uriosity of a New England villager is
can readily imagine the feelings with which the people of Concord
regarded their mysterious neighbor. They were never satisfied, however,
for Hawthorne shrank from prying eyes with indescribable horror. He kept
his ways, and compelled them to let him alone. He could easily avoid the
town in his walks or his rides upon the river, and he was rarely seen
passing through the streets unless compelled to do so by matters which
needed his attention in Concord.

Yet the "Old Manse" was not without its guests. Hawthorne was a man of
many friends, and these came often to see him. They were men after his
own heart, and among them were Emerson, Ellery, Channing, Thoreau,
Whittier, Longfellow, and George William Curtis. The last-named has left
us this pleasant picture of our author in the midst of his friends:

"During Hawthorne's first year's residence in Concord, I had driven up
with some friends to an esthetic tea at Mr. Emerson's. It was in the
winter, and a great wood-fire blazed upon the hospitable hearth. There
were various men and women of note assembled, and I, who listened
attentively to all the fine things that were said, was for some time
scarcely aware of a man who sat upon the edge of the circle, a little
withdrawn, his head slightly thrown forward upon his breast, and his
bright eyes clearly burning under his black brow. As I drifted down the
stream of talk, this person who sat silent as a shadow looked to me as
Webster might have looked had he been a poet--a kind of poetic Webster.
He rose and walked to the window, and stood quietly there for a long
time, watching the dead white landscape. No appeal was made to him,
nobody looked after him, the conversation flowed as steadily on as if
every one understood that his silence was to be respected. It was the
same thing at table. In vain the silent man imbibed esthetic tea.
Whatever fancies it inspired did not flower at his lips. But there was a
light in his eye which assured me that nothing was lost. So supreme was
his silence, that it presently engrossed me to the exclusion of every
thing else. There was brilliant discourse, but this silence was much
more poetic and fascinating. Fine things were said by the philosophers,
but much finer things were implied by the dumbness of this gentleman
with heavy brows and black hair. When presently he rose and went,
Emerson, with the 'slow, wise smile' that breaks over his face, like day
over th