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But I feel that portions of it are as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaks encouragingly of its success." From England, especially, came many warm expressions of praise, a fact which Mrs. Hawthorne, in a private letter, commented on as the fulfillment of a possibility which Hawthorne, writing in boyhood to his mother, had looked forward to.
There was no element of Quixotism in his composition, and it is quite as impossible to locate the identity of the person whom Hawthorne is supposed to have challenged.
While standing by the grave, Hawthorne was told a story, a tradition of how a youth, hurrying to the battle-field axe in hand, came upon these two soldiers, one not yet dead raised himself up painfully on his hands and knees, and how the youth on the impulse of the moment cleft the wounded man's head with the axe.
To-day we went to Kenilworth. There was not blue sky enough to encourage Mr. Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o'clock we set forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air.
The intellectual distinction of American critical biographies like Lounsbury's Cooper or Woodberry's Hawthorne is all the more notable because we possess such a slender body of truly critical doctrine native to our own soil; because our national literary tradition as to available material and methods is hardly formed; because the very word "American" has a less precise connotation than the word "New Zealander."
Hawthorne asked, to take their minds off the intrusive sadnesses of life. With her gaze across the room she counted, "One, two, three, four, to the left of the piano, with his hands behind him and a round glass in his eye." Leslie looked over at a figure of whom it was natural to ask who that was, it so surely looked like Somebody though Mrs.
In fact, I entirely liked Hawthorne. He had been as cordial as so shy a man could show himself; and I perceived, with the repose that nothing else can give, the entire sincerity of his soul. Nothing could have been further from the behavior of this very great man than any sort of posing, apparently, or a wish to affect me with a sense of his greatness.
An excellent English critic, Leslie Stephen, lately wrote: "Poe is a kind of Hawthorne and delirium tremens." This announcement, however, betrays a singular misapprehension.
The prospect of the book, even, was not wholly an undoubted blessing to Hawthorne, now he had come to its realization, and in December, on Christmas Day, the work being then in proofs, Bridge writes to him again: "Whether your book will sell extensively may be doubtful; but that is of small importance in the first one you publish.
In what way, and to what extent, the surroundings of his boyhood operated in moulding the character and developing the genius of that gifted author, I leave to the reader to determine. I have tried simply to draw a faithful picture of his early home." On the 15th of December Hawthorne wrote to me:
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