we to attempt a comparison of parallel | Like almost every original author, Hawthorne occasionally verifies our great dramatist's remark about vaulting ambition o'erleaping itself and falling on the other side, giving utterance to the veriest drivel, such as scribblers of the lowest order could hardly be guilty of perpetrating. It would be hard to say how many readers he has lost who have had the misfortune to take up, say the "Twice-Told Tales," and opened with "Tales of the Province House,' or "The Three-fold Destiny." Even in the "Mosses from an Old Manse," which abounds in unmistakable evidences of his genius, abundance of pieces might be cited which would require the utmost stretch of charity to pass by. To a critic of the Lord Jeffrey genus, in want of something to prey upon, Wordsworth's poems would hardly be more valuable in the way of affording scope for very piquant abuse. For our own part, we are inclined to be more good-natured, rather leaning to Poe's opinion, that the effusions of the mind of a man of genius may be compared to a series of ascents and descents, while those of one less highly gifted are more akin to a level, on which hypothesis we are disposed to forgive the descents in consideration of the ascents, and to be much better pleased with a book the half of which is nonsense, and the other half, as Christopher North would have said, "glorious," than with one which is all very good, and has nothing to fall in raptures with from beginning to end. Were we particularly anxious to impress a reader favorably with Hawthorne at starting, we do not think we could succeed better than by directing him to take up the "Mosses from an Old Manse," and begin at the beginning, when, if he did not go to the end of the first article, we should certainly pronounce him an incorrigible dullard. We remember our own first introduction to Hawthorne's works most vividly. We had just returned, in a very improper and contemptuous frame of mind, from hearing a dreary lecture on the mighty progress of this great scientific nineteenth century, addressed to a philosophical institution, and found the "Mosses" awaiting our critical opinion. We took it up carelessly, expecting to be further provoked by some vile Yankee twaddle, and cannot say how agreeably we were disappointed. How breezy and wholesome the picture of the old manse, the river, the woods, and the garden, compared with the sickening, rounded periods about the advancement of science and the improvement of the human race, the "jabber about education" (to use Mr. Helps' expressive words) and moral trainings, which had been falling like lead on us so long! It was a renewal of the sensation we felt when first, in the calm of an autumn noon, reposing on a bank of moss, with a canopy of bright green leaves above, through which an occasional glimpse of the clear blue sky was caught, we turned over the magic pages of Tennyson, and fancied we saw the fairy-footed Olivia sporting by the tall oak beside us, or yonder little hillock to be where "Claribel low lieth." To the merits of the "House of the Seven Gables," the most pleasing and complete of Hawthorne's tales, an adverse critic, in our opinion, unconsciously pays a high compli ment, when he complains that the author seizes on the reader by the button, as it were, and, like the Ancient Mariner, compels him to hear the story to an end, which, after all, turns out to be no story at all-that is to say, there is no grand denouement, no long a-missing marriage-certificate is discovered, nor is any hitherto supposed plebeian elevated to patrician rank. An original idea, truly, to censure an author for contriving so to rivet ports to be a letter from a friend of the author's, whose intellect being partially disordered, jumbles together past and present, living and dead, and is a great traveller, without stirring from the white-washed, irongrated room to which he is confined, meeting in his imaginary wanderings a variety of personages who have long ceased to be visible to any eye save his own. Thus, in this letter, Mr. P. imagines himself in London, and gives his friend a most interesting and edifying account of the various distinguished men long in their graves, to whom he has been introduced. He found, it appeared, Lord Byron looking older than he anticipated, though, considering his former irregularities of life, not older than a man on the verge of sixty might reasonably look. To those who recollect the Byron of Moore's "Life," the following will be rich: should call this indefiniteness a defect-the "done into" Popeian heroic measure. A power of negative suggestion thus displayed volume of Hawthorne's compositions of this being often perfectly magical. Yet we can- nature, selected from his works, and cleared not say that allegory is made much more at- from all surrounding rubbish, would be a tractive to us by Hawthorne than by his perfect chef-d'œuvre of its kind, worthy to predecessors; and, as with them, the degree take its place beside "Companions of my of pleasure corresponds in great measure to Solitude.' There is one paper in his " Mosses that in which the sense of allegory is lost. from an Old Manse" which would have made We remember when our worthy pastor the fortune of any ordinary literary aspirant broke up our childish enthusiasm for starting-original, so far as our memory serves us, direct on Christian's pilgrimage; by "ex-in conception, and rivalling the happiest efplaining" the "Pilgrim's Progress" in con- forts of Goldsmith and Irving in