some service-although the Whigs declared The pressure of official business prevented any effective literary labour, and nothing was accomplished of any moment (beyond memoranda in his note-books) until he left the consulate. His duties were extremely irksome, and he was kept in perpetual uneasiness by the attempts in Congress to deprive him of his fees and put him on a limited salary. A literary man in the consular service of the Republic cannot look for repose. He must move in society for which his small income is insufficient to maintain him on equal terms, and he is perpetually harassed by demands on his time, and especially on his purse, by those of his countrymen who for any reason find themselves stranded for want of money. Hawthorne might probably have remained in office through the administration of Buchanan (who succeeded Pierce), but he resigned in 1857 and went to Italy in January, 1858. His life in the land of art and song was pleasurable, and he planned several romances, but the air was enervating and everything led to repose. "The Marble Faun" was sketched in Italy, but was not written until his return to England. For some unexplained reason the title of the English edition was changed to "Transformation;" but the admirers of the author in the United States hold to the fine and suggestive name he gave it. "The Scarlet Letter" is wonderful for its atmosphere, its characteristic local colouring; it is a perfect mirror of colonial times as regards scenery, manners, and ideas; but "The Marble Faun," which equally bears the marks of the author's individuality, is equally faithful to all that is beautiful in Italy, and suggests the indescribable charm of antiquity, the lingering traditions of the golden age. It is one of his three great romances, and perhaps the greatest, as it was the last. He left unfinished sketches entitled "Septimus Felton," "The Dolliver Romance," and "Dr. Grimshaw's Secret, none of which, as they stand, add to his fame. He sailed to the United States in June, 1860, about a year before the Civil War broke out. He was deeply affected by the situation of affairs, and was unable to set himself at work with anything of the old spirit. He believed that a separation was inevitable, and the only thing to contend for was to retain as many of the Northern Slave States as possible. His anxiety is evident in all that he wrote, and it was the opinion of his friends that it shortened his days. He brought out two volumes of selec tions from his English note-books, entitled "Our Old Home," and he had begun "The Dolliver Romance," but he did not live to complete it. His friend ex-President Pierce induced him to take a trip to Plymouth, New Hampshire, hoping to revive his spirits, which were depressed by many causes, chiefly by the sudden death of Mr. Ticknor, of the firm of Ticknor and Fields, his publishers. The two friends drove to New Hampshire in a carriage and stopped for the night at a hotel, where, without warning, Hawthorne was found dead in his bed. May 19, 1864. He was buried a few days later in the cemetery of Concord, the funeral being attended by a large number of literary men. Mr. Fields has left a beautiful and sympathetic account of it in his "Yesterdays with Authors," and Longfellow's touching poem upon the occasion will recur to all readers. "There, in seclusion and remote from men, This was Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, "Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower The fame of most novels is of short duration, seldom extending much beyond the generation whose tastes they reflect, and whose manners they would perpetuate; the ideal creations of romance have more vitality. Most novels are built up of a multitude of details, the result of observation, so that a novelist like Dickens might say, "Genius is only patience and attention." But no amount of patience and attention could have conceived and wrought "The Scarlet Letter.” Roger Chillingworth and Hester Prynne could not have been created from the most ingenious combination of traits and peculiarities. They are vital conceptions developed from within. They and Dimmesdale are fatally bound together, and not even the author could have controlled their conduct and destiny after having formed them: they must be developed and led to the crisis of the tragedy according to the laws of their being. The story is a pure creation, like the formation of a crystal. Hawthorne has his place among writers endowed with poetic and constructive imagination, a limited number in all the ages. Lowell calls him "a John Bunyan-Fouqué;" but the comparison, though suggestive, fails somewhat in application. "The Pilgrim's Progress" belongs chiefly to the spiritual realm, and "Undine " to fairyland, while the chief romances of Hawthorne have their scenes in the actual world, and might have been literal narrations of human experiences. His genius suggests the