well to print it on the title-page in red ink? I am not quite sure
about the good taste of so doing, but it would certainly be piquant
and appropriate, and, I think, attractive to the great gull whom we
are endeavoring to circumvent."

One beautiful summer day, twenty years ago, I found Hawthorne in his
little red cottage at Lenox, surrounded by his happy young family. He
had the look, as somebody said, of a banished lord, and his grand figure
among the hills of Berkshire seemed finer than ever. His boy and girl
were swinging on the gate as we drove up to his door, and with their
sunny curls formed an attractive feature in the landscape. As the
afternoon was cool and delightful, we proposed a drive over to
Pittsfield to see Holmes, who was then living on his ancestral farm.
Hawthorne was in a cheerful condition, and seemed to enjoy the beauty of
the day to the utmost. Next morning we were all invited by Mr. Dudley
Field, then living at Stockbridge, to ascend Monument Mountain. Holmes,
Hawthorne, Duyckinck, Herman Melville, Headley, Sedgwick, Matthews, and
several ladies, were of the party. We scrambled to the top with great
spirit, and when we arrived, Melville, I remember, bestrode a peaked
rock, which ran out like a bowsprit, and pulled and hauled imaginary
ropes for our delectation. Then we all assembled in a shady spot, and
one of the party read to us Bryant's beautiful poem commemorating
Monument Mountain. Then we lunched among the rocks, and somebody
proposed Bryant's health, and "long life to the dear old poet." This was
the most popular toast of the day, and it took, I remember, a
considerable quantity of Heidsieck to do it justice. In the afternoon,
pioneered by Headley, we made our way, with merry shouts and laughter,
through the Ice-Glen. Hawthorne was among the most enterprising of the
merry-makers; and being in the dark much of the time, he ventured to
call out lustily and pretend that certain destruction was inevitable to