman Melville from Pittsfield. He was
entertained with champagne foam, manufactured of beaten eggs, loaf
sugar, and champagne. He invited us all to go and spend to-morrow
with him. My husband decided to go, with Una.

13th. Snowstorm. My husband has gone to Pittsfield. As soon as he and
Una drove off in the wagon, dear little Julian for the first time
thought of himself, and burst into 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.
Then he relapsed, and said he would do nothing without Una. So I told
him he should have the Swiss cottage, the pearls, and the velvet
furniture. This was enchantment.

During his dinner he discoursed all the time about Giant Despair and
Christian. He improvised, while playing ball, a sad tragedy, and among
other things said, "I wept, and pitied myself." Now he has stopped
playing, for the lambs have come to graze before the windows, and he
is talking incessantly about having one for his own 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 reminded me of my promise to read
"The Bear." This I did, squeaking as sharply as occasion required. "I
feel very lonely without papa or Una," said Julian. After dinner he
asked me to read to him the story of Sir William Phips. When I put him
to bed, he said, as he jumped into it, that the angels were lying down
beside him.

14th. What a superb day! But Julian and I are worn out with waiting.
Prince Rose-Red talked without one second's intermission the whole
time I was dressing him; and I allowed it, as papa and Una were not
here to be disturbed by the clishmaclaver. At breakfast we were
dismal. Julian mourned for his father most touchingly, and more than
for Una. "Oh, dear," said he, "I feel as if I 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 engraving. We enjoyed it very much. Blessed be
Phillebrown, blessed be Ticknor, Reed and Fields, blessed be Thompson,
C. G. Julian was struck with its life. "It is not a drawn papa," said
he, "for it smiles at me, though he does not speak. It is a real
papa!" Now that he has gone out, I have put it up before me, so that I
can see it every time I lift my eyes. Was ever one so loved?

George W. Curtis sends a letter, once more:--

BOSTON, March 19, 1851.

MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--You will see by the book which I send you with
this note ["Nile Notes of a Howadji"] that I break our long silence by
a speech of some length; and I should not have waited until 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 one had ever so good a time
as I. In this book I have aimed to convey the character of the
satisfaction that I experienced, and that, I am sure, every man like
me must needs experience upon the Nile.

But you will believe--if you still believe in me--that I have seized
this small paper, only that I may not send you preserved in cold ink
those fruits of travel that I hope one day to shake upon you, warm
from the tongue.

I am passing a brace of days only in Boston, having as yet seen no
one, and in despair and disgust at the storm. You, I think of in
Lenox--which is a summer spot only 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 studio of
Crawford, in Rome? I have neither forgotten that, nor any smallest
token of her frequent courtesy in the Concord days. Such be our days
forever! Yours truly,

GEORGE W. CURTIS.

Among many messages from friends there was a welcome note from
Cambridge:--

MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,--Mr. Duyckinck and his friend Mr. Beekman, of New
York, having read your "Twice-Told Tales" with great wonderment and
delight, "desire you of more acquaintance." I therefore am happy to
make you known to each other. Yours truly,

LONGFELLOW. June 30.

Mr. G. P. R. James, the novelist, lived somewhat near, but writes to
Hawthorne between calls:--

STOCKBRIDGE, MASS., 4th July, 1851.

MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--The night before last I received the two
portentous bundles [essays by Miss Sedgwick's scholars]. Last
night--though to give up reading "The House of the Seven Gables" for
the purpose of reading a packet of seventy gabbles was like tearing
the flesh from my bones--I set to, and got through ten of the
compositions--six 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 to find, from my son and daughter, that you could
not bring your young people to our haymaking on Wednesday. But they
consoled me with a promise, in your name, of bringing them another day
to spend the whole of it with us. I hold you to it; and if you fail,
or fail of prompt performance, I shall look upon you as faithless, and
mans worn to

Yours ever, G. P. R. JAMES.

Mrs. Hawthorne writes on:--

MY DEAREST LIZZIE,--What a sumptuous present, or budget of presents,
you are making me! I am affronted, if they come in the way of return
for the pitiful hospitality you received. You not only had no bed to
sleep on, and no room to sleep in, but nothing to eat, besides sewing
all the time, and washing your own clothes! I was very unhappy 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 nothing to do with the public.
I do not know as any one but myself can estimate the cost to him of
having a stranger in our courts; especially in these narrow ones. A
week or so does very well; but months will not do at all. . . . You
know that he has but just stepped over the threshold of a hermitage.
He is but just not a hermit still.

Hawthorne responds to the substantial friendship of a lifelong
comrade:--

LENOX, July 24, 1851.

DEAR PIKE,--I should have written to you long since, acknowledging the
receipt of your gin, and in answer to your letter, but I have been
very busy with my pen. 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 take an occasional sip. I
really thank you for it, however; nor could I help shedding a few
quiet tears over that which was so uselessly spilt by the expressman.