occult influences without invoking the aid of miracle, or taking us from our firm footing as reasoning men. certain works of ancient art, some Faun of Praxiteles or Venus of Milo, that one experiences a similar feeling of restful admiration. The truth of line and the naturalness of pose and expression appear inevitable; one cannot think of their being otherwise; their beauty and grace must have always existed; they are no longer works in our eyes, but must have been spoken into being. The obvious drawback in too many of Hawthorne's stories is their prevailing sombre tone. There are occasional scenes glowing with light, like parts of a landscape touched by rays that stream through cloud-rifts; but his mind was possessed of tragic conceptions, and his fairest characters are decked for sacrifice. This bent came partly from his contemplation of the gloomy life of the old Puritan colony as it was in the days of his ancestors, and partly from his solitary habits, and his natural tendency to melancholy. It might have been supposed from his ancestry, his inherited traits, and his surroundings, that his romances, if he produced any, would have been full of storm and stress, startling in plot, violent in action, and highly coloured in style, but of all modern writers he is the one whose language is most temperate, whose movements are most measured, and whose taste is most refined. When one thinks of his inborn energy and his proneness to tempests of wrath, this gracious and equable style affects us like the tense restraint of the fiery Rubin-hundred years hence what view Hawthorne stein playing a melody pianissimo. Theodore Parker says (in substance) that the noblest man has in him some of the finer feminine traits, as the noblest woman has something of man's firm qualities. Hawthorne had much of a woman's delicacy and sensibility as an offset to his unusual power. This is evident in the character of his heroines. He not only knew the creatures of his brain, but entered into their feelings, and represented their speech and action with a subtilty which affects us like the airy traits of Shakespeare's Miranda and Juliet. The most cursory reader feels this, although he may not be able to account for his impres sions. The genius of Hawthorne is shown in no special detail; it is not one thing or another, but the whole conception of the plots and the characters. There is no field in his books for collectors of "elegant extracts" unless they are willing to transfer entire scenes. The reader follows with his spontaneous admiration without being able to select a description or a sentence which, more than another, moves him to say "how beautiful!" | I must repeat that it is only in presence of While the memory of a writer is fresh, something of his personality mingles in our estimate of what he has done; but the time comes when his amiability or his moroseness is forgotten, and his works are judged purely by their merits. What would it matter today whether Dante had been Guelph or Ghibeline, whether Milton had been Puritan or Cavalier? And what will it matter a took of the American civil war, provided only his romances retain their charm? At this time, in thinking of the terrible cost at which the union of the States has been preserved, we cannot wholly forgive men like Hawthorne and Carlyle, who were willing to see that union shattered. Could they have lived to see the grand result of the struggle, the magnanimity of the victors, and the return of fraternal feeling, they would have been forced to confess their shortsightedness. The bitterness engendered by the war is passing away; errors of judgment like Hawthorne's will be excused; and the time must come when the people of Boston, and of Salem and Concord as well, will bethink themselves of erecting proper memorials of the author whose fame sheds lustre upon them all. If Boston honours its great writers as Antwerp has honoured its great artists, there will be in its public squares many statues in bronze or marble in memory of the brilliant men who for the last half century have made its name illustrious; and of that remarkable group no one is surer of enduring fame than Nathaniel Hawthorne. OUR ISLAND SPORTS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." tis of the Westwe thought them very grand indeed. All our rank, wealth, beauty, and fashion, migratory and resident, turned out to look at them, while our aboriginal working population had for weeks beforehand been exercised in preparing for that one day of play. A heavenly day it was, such as makes this our Golden Island as beautiful as any southern paradise. "Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns, And bowery hollows crowned with summer seas.” Some of the party had watched its dawn from a peak three thousand feet high, having started at one in the morning in the dim moon-set, rowed across the bay, and climbed the mountain by starlight, just in