execution. nection with the notes, our interest sensibly" P.'s Correspondence," as it is styled, purdiminished; and so with the "Faëry Queen,' when we found that Sir Guyon was a mere emblem of holiness. We must confess a preference for an humbler vehicle of instruction, the idea of which, probably suggested by Esop's pithy apothegms, appears to be of German origin, and has been employed with the happiest effect by some of our own writers. We need only instance Bulwer Lytton's inimitable sketch in "The Pilgrims of the Rhine," showing how the fox lost his tail and Helps' fable of the lions, who made an attempt at Socialism in " Friends in Council." It is pleasant enough now and then to step out of the material world; but we do not like to be incessantly reminded that all is unreal, mist and shadow. The mind craves a firmer foothold, and prefers swallowing downright impossibilities, if presented with an unblushing air of veracity, and imbued with a sufficient tinge of the vraisemblable. This has not escaped Hawthorne; and he has very happily embodied ideas in this form in one or two papers, telling his tale as if perfectly prepared to vouch for the authenticity of the whole. "The Artist of the Beautiful" is a fine instance of this; and the moral conveyed loses none of its effect, that the reader is left to find it out for himself. In another narrative on this principle, however, as might be expected from Hawthorne's constant tendency to overleap his object, he goes too mnch astray, we fear, for the most devoted idealist. Perhaps, on the whole, the walk in which Hawthorne most excels is in that blending of the essay, sketch, and tale, for which we have no definite term as yet-a style which seems so careless and easy, but which is perhaps the most difficult of all, and one we would defy any of our artificial writers to acquire-Macaulay, for instance, notwithstanding all his brilliance and nerve. One of Hawthorne's dreamy reveries, clothed in the glittering array of Macaulay's rounded, nicely balanced sentences, would be as supremely ridiculous as an idyl of Tennyson's "The noble poet's reconciliation with Lady Byron is now, as you are aware, of ten years' standing; nor does it exhibit, I am assured, any symptoms of breach or fracture. They are said to be, if not a happy, at least a contented, or, at all events, a quiet couple, descending the slope of life with that tolerable degree of mutual support which will enable them to come easily and comfortably to the bottom. It is pleasant to reflect how entirely the poet has redeemed his influence, it rejoices me to add, has been producyouthful errors in this particular. Her ladyship's tive of the happiest results upon Lord Byron in a religious point of view. He now combines the most rigid tenets of Methodism with the ultra doctrines of the Puseyites; the former being perhaps due to the convictions wrought upon his mind by his noble consort; while the latter are manded by his imaginative character. Much of the embroidery and picturesque illumination, dewhatever expenditure his increasing habits of thrift continue to allow him, is bestowed in the reparation or beautifying of places of worship; and this nobleman, whose name was once considered a synonym of the foul fiend, is now all but canonized as a saint in many pulpits of the metropolis and elsewhere. In politics Lord Byron is an uncompromising Conservative, and loses no opportunity, whether in the House of Lords or in private circles, of denouncing and repudiating the mischievous and anarchical notions of his earlier days. Nor does he fail to visit similar sins, in other people, with the sincerest vengeance which his somewhat blunted pen is capable of inflicting. Southey and he are on the most intimate terms. You are aware that some little time before the death of Moore, Byron caused that brilliant but reprehensible man to be ejected from his house. Moore took the insult so much to heart, that it is said to have been one great cause of the fit of illness which brought him to the grave. Others pretend that the lyrist died in a very happy state of mind, singing one of his own sacred melodies, and expressing his belief that it would be heard within the gate of Paradise, and gain him instant and honorable admittance. I wish he may have found it so." Mr. P. has also the gratification of being introduced to Shelley, now reconciled to the Church of England, and at the time superintending the publication of a volume of discourses treating of the poetico-philosophical proof of Christianity on the basis of the Thirty-nine Articles. But for a few unmistakable Hawthorneisms, which peep out here and there, we could almost accept the epistle as the genuine effusion of Mr. P. There is one other work of Hawthorne's in a totally different vein, which we must not pass by in concluding, though we should not have regretted its non-publication very much -his "Life of General Pierce, the American President." We could not help thinking it a pity, as we perused it, that such parties as Whigs and Democrats existed, or at all events that in his zeal for the latter he should have been led to step so far out of his own sphere, and descant on patriotism, the union, antiand-pro-slavery, in a style bordering somewhat on that of the stump orator. Occasion ally, no doubt, faint reflections of his former self may be detected, but these partake in some measure of the character of features distorted in the bowl of a spoon. We certainly should never have expected to find an apologist for slavery in