in _Our Old Home_, is an admirable recital of these
observations, and a proof that the novelist might have found much
material in the opportunities of the consul. On his return to America,
in 1860, he drew from his journal a number of pages relating to his
observations in England, re-wrote them (with, I should suppose, a good
deal of care), and converted them into articles which he published in
a magazine. These chapters were afterwards collected, and _Our Old
Home_ (a rather infelicitous title), was issued in 1863. I prefer to
speak of the book now, however, rather than in touching upon the
closing years of his life, for it is a kind of deliberate _resume_ of
his impressions of the land of his ancestors. "It is not a good or a
weighty book," he wrote to his publisher, who had sent him some
reviews of it, "nor does it deserve any great amount of praise or
censure. I don't care about seeing any more notices of it."
Hawthorne's appreciation of his own productions was always extremely
just; he had a sense of the relations of things, which some of his
admirers have not thought it well to cultivate; and he never
exaggerated his own importance as a writer. _Our Old Home_ is not a
weighty book; it is decidedly a light one. But when he says it is not
a good one, I hardly know what he means, and his modesty at this
point is in excess of his discretion. Whether good or not, _Our Old
Home_ is charming--it is most delectable reading. The execution is
singularly perfect and ripe; of all his productions it seems to be the
best written. The touch, as musicians say, is admirable; the
lightness, the fineness, the felicity of characterisation and
description, belong to a man who has the advantage of feeling
delicately. His judgment is by no means always sound; it often rests
on too narrow an observation. But his perception is of the keenest,
and though it is frequently partial, incomplete, it is excellent as
far as it goes. The book gave but limited satisfaction, I believe, in
England, and I am not sure that the failure to enjoy certain
manifestations of its sportive irony, has not chilled the appreciation
of its singular grace. That English readers, on the whole, should have
felt that Hawthorne did the national mind and manners but partial
justice, is, I think, conceivable; at the same time that it seems to
me remarkable that the tender side of the book, as I may call it,
should not have carried it off better. It abounds in passages more