The most important news I have to tell you (if you have not already
heard it) is, that we have another daughter, now about two months old.
She is a very bright and healthy child, and neither more nor less
handsome than babies generally are. I think I feel more interest in
her than I did in the other children at the same age, 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 heartily wish that you would
take measures to remedy it in your own case, by marrying Miss
Brookhouse or somebody else as soon as possible. If I were at all in
the habit of shedding tears, I should have felt inclined to do so at
your description of your present situation; without family, and
estranged from your former friends.

Whenever you feel it quite intolerable (and I can hardly help wishing
that it may become so soon), do come to me. By the way, if I continue
to prosper as heretofore in the literary line, I shall soon be in a
condition to buy a place; and if you should hear of one, say, worth
from $1500 to $2000, I wish you would keep your eye on it for me. I
should wish it to be on the seacoast, or at all events 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 catching cold, and am none
so vigorous as I used to be on the seacoast. The same is the case with
my wife; and though the children seem perfectly well, yet I rather
think they would flourish better near the sea. Say nothing about my
wishes, but if you see a place likely to suit me, let me know. I shall
be in Salem probably as soon as October, and possibly you will have
something in view by that time.

Why did you not express your opinion of The House of the Seven Gables,
which I sent you? I suppose you were afraid of hurting my feelings by
disapproval; but you need not have been. I should receive friendly
censure with just as much equanimity as if it were praise; though
certainly I 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, than The Scarlet Letter was. When I write
another romance, I shall take the Community for a subject, and shall
give some of my experiences and observations at Brook Farm. Since the
publication of the Seven Gables I have written a book for children,
which is to be put to press immediately.

My wife, with the baby and Una, is going southward in two or three
weeks to see her mother, who, I think, will not survive another
winter. I shall remain here with Julian. If you can be spared from
that miserable Custom House, I wish you would pay me a visit, although
my wife would hardly forgive you for coming while she was away. But I
do long 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, in any one instance, the spirits of the persons whom they profess
themselves to be; but though I have talked with those who have had the
freest communication, there has always been something that makes me
doubt. So you must allow me to withhold my full and entire belief,
until I have heard some of the details of your own spiritual
intercourse.

On receiving your letter, I wrote to Longfellow, requesting him to
forward you any books that might facilitate your progress, in the
Swedish language. He has not told me whether or no he did so. I asked
him to send them to the Mansion House in Salem. I wish you had rather
undertaken Latin, 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 I take a friend's privilege to speak
plainly), make the impression on the world that, in years gone by, I
used to hope you would. It will not be your fault, however, but the
fault of circumstances. Your flower was not destined to bloom in this
world. I hope to see its glory in the next.

I had much more to say, but it has escaped my memory just now, and it
is of no use trying to say any real thing in a letter. Hoping to see
you sooner or later,

Your friend ever,

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Excuse this illegible scrawl; but I have contracted such a habit of
scrawling that I cannot possibly help it.

Mr. Pike was one of the half-earthy intelligences which are capable of
bloom, like a granite-strewn hill, revealing upon a closer glance
unexpected imagination. I once saw him coming through a little pine
grove near The Wayside with my father; it was after our return from
England. He was so short, sturdy, phlegmatic of exterior, and
plebeian, that I was astonished at my father's pleasure in his
company, until I noticed a certain gentleness in his manner of
stepping, and heard the modulations of his voice, and caught the
fragrance of his humility. One or two letters of his already printed
are 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, the solid
stare before his nose of Mr. Pike must have been agreeable, since it
was joined to a capital vision of whatever actually crossed that
patient gaze, and to a tenderness which sprang like purest refreshment
from a hard promise. Anything that can restfully attract a thinker is,
of course, at a premium with him. Mr. Pike might be as plebeian as he
pleased, the more the better, since he was one of the people who could
apprehend truth, talk of love like a troubadour for sincere belief in
it, and say a good thing when one least expected him to do so, which
is the nick of time for brilliancy.

Herman Melville writes, the date being recorded by my father,
"Received July 24, 1851," one of the frolicsome letters which it
requires second-sight to decipher, the handwriting being, apparently,
"writ in water:"--

Tuesday afternoon.

MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,--This is not a letter, or even a note, but only a
passing word said to you over your garden gate. I thank you for your
easy-flowing long letter (received yesterday), which flowed through
me, and refreshed all my meadows, as the Housatonic--opposite me--does
in reality. I am now busy with various 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 chance I get, I
shall roll down to you, my good fellow, seeing we--that is, you and
I--must hit upon some little bit of vagabondism before autumn comes.
Graylock--we must go and vagabondize there. But ere we start, we must
dig a deep hole, and bury all Blue Devils, there to abide till the
Last Day. . . . Good-by.

His X MARK.

