In Mr. Emerson's house, I said, it seemed always morning. But
Hawthorne's black-ash trees and scraggy apple-boughs shaded

"a land
In which it seemed always afternoon."

I do not doubt that the lotus grew along the grassy marge of the
Concord behind his house, and it was served, subtly concealed, to all
his guests. The house, its inmates, and its life lay, dream-like, upon
the edge of the little village. You fancied that they all came
together and belonged together, and were glad that at length some idol
of your imagination, some poet whose spell had held you and would hold
you forever, was housed as such a poet should be.

During the lapse of the three years since the bridal tour of twenty
miles ended at the "two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone", a little
wicker wagon had appeared at intervals upon the avenue, and a placid
babe, whose eyes the soft Concord day had touched with the blue of its
beauty, lay looking tranquilly up at the grave old trees, which sighed
lofty lullabies over her sleep. The tranquillity of the golden-haired
Una was the living and breathing type of the dreamy life of the Old
Manse. Perhaps, that being attained, it was as well to go. Perhaps our
author was not surprised nor displeased when the hints came, "growing
more and more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for
his native air". One afternoon I entered the study, and learned from
its occupant that the last story he should ever write there was
written. The son of the old pastor yearned for his homestead. The
light of another summer would seek its poet in the Old Manse, but in
vain.