Memory; The Devil in Manuscript. In the "Token" for 1835, The Mermaid (afterwards called The Village Uncle); Alice Doane's Appeal; The Haunted Mind. In the "American Magazine of Knowledge (which he edited at this period, 1836-38, and pretty much all of the contents of which he wrote and prepared) will be found the following in particular: The Ontario Steamboat; The Boston Tea Party; Preservation of the Dead; April Fools; Martha's Vineyard; The Duston Family; Nature of Sleep; Bells; etc. In the "Token" for 1837, The Man of Adamant; and in 1838, The Shaker Bridal; Sylph Etheredge; Endicott and his Men; Peter Goldthwaite; Night Thoughts under an Umbrella. In the "Knickerbocker," 1836, Edward Fane's Rosebud; A Bell's Biography. In the "Democratic Review," 1838-39, Memoir of Jonathan Cilley; Toll-Gatherer's Day; Footprints on the Seashore ; Snow-Flakes; Chippings with a Chisel; and the four Tales of the Province House.

CHAPTER V.

COURTSHIP.

"IN 1811 and onwards," writes Miss E. P. Peabody, "when we lived in Herbert Street, Salem, we used to play with the Hawthorne children, who lived in Union Street, their yard stretching between the two streets. Elizabeth Hawthorne, the eldest of the children, used to do her lessons with me. I vividly remember her; she was a brilliant little girl, and I thought her a great genius. Nathaniel Hawthorne I remember as a broad-shouldered little boy, with clustering locks, springing about the yard. Madame Hawthorne was a recluse, and was not in the habit of receiving her husband's relations, or many of her own; it was considered, at that time, a mark of piety and good taste for a widow to withdraw herself from the world. About 1816 to 1820 the Hawthornes were, most of the time, living in Raymond, Maine, and we lost sight of them. But in the latter year I heard that they had returned to Salem, and that Miss Elizabeth now secluded herself in like manner as her mother did, spending most of her time in reading and in solitary walks. People said it was a lovedisappointment; but that was merely hearsay.

"Between 1830 and 1836 some stories in the 'New England Magazine' arrested my attention. I thought they were probably written by some 'newlight' Quaker, who had outgrown his sectarianism; and I actually wrote (but never sent) a letter to the supposed old man, asking him how he knew that 'sensitive natures are especially apt to be malicious.' It was not until 1837 that I discovered that these stories were the work of Madame Hawthorne's son. It was a difficult matter to establish visiting relations with so eccentric a household; and another year passed away before Mr. Hawthorne and his sisters called on us. It was in the evening. I was alone in the drawing-room; but Sophia, who was still an invalid, was in her chamber. As soon as I could, I ran upstairs to her and said, 'O Sophia, you must get up and dress and come down! The Hawthornes are here, and you never saw anything so splendid as he is,he is handsomer than Lord Byron !' She laughed, but refused to come, remarking that since he had called once, he would call again. So I went down. to them again, and we passed a very pleasant evening. Elizabeth, with her black hair in beautiful natural curls, her bright, rather shy eyes, and a rather excited, frequent, low laugh, looked full of wit and keenness, as if she were experienced in the world; there was not the least bit of sentiment about her, but she was strongly intellectual. There was nothing peculiar about Louisa; she seemed like other people. Mr. Hawthorne was very nicely dressed; but he looked,

at first, almost fierce with his determination not to betray his sensitive shyness, which he always recognized as a weakness. But as he became interested in conversation, his nervousness passed away; and the beauty of the outline of his features, the pure complexion, the wonderful eyes, like mountain lakes. reflecting the sky, were quite in keeping with the 'Twice-Told Tales.'

"He did call again, as Sophia had predicted, not long afterwards; and this time she came down, in her simple white wrapper, and sat on the sofa. As I said 'My sister, Sophia,' he rose and looked at her intently, he did not realize how intently. As we went on talking, she would frequently interpose a remark, in her low, sweet voice. Every time she did so, he would look at her again, with the same piercing, indrawing gaze. I was struck with it, and thought, 'What if he should fall in love with her!' and the thought troubled me; for she had often told me that nothing would ever tempt her to marry, and inflict on a husband the care of an invalid. When Mr. Hawthorne got up to go, he said he should come for me in the evening to call on his sisters, and he added, 'Miss Sophia, won't you come too?' But she replied, 'I never go out in the evening, Mr. Hawthorne.' 'I wish you would!' he said, in a low, urgent tone. But she smiled, and shook her head, and he went away."

It may be remarked here, that Mrs. Hawthorne, in telling her children, many years afterwards, of these

first meetings with their father, used to say that his presence, from the very beginning, exercised so strong a magnetic attraction upon her, that instinctively, and in self-defence as it were, she drew back and repelled him. The power which she felt in him alarmed her; she did not understand what it meant, and was only able to feel that she must resist. By degrees, however, her resistance was overcome; and in the end, she realized that they had loved each other at first sight.

"Mr. Hawthorne told me," continues Miss Peabody, that his sisters lived so completely out of the world that they hardly knew its customs. But my sister Elizabeth is very witty and original, and knows the world, in one sense, remarkably well, seeing that she has learned it only through books. But she stays in her den, and I in mine: I have scarcely seen her in three months. After tea, my mother and Louisa come down and sit with me in the little parlor; but both Elizabeth and my mother take their meals in their rooms, and my mother has eaten alone ever since my father's death.'

"Mr. Hawthorne was never a ready talker; but every word was loaded with significance, and his manner was eminently suggestive, though there was nothing oracular in it. I never saw any one who listened so comprehendingly as he; and he was by nature profoundly social. I was always especially struck by his observations of nature. Nature reappeared in his conversation humanized; and he