And again:--

PITTSFIELD, Monday afternoon.

MY DEAR HAWTHORNE,--People think that if a man has undergone any
hardship, he should have a reward; but for my part, if I have done the
hardest possible day's work, and then come to sit down in a corner and
eat my supper comfortably--why, then I don't think I deserve any
reward for my hard day's work--for am I not now at peace? Is not my
supper good? My peace and my supper are my reward, my dear Hawthorne.
So your joy-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? Then we pygmies must be content to have our paper
allegories but ill comprehended. I say your appreciation is my
glorious gratuity. In my proud, humble way,--a shepherd-king,--I was
lord of a little vale in the solitary Crimea; but you have now given
me the crown of India. But on trying it on my head, I found it fell
down on my ears, notwithstanding their asinine length--for it's only
such ears that sustain such crowns.

Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr.
Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat
down at once and answered it. In me divine magnanimities are
spontaneous and instantaneous--catch them while you can. The world
goes round, and the other side comes up. So now 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
socialities are in me. I would sit down and dine with you and all the
gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a strange feeling--no hopefulness
is in it, no despair. Content--that is it; and irresponsibility; but
without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of
being, not of an incidental feeling.

Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon
of life? And when I put it to my lips--lo, they are yours and not
mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the
Supper, and that we are the pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity 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 archangel enough
to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you hugged
the ugly Socrates because you saw the flame in the mouth, and heard
the rushing of the demon,--the familiar,--and recognized the sound;
for you have heard it in your own solitudes.

My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and
make me doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I
am not mad, most noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when
the big hearts 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. Lord, when shall we be done growing? As long as we
have anything more to do, we have done nothing. So, now, let us add
Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. Leviathan is not the
biggest fish;--I have heard of Krakens.

This is a long letter, but you are not at all bound to answer it.
Possibly, if you do answer it, and direct it to Herman Melville, you
will missend it--for the very fingers that now guide this pen are 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 you for a
passenger, I am content and can be happy. I shall leave the world, I
feel, with more satisfaction for having come to know you. Knowing you
persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.

What a pity, that, for your plain, bluff letter, you should get such
gibberish! Mention me to Mrs. Hawthorne and to the children, and so,
good-by to you, with my blessing.

HERMAN.

P. S. I can't stop yet. If the world was entirely made up of Magians,
I'll tell you what I should do. I should have a paper-mill established
at one end of 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 thoughts, all under the form of a letter
to you. The divine magnet is on you, and my magnet responds. Which is
the biggest? A foolish question--they are One. H.

P. P. S. Don't think that by writing me a letter, you shall always be
bored with an immediate reply to it--and so keep both of us delving
over a writing-desk eternally. No such thing! I sha'n't always answer
your letters, and you may do just as you please.

Hawthorne is left alone for a few days, while his wife visits her
mother, which causes the following notes to be written:--

LENOX, August 8, 1851.

OWNEST PHOEBE,--I wrote thee a note yesterday, and sent it to the
village by Cornelius; but as he may have neglected to put it in, I
write again. If thou wilt start from West Newton on Thursday next, I
will meet thee at Pittsfield, which will answer the same purpose as if
I came all the way. . . .

Julian is very well, and keeps himself happy from morning till night.
I hope Una does the same. Give my love to her. . . .

Thine, N. H.

August 9, Saturday.

I received yesterday thy note, in which thou speakest of deferring thy
return some days longer. Stay by all means as long as may be needful.
Julian gets along perfectly 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 unless I hear
further, I shall go to Pittsfield on Saturday, a week from to-day. But
if thou seest reason for staying longer do so, that nothing may be
left at loose ends.

Julian and I had a fine ride yesterday with Herman Melville and two
other gentlemen.

Mrs. Peters is perfectly angelic.

Thinest, N. H.

Mrs. Peters, a negress of the dignified type, was the general
house-servant, an aged, forbidding, harmlessly morose soul, often
recalled by my mother in her references to Lenox, when talking, as she
did most easily and fascinatingly, to us children 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 qualities if you dare--there is one of them which is
fatal!" As my parents possessed the capacity to pay respect where it
could be earned, the qualities of Mrs. Peters were respected, and she
found herself in a sort of heaven of courteous tolerance.

Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her mother:--

On Sunday Mr. Samuel G. Ward came to see us. He gave me an excellent
drawing of Highwood Porch, for "The Wonder-Book," which he said he had
asked Burrill Curtis to draw. We have sent it to Mr. Fields. On Monday
Mr. Curtis called. He is taking sketches all about, and is going back
to Europe this autumn. 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, and having them
both come in. When Dr. Holmes went back, he laughed to see Mr.
Hawthorne at his horse's head, and exclaimed, "Is there another man in
all America who ever had so great an honor, as to have the author of
'The Scarlet Letter' hold his horse?" My love to your lovely
household. Your most

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