year afterwards. Then I came to live in Concord. Every day I passed
his house, but when the villagers, thinking that perhaps I had some
clew to the mystery, said, "Do you know this Mr. Hawthorne?" I said
"No," and trusted to time.

Time justified my confidence, and one day I, too, went down the avenue
and disappeared in the house. I mounted those mysterious stairs to
that apocryphal study. I saw "the cheerful coat of paint, and
golden-tinted paper-hangings, lighting up the small apartment; while
the shadow of a willow-tree, that swept against the overhanging eaves,
attempered the cheery western sunshine." I looked from the little
northern window whence the old pastor watched the battle, and in the
small dining-room beneath it, upon the first floor, there were

"Dainty chicken, snow-white bread,"

and the golden juices of Italian vineyards, which still feast
insatiable memory.

Our author occupied the Old Manse for three years. During that time he
was not seen, probably, by more than a dozen of the villagers. His
walks could easily avoid the town, and upon the river he was always
sure of solitude. It was his favorite habit to bathe every evening in
the river, after nightfall, and in that part of it over which the old
bridge stood, at which the battle was fought. Sometimes, but rarely,
his boat accompanied another up the stream, and I recall the silent
and preternatural vigor with which, on one occasion, he wielded his
paddle to counteract the bad rowing of a friend who conscientiously
considered it his duty to do something and not let Hawthorne work
alone; but who, with every stroke, neutralized all Hawthorne's