time for a gorgeous sunrise, descending thence triumphantly to breakfast, and professing themselves "ready for anything." Which we elders scarcely were, for you can't go to bed at two and rise at seven, with a party of young Alpine climbers on your mind, without feeling a trifle sleepy afterwards. But we roused ourselves, and enjoyed fully the drive along the shore, and up the beautiful "String" road, which winds like a thread over the hillside, visible for miles. Along its usually solitary line were moving all sorts of equipages-spring-carts, dog-carts, waggonettes-objects of surprise and admiration to one who remembers when almost the only mode of locomotion on the island, except "gude shanks-naigie," was a sort of rude cart without any springs at all. To be jolted in it along this String road was a martyrdom compared to which the longest walk became a luxury. We had thought that to sit still for two hours in a comfortable carriage would be a desirable rest for our mountaineers. Not a bit of it! They never seem to know what rest is, except when asleep in their beds. They kept jumping out at every available instant, to relieve the horses, they said, but also, I believe, to get rid of their own exuberant vitality. And every five minutes they turned to look tenderly at the lofty peak whence they had just descended, and remark with patronising calmness of every beautiful view that was pointed out to them, "Oh! we've seen it before-at five this morning." Truly, to watch the sunrise from a mountaintop makes a person intolerably conceited for a week after. So thought those who fain would go and never can, but must watch mountains from the humble plain for the rest of their days. Only, what a good thing it is to have a mountain to watch, and eyes to see it! The village shall I call it as it consists merely of a road-side inn, a farm, and a few scattered cottages-had never till now arrived at the dignity of having sports at all, and felt itself important accordingly. There was quite a bustle in front of the little "public." Its yard was filled with vehicles, and before its door were rows of white-c vered tables, inquirers being informed that a commodation could only be had "outside.' Inside, the comfortable-looking landlady and pleasantfaced lassie, who had to do everything between them, seemed overladen with responsibility, but yet prepared to meet it all. So half of us relieved them by walking off with our provision basket, and eating our dinner in peace by the side of a burn, leaving the others, who preferred luxury and hot meat, to make the best of it; which was better than they expected, for they met us half an hour after with cheerful countenances, declaring they had dined capitally. And dinner, let me confess, in our dear island, where food is limited and appetites are unlimited, is a very important thing. I remember once, coming back from a long walk which made one ready to "eat one's hat," as they say, being met by an agreeable smile of true Highland politeness and the regret that the fish we had ordered "wadna be caught." There was only one egg in the house, though the hen "clucked as if she was thinkin' to lay another." Could we wait? We did wait, but the hen changed her mind, and finally we had to dine off porridge and sour milk, consoled by a promise to kill "half a sheep" for us to-morrow. Whether the other half was to be left running about the mountains till required, did not transpire. We took boat next day to the mainland. But this happened thirty years ago. Since then, our island has advanced in civilisation most miraculously - sometimes most painfully. Astonishing were the toilettes we followed down the farm-yard lane which led to the field, where in a large level plateau the sports were going on. Fashionable polonaises The Judge Throwing The Caber. and jackets, hats all feathers and lace, wigglewaggle dress-improvers, and barbarous highheeled shoes we saw in plenty; but where was the bright-tinted petticoat and short gown?-the white mutch with the plaid drawn over it?-the tartan and the kilt? Gone, all gone! Not a single trace of the old Highland costume could we discover, and we mourned over our Islanders fallen from their high estate of picturesque simplicity, and melting into the light of common day. Still, the natural beauty of the scene could not be spoiled. Our artist, leaning against a gate, took it all in, despairing to set it down -the horse-shoe circle of spectators keenly interested, the accidental groups moving outside, and the sunshiny sleepy repose of the mountains beyond, each standing in his place through gloom or shine. No "Lord's" or "Lillie Bridge" could rival them. The honest ground was the only seat provided for everybody, except a rude platform covered with a bit of brilliant, but not too artistic, carpet, where were placed, pro tem., the musicians-a harp, cornet, and violinwho gave us "Who'll be King but Charlie ?" "A