o Redcar,
where the bracing air of the German Ocean soon counteracted the ill
effect of overwork. "The Marble Faun" was in the London printing-office
in November, and he seemed very glad to have it off his hands. His
letters to me at this time (I was still on the Continent) were jubilant
with hope. He was living in Leamington, and was constantly writing to me
that I should find the next two months more comfortable in England than
anywhere else. On the 17th he writes:--

"The Italian spring commences in February, which is certainly an
advantage, especially as from February to May is the most
disagreeable portion of the English year. But it is always summer by
a bright coal-fire. We find nothing to complain of in the climate of
Leamington. To be sure, we cannot always see our hands before us for
fog; but I like fog, and do not care about seeing my hand before me.
We have thought of staying here till after Christmas and then going
somewhere else,--perhaps to Bath, perhaps to Devonshire. But all
this is uncertain. Leamington is not so desirable a residence in
winter as in summer; its great charm consisting in the many
delightful walks and drives, and in its neighborhood to interesting
places. I have quite finished the book (some time ago) and have sent
it to Smith and Elder, who tell me it is in the printer's hands, but
I have received no proof-sheets. They wrote to request another title
instead of the 'Romance of Monte Beni,' and I sent them their choice
of a dozen. I don't know what they have chosen; neither do I
understand their objection to the above. Perhaps they don't like the
book at all; but I shall not trouble myself about that, as long as
they publish it and pay me my L600. For my part, I think it much my
best romance; but I can see some points where it is open to assault.
If it could have appeared first in America, it would have been a
safe thing....

"I mean to spend the rest of my abode in England in blessed
idleness: and as for my journal, in the first place I have not got
it here; secondly, there is nothing in it that will do to publish."

* * * * *

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