tricksiness of his mood when he is evolving a work of art. He waits upon the light in such a purely simple way that I do not wonder at the perfection of each of his stories. Of several sketches, first one and then another come up to be clothed upon with language, after their own will and pleasure. It is real inspiration, and few are reverent and patient enough to wait for it as he does. I think it is in this way that he comes to be so void of extravagance in his style and material. He does not meddle with the clear, true picture that is painted on his mind. He lifts the curtain, and we see a microcosm of nature, so cunningly portrayed that truth itself seems to have been the agent of its appearance. Thus his taste is genuine- the most faultless I ever knew. Now, behold! all unforeseen, a criticism upon the genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne!"

The character of some of the tales which Hawthorne wrote in the Old Manse was in striking contrast to this picture of pastoral tranquillity, and part of Mrs. Hawthorne's wondering admiration of her husband's genius may well have sprung out of his reading to her, as he came down from the study where he had been weaving his strange patterns and showed them to his imaginative companion below. "When Hawthorne was writing 'Rappaccini's Daughter,'" says Julian Hawthorne, "he read the as

yet unfinished manuscript to his wife. But how is it to end?' she asked him, when he had laid down the paper; 'is Beatrice to be a demon or an angel?' 'I have no idea!' was Hawthorne's reply, spoken with some emotion."

For the most part the several stories as collected show little change in form from that they bore in the first, periodical publication. There is one exception, however, worth noting. "The Hall of Fantasy" was contributed to The Pioneer, that magazine of promise founded by Lowell and lasting three months only. Mr. Robert Carter, who was associated with Lowell in the conduct of the magazine, greatly admired Hawthorne's writings, and when the Wonder-Book was published wrote him an enthusiastic letter, but questioned a little the domestic setting of the stories. "An author," he says, " has a strong temptation to introduce his friends into his pages, but it ought never to be done at a sacrifice of art. You doubtless remember that many of your friends and acquaintances who figured in 'The Hall of Fantasy,' as it appeared in The Pioneer, have vanished from that structure in its present razeed condition." Hawthorne was right in dropping the passages thus alluded to, but as they are in a way his judgments half serious, half playful, on contemporaries who share with him the attention of American readers to-day, these omitted passages are here printed:

Bryant had come hither from his editor's room, his face no longer wrinkled by political strife, but with such a look as if his soul were full of the 'Thanatopsis,' or of those beautiful stanzas on the 'Future Life.' Percival, whom to see is like catching a glimpse of some shy bird of the woods, had shrunk into the deepest shadow that he could find. Dana was also there; though, for a long time back, the public has been none the richer for his visits to the Hall of Fantasy; but, in his younger days, he descended to its gloomiest caverns, and brought thence a treasure of dark, distempered stories. Halleck, methought, had strayed into this ple atmosphere rather by way of amusement, than because the strong impulse of his nature compelled him hither; and Willis, though he had an indefeasible right of entrance, looked so much like a man of the world, that he seemed hardly to belong here. Sprague had stepped across from the Globe Bank, with his pen behind his ear. Pierpont had come hither in the hope, I suppose, of allaying the angry glow of controversy; a fire unmeet for such an altar as a poet's kindly heart.

pur

"In the midst of these famous people, I beheld the figure of a friend, whom I fully believed to be thousands of leagues away. His glance was thrown upward to the lofty dome, as who should say, EXCELSIOR.

"It is Longfellow!' I exclaimed. When did he return from Germany?'

"His least essential part-that is to say, his physical man-is probably there at this moment, under a water-spout,' replied my companion. But wherever his body may be, his soul will find its way into the Hall of Fantasy. See; there is Washington Irving too, whom all the world supposes to be enacting the character of Ambassador to Spain.'

grave

And, indeed, there stood the renowned Geoffrey Crayon, in the radiance of a window, which looked like the pictured symbol of his own delightful fancy. Mr. Cooper had chosen to show himself in a more sombre light, and was apparently meditating a speech in some libel case, rather than a scene of such tales as have made him a foremost man in this enchanted hall. But, woe is me! I tread upon slippery ground, among these poets and men of imagination, whom perhaps it is equally hazardous to notice, or to leave undistinguished in the throng. Would that I could emblazon all their names in star-dust! Let it suffice to mention indiscriminately such as my eye chanced to fall upon. There was Washington Allston, who possesses the freedom of the hall by the threefold claim of painter, novelist, and poet; and John Neal, whose rampant muse belches wild-fire, with huge volumes of smoke; and

Lowell, the poet of the generation that now enters upon the stage. The young author of 'Dolon' was here, involved in a deep mist of metaphysical fantasies. Epes Sargent and Mr. Tuckerman had come hither to engage contributors for their respective magazines. Hillard was an honorary member of the poetic band, as editor of Spenser, though he might well have preferred a claim on his own account. Mr. Poe had gained ready admittance for the sake of his imagination, but was threatened with ejectment, as belonging to the obnoxious class of critics.

"There were a number of ladies among the tuneful and imaginative crowd. I know not whether their tickets of admission were signed with the authentic autograph of Apollo; but, at all events, they had an undoubted right of entrance by courtesy. Miss Sedgwick was an honored guest, although the atmosphere of the Hall of Fantasy is not precisely the light in which she appears to most advantage. Finally, I saw Mr. Rufus Griswold, with pencil and memorandum-book, busily noting down the names of all the poets and poetesses there, and likewise of some whom nobody but himself had suspected of ever visiting the hall.

"There was a dear friend of mine among them who has striven with all his might to wash away the blood-stain from the statute