Hawthorne was, indeed, a consummate artist, and I do not remember a
single slovenly passage in all his acknowledged writings. It was a
privilege, and one that I can never sufficiently estimate, to have
known him personally through so many years. He was unlike any other
author I have met, and there were qualities in his nature so sweet and
commendable, that, through all his shy reserve, they sometimes asserted
themselves in a marked and conspicuous manner. I have known rude people,
who were jostling him in a crowd, give way at the sound of his low and
almost irresolute voice, so potent was the gentle spell of command that
seemed born of his genius.

Although he was apt to keep aloof from his kind, and did not hesitate
frequently to announce by his manner that

"Solitude to him
Was blithe society, who filled the air
With gladness and involuntary songs,"

I ever found him, like Milton's Raphael, an "affable" angel, and
inclined to converse on whatever was human and good in life.

Here are some more extracts from the letters he wrote to me while he was
engaged on "The Marble Faun." On the 11th of February, 1860, he writes
from Leamington in England (I was then in Italy):--

"I received your letter from Florence, and conclude that you are now
in Rome, and probably enjoying the Carnival,--a tame description of
which, by the by, I have introduced into my Romance.