past; the praises of "The Scarlet Letter" in America were re-echoed in England. This enthusiastic reception of his work, which his frequent disappointments had not prepared him for, brought him satisfaction and encouragement. It seems to have acted upon him as a stimulus to renewed effort; and the years immediately following were the most productive of his life. Even the greatest genius needs the encouragement of appreciation.

In 1850, the year in which "The Scarlet Letter" appeared, Hawthorne moved to Lenox in western Massachusetts. He occupied a small red cottage, which, but for its commanding view of mountain, lake, and valley, could not have been considered in keeping with his gifts and fame. His limited means still enforced simplicity of living. Here he wrote "The House of the Seven Gables," one of his four great romances, which was published in 1851. It was written, as were most of his works, to set forth a spiritual truth. The story was never with Hawthorne the principal thing. It was simply the skeleton, which he clothed with the flesh of thought and vitalized with the breath of truth. "The House of the Seven Gables" illustrates the great truth "that the wrong-doing of one generation lives into the succeeding ones, and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief."

While at Lenox, Hawthorne wrote also his "Wonder-Book" for boys and girls, a beautifully modernized version of ancient classic myths. Though intended for children, it is not without interest for older people. With his growing popularity his financial condition improved; and in 1852 he purchased a house at Concord, formerly owned by Alcott, to which he gave the name of the Wayside. Here he took up his abode, and completed his "Tanglewood Tales," another admirable volume intended for young people. Upon the nomination of his friend Franklin Pierce for the presidency, he consented, not without urgent solicitation, to prepare a campaign biography. It is characterized by good taste and sobriety of judgment. After

the election of Pierce, he received the appointment of consul to Liverpool, and sailed for Europe in 1853.

This opportunity to spend some time abroad came to the Hawthornes as the realization of a long-cherished dream. Few Americans have been better fitted in culture to appreciate and enjoy the society, historic associations, and art treasures of the Old World. Though Hawthorne discharged the duties of his position with conscientious fidelity, its emoluments, which were considerable, constituted its principal charm. "I disliked my office from the first," he says, "and never came into any good accordance with it. Its dignity, so far as it had any, was an encumbrance; the attentions it drew upon me (such as invitations to mayors' banquets and public celebrations of all kinds, where, to my horror, I found myself expected to stand up and speak) were as I may say without incivility or ingratitude, because there is nothing personal in that sort of hospitality a bore. The official business was irksome, and often painful. There was nothing pleasant about the whole affair, except the emoluments."

As at Salem, Hawthorne kept his eyes open to his surroundings, and filled his note-books with many charming incidents and descriptions. At intervals he made brief excursions to the most noted parts of England. His literary fame caused him to be much sought after, and he saw the most distinguished men of the time. Like Irving, he entertained a friendly feeling toward the mother-country, which he fondly calls, in a work recording his experience and impressions, "Our Old Home." But he had no disposition, as he said, to besmear our selfconscious English cousins with butter and honey. "These people," he says, "think so loftily of themselves, and so contemptuously of everybody else, that it requires more generosity than I possess to keep always in perfectly good humor with them."

After five years Hawthorne resigned the consulate at Liverpool, and then devoted two years to travel, chiefly in France and Italy. It was a period of rest, observation, and reflection.

The art treasures of Rome, as well as its historic associations, were a source of exquisite pleasure. His Italian impressions he embodied in the last of his great romances, "The Marble Faun." It was sketched out in Italy, rewritten in England, and published in 1860. It abounds in art criticism and descriptions of Italian scenery. But through it all there runs a deathless story, with the profound moral that a perfect culture is unattainable in a state of innocence, and that the noblest character can be developed only through spiritual conflict.

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Hawthorne had a deep sense of human sin and guilt. It enters into many of his writings, and tinges them with a sombre hue. His works appeal most to those who have been chastened in toil and suffering. He everywhere breathes a spirit of tender sympathy, from which no one, however erring and fallen, is excluded. Man," he says, "must not disclaim his brotherhood even with the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity." In the conflicts and sufferings of humanity he recognized the struggle of the race after a better and purer life than has yet been realized on earth.

The year "The Marble Faun" appeared, Hawthorne returned to his native country, and made his home once more at the Wayside. But the fire of genius was burning low. He no longer enjoyed robust health; and, while the country was engaged in the throes of civil war, he found it impossible to give himself to the calm, secluded task of inventing stories. No other great work came from his magic pen. He indeed essayed other achievements; but "Septimius Felton" was never finished, and “The Dolliver Romance" remained a fragment. His health gradually declined. At last, in the faint hope of improvement, he started with his lifelong friend Pierce on a journey through northern New England. But the sudden death that he had desired came to him at Plymouth, N.H., May 19, 1864. A few days later he was laid to rest with Thoreau in the cemetery at Concord.

This survey of Hawthorne's life and work enables us to

distinguish some of the elements that entered into his unique. character. His piercing vision gave him a deep sense of spiritual reality. Like every finely organized nature, he was profoundly reverent. In the seclusion of his chamber and on his lonely rambles he felt what he calls "the spirit's natural instinct of adoration towards a beneficent Father." This was the secret of his independence and of his loyalty to truth. His ideals were lofty, and any departure from the strictest integrity of thought or act appeared to him in the light of treason. With his eye constantly fixed on the realities of life, he demanded everywhere the most perfect sincerity. Few men have ever had a more cordial contempt for every form of pretence and hypocrisy. He was a keen reader of character, and only true and honest natures were admitted to the sacred intimacy of his friendship. His tastes were almost feminine in their delicacy. He had an exquisite appreciation of the beauties of nature and art. He caught their secret meaning. Retiring and modest in disposition, he loathed the vulgarity of every form of obtrusiveness. He was peculiarly gentle in manner and in spirit; but it was that noble gentleness born, not of weakness, but of conscious power. His reflective temperament had a predilection for the darker and more mysterious side of life. He fathomed the lowest depths of the soul. As we read his romances and tales, we have a new sense of the meaning and mystery of existence.

HENRY WADSworth longfELLOW.

LONGFELLOW has gained an enviable place in the affections. of the American people; and in England his works, it is said, have a wider circulation than those of Tennyson. This popularity has not been attained by brilliancy of genius. There have been more exquisitely gifted poets, who by no means have held so large a place in public esteem. The highest genius is perhaps excluded from popularity by its very originality. Longfellow, while possessing poetic gifts of a high order, has treated themes of general interest. He has wrought within the range of ordinary thought and sentiment.

His life was beautiful in its calm, gradual, healthful development. It was not unlike the river Charles, of which he sang:

His life was itself a poem a type of all that he has written. It was full of gentleness, courtesy, sincerity, and manly beauty. It was free from eccentricity; it breathed a large sympathy; it grounded itself on invisible and eternal realities. The message he brought was sane and helpful. He did not aim at the solution of great problems; he was not ambitious to fathom the lowest depths. But for half a century he contin