the enthusiastic believer in the world's onward progress and social regeneration, and the amiable volunteer laborer on the Pantisocratic farm. Yet he tells us that his hero, the general, " loved his whole, united, native country better than the mistiness of a philanthropic theory," and therefore opposed the abolition of slavery. With this sentiment Mr. Hawthorne strongly sympathizes; and though he does not commit himself to a decided pro-slavery declaration, the line of argument which he adopts, in the attempts to reconcile himself and others to its continuance, is a notable instance of self-deceiving inconsistency; for we presume he does not question the human relation which negroes bear to their taskmasters. But we must not part from him in ill-humor on this account, remembering how De Foe, Dissenter and pillory occupant as he was, makes Crusoe talk of slaves, and how John Newton, after his conversion, was for some time captain of a slave-ship, having previously, if we mistake not, tasted the miseries of slavery himself. Only we hope, for his own sake, Mr. Hawthorne will in future give no more political lucubrations to the world. It is evident that dealing with the dry, practical doings of life is not his forte, and the field over which his genius can range is so wide and varied that we can well dispense with any excursions beyond it. In the desultory remarks we have been making, we must not be understood as putting forward any claims for Hawthorne to rank as a model anything. Exceptions of every kind may be taken to his works, which, though perhaps sans peur, are certainly not always sans reproche. But withal he is a man of genius, and as such without any further peroration" we leave him to our readers. We are quite conscious that we have not done anything like justice to his peculiar genius; but we must excuse ourselves in the words of one of his American critics, who remarks that it "presents traits so fine as to be almost too excellent for popularity, as, to every one who has attempted their criticism, they are too refined for statement. The brilliant atoms flit, hover, and glance before our minds, but the remote sources of their ethereal light lie beyond our analysis on the well-known characters, her eyes blind- | ed with tears even while her lips smile brightly, mirth broken by sighs, weeping dashed with soft laughter-are such as Maga ex periences in reviewing the writings and recalling the genius of North. CAMP BEFORE SEBASTOPOL, 1st September. From the Dublin University Magazine. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. It would be somewhat mortifying, we suspect, to many of those who are generally considered "accredited" authors, were they to step out of the circle in which their claims are either recognized or disputed. Let them lay aside periodicals, avoid every one suspected of a taste for letters, hold no correspondence with literary friends or enemies, and to the rest of the community they will find themselves, to use an expressive phrase, "nobody." Those who are habitually in contact with the literary world can scarcely conceive, or are apt to forget, the amount of indifference and ignorance which prevails without. Mrs. Hemans complained of the oppressive weight of the popular ovations to which she was subjected; yet we have an idea that we could have introduced her to most respectable society, where she might have been quite at ease on that score. As for Elizabeth Barrett Browning, notwithstanding her prettily-bound volume being so common on drawing-room tables, greatest of female poets though she be, in the opinion | of others besides Edgar Allan Poe, we think we could safely guarantee that she, as well as Messrs. Helps, Kingsley, Tennyson, and even the grim Carlyle himself, might appear almost anywhere without being troubled with any demonstration, respectful or otherwise. The subject of our present article may be ranked with the latter class, whose names, familiar as household words in the literary world, are comparatively unknown out of that charmed circle. In "The Scarlet Letter," Mr. Hawthorne bears humorous testimony to the truth of this, when describing his sudden change from literary habits and society to those of a custom-house. Notwithstanding his good-humored philosophy on the subject, we suspect this discovery must have been rather tantalizing, after waiting so long for public recognition; though, to be sure, as we have said, setting customhouses aside, the general reputation he has acquired is as yet, to say the least, limited. We lately saw a critique on him, assuming that the popularity of his works required that some voice should be raised against their deleterious influence. We hope the conscientious critic demolished the obnoxious democrat to his own satisfaction; but to the majority of the respectable readers of his publication, we fear he would be denouncing a man of straw. Undoubtedly, however, this as yet limited reputation is slowly but surely extending, and a few years will greatly change his relation to many other writers more favored at present. "The Scarlet Letter," which appears first to have procured for him a modicum of public attention, has been, in some measure, the means of drawing out of obscurity his other works-those, too, on which we conceive much of his future reputation will rest. The fallen leaves of past years have kept their green through all seasons of neglect, and now begin to be visible, as other once flaunting, now withered, weeds are swept away. With not a few points of