capital he sat to Leutze for a portrait. He
took a special fancy to the artist, and, while he was sitting to him,
wrote a long letter to me. Here is an extract from it:--

"I stay here only while Leutze finishes a portrait, which I think
will be the best ever painted of the same unworthy subject. One
charm it must needs have,--an aspect of immortal jollity and
well-to-doness; for Leutze, when the sitting begins, gives me a
first-rate cigar, and when he sees me getting tired, he brings out a
bottle of splendid champagne; and we quaffed and smoked yesterday,
in a blessed state of mutual good-will, for three hours and a half,
during which the picture made a really miraculous progress. Leutze
is the best of fellows."

In the same letter he thus describes the sinking of the Cumberland, and
I know of nothing finer in its way:--

"I see in a newspaper that Holmes is going to write a song on the
sinking of the Cumberland; and feeling it to be a subject of
national importance, it occurs to me that he might like to know her
present condition. She lies with her three masts sticking up out of
the water, and careened over, the water being nearly on a level with
her maintop,--I mean that first landing-place from the deck of the
vessel, after climbing the shrouds. The rigging does not appear at
all damaged. There is a tattered bit of a pennant, about a foot and
a half long, fluttering from the tip-top of one of the masts; but
the flag, the ensign of the ship (which never was struck, thank
God), is under water, so as to be quite invisible, being attached to
the gaff, I think they call it, of the mizzen-mast; and though this
bald description makes nothing of it, I never saw anything so
gloriously forlorn as those three masts. I did not think it was in
me to be so moved by any spectacle of the kind. Bodies still
occasionally float up from it. The Secretary of the Navy says she
shall lie there till she goes to pieces, but I suppose by and by
they will sell her to some Yankee for the value of her old iron.

"P.S. My hair really is not so white as this photograph, which I
enclose, makes me. The sun seems to take an infernal pleasure in
making me venerable,--as if I were as old as himself."

Hawthorne has rested so long in the twilight of impersonality, that I
hesitate sometimes to reveal the man even to his warmest ad