to me from the loveliest lady in the land, and it would break my heart to part with it.

I don't understand the hint about the smellingbottle. I have made all possible inquiries, but neither mother nor Elizabeth recollect to have seen such a thing. I never make use of a smelling-bottle myself, and of course would have no motive for keeping it. I will speak to the town-crier to-morrow.

Mrs. Ede's wedding-cake will be very acceptable, and I wish she had brought it with her when she went through town. I am afraid there is little prospect of my repaying her in kind; but when I join the Shakers, I will send her a great slice of rye-and-Indian bread.

NATH. HAWTHORNE,

P. S. You can't imagine how quiet and comfortable our house has been since you went away.

The paragraph about the silver threepence is worth marking. Though the coin in question had been given to him by the loveliest lady in the land (whoever she may have been), and though it would have broken his heart to part with it, yet he would not be at the pains to put his hand into the bag to take it out, but devolved that labor upon his sister. This seems to show that the frenzy of amorous passion had not, at the age of twenty-seven, succeeded in making an absolute slave of him. Concerning these "loveliest ladies," his sister Elizabeth has the following remarks to make:—

About the year 1833, your father, after a sojourn

of two or three weeks at Swampscott, came home captivated, in his fanciful way, with a 'mermaid,' as he called her. He would not tell us her name, but said she was of the aristocracy of the village, the keeper of a little shop. She gave him a sugar heart, a pink one, which he kept a great while, and then (how boyish, but how like him!) he ate it. You will find her, I suspect, in 'The Village Uncle.' She is Susan. He said she had a great deal of what the French call espièglerie. At that time he had fancies like this whenever he went from home."

Susan remains Susan still, and nothing more, to all the world; but I should like to know how she was affected by the description of herself in "The Village Uncle." This is how she appeared when he first caught sight of her:

"You stood on the little bridge, over the brook, that runs across King's beach into the sea. It was twilight; the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by, the crimson clouds fading in the west, and the silver moon brightening above the hill; and on the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a seabird that might skim away at your pleasure. You seemed a daughter of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean foam and the crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dancing on the crests of the billows, that threw up their spray to support your footsteps. As I drew nearer, I fancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the quiet coves, in the shadow

of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of the purest sand, and when our northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands, green and lonely, far amid summer seas. And yet it gladdened me, after all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty girl, sadly perplexed with the rude behavior of the wind. about your petticoats."

And, upon a further acquaintance, he addresses

her thus:

"At a certain window near the centre of the village, appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men and horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugar-plums, and brass thimbles, articles on which the young fishermen used to expend their money from pure gallantry. What a picture was Susan behind the counter! A slender maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale, except when the sea-breeze flushed it. A few freckles became beautyspots beneath her eyelids. How was it, Susan, that you always talked and acted so carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever was right in your own eyes, and never once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till now? And whence had you that happiest gift, of brightening every topic with an unsought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your sunshine, and did not shrink from it? Nature wrought the charm. She made you a frank, simple, kind

hearted, sensible, and mirthful girl. Obeying nature, you did free things without indelicacy, displayed a maiden's thoughts to every eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve."

Charming though all this declares her to have been, however, the mermaid was not destined to have any further effect on Hawthorne's destiny than to inspire him to write this delicately conceived and gracefully expressed sketch of her.

CHAPTER IV.

BOYHOOD AND BACHELORHOOD (Continued).

BEFORE going further, it will be necessary to examine the epistolary records which cover the period (between 1830 and 1837) during which Hawthorne began to become known as a man of letters. There are numerous communications from Goodrich and other publishers, and from Hawthorne's college friends, Horace Bridge, Franklin Pierce, and Cilley. They have reference to his early contributions to the "Token," the "Knickerbocker," and other periodicals; to his connection with the "Boston Bewick Company's Magazine" (which became insolvent), to a scheme of joining a South Polar expedition in the capacity of historian, and various incidental matters. The letters sufficiently explain themselves, and will be given in the order of their dates, without further comment.

HARTFORD, CONN., Jan. 19, 1830.

DEAR SIR, I brought the MSS. which you sent me to this place, where I am spending a few weeks I have read them with great pleasure. "The Gentle Boy" and "My Uncle Molineaux" I liked particularly; about "Alice Doane" I should be more doubtful