resemblance to recent English and American authors, Hawthorne has yet many peculiarities of his own, so nicely characterized that we cannot think of anything like a complete prototype to him in literature. Now, the quaint, still humor of his thoroughly English style, reminds us of Washington Irving; now the delicate, imperceptible touches of Longfellow become apparent; now the calm, genial, effortless flow of Helps. We have often fancied, also, that we could detect a resemblance to John Foster, but we suspect, were we to attempt a comparison of parallel | passages, it would turn out to be rather imaginary. There is a tendency, no doubt, in both, to pry into all the odd nooks, and corners, and dark places of the mind; but the firm, strong, practical nature of Foster never suffers him to carry this beyond a certain point, and always shapes his researches to some masterly conclusion, while Hawthorne often runs riot in the pursuit from mere apparent wantonness. Yet, undoubtedly, it is this ruling feature of Hawthorne's mind that invests his writings with much of their peculiar charm;--producing extravagant and overdrawn description in some; in others it is the zest and spirit of the whole. In reading the works of Macaulay or Bulwer Lytton, there is often a disagreeable consciousness that all is splendidly got up; but with Hawthorne all seems to flow from the heart, and apropos of this, we may remark, that it is a pretty fair test, in most cases, of an author's sincerity, if his reader recognizes, or thinks he recognizes, some thought of his own-some thought, probably, he could never adequately express in his own language that had flitted across his mind in casual musings. We believe people are often unconsciously swayed by this feeling in the choice of an author for their favorite; feeling, if not seeing, with Alton Locke-"Here is one who can put our own thoughts into language for us.' Like almost every original author, Hawthorne occasionally verifies our great dramatist's remark about vaulting ambition o'erleaping itself and falling on the other side, giving utterance to the veriest drivel, such as scribblers of the lowest order could hardly be guilty of perpetrating. It would be hard to say how many readers he has lost who have had the misfortune to take up, say the "Twice-Told Tales," and opened with "Tales of the Province House," or "The Three-fold Destiny." Even in the "Mosses from an Old Manse," which abounds in unmistakable evidences of his genius, abundance of pieces might be cited which would require the utmost stretch of charity to pass by. To a critic of the Lord Jeffrey genus, in want of something to prey upon, Wordsworth's poems would hardly be more valuable in the way of affording scope for very piquant abuse. For our own part, we are inclined to be more good-natured, rather leaning to Poe's opinion, that the effusions of the mind of a man of genius may be compared to a series of ascents and descents, while those of one less highly gifted are more akin to a level, on which hypothesis we are disposed to forgive the descents in consideration of the ascents, and to be much better pleased with a book the half of which is nonsense, and the other half, as Christopher North would have said, "glorious," than with one which is all very good, and has nothing to fall in raptures with from beginning to end. Were we particularly anxious to impress a reader favorably with Hawthorne at starting, we do not think we could succeed better than by directing him to take up the "Mosses from an Old Manse," and begin at the beginning, when, if he did not go to the end of the first article, we should certainly pronounce him an incorrigible dullard. We remember our own first introduction to Hawthorne's works most vividly. We had just returned, in a very improper and contemptuous frame of mind, from hearing a dreary lecture on the mighty progress of this great scientific nineteenth century, addressed to a philosophical institution, and found the "Mosses" awaiting our critical opinion. We took it up carelessly, expecting to be further provoked by some vile Yankee twaddle, and cannot say how agreeably we were disappointed. How breezy and wholesome the picture of the old manse, the river, the woods, and the garden, compared with the sickening, rounded periods about the advancement of science and the improvement of the human race, the "jabber about education" (to use Mr. Helps' expressive words) and moral trainings, which had been falling like lead on us so long! It was a renewal of the sensation we felt when first, in the calm of an autumn noon, reposing on a bank of moss, with a canopy of bright green leaves above, through which an occasional glimpse of the clear blue sky was caught, we turned over the magic pages of Tennyson, and fancied we saw the fairy-footed Olivia sporting by the tall oak beside us, or yonder little hillock to be where "Claribel low lieth." To the merits of the "House of the Seven Gables," the most pleasing and complete of Hawthorne's tales, an adverse critic, in our opinion, unconsciously pays a high compliment, when he complains that the author seizes on the reader by the button, as it were, and, like the Ancient Mariner, compels him to hear the story to an end, which, after all, turns out to be no story at all-that is to say, there is no grand denouement, no long a-missing marriage-certificate is discovered, nor is any hitherto supposed plebeian elevated to patrician rank. An original idea, truly, to censure an author for contriving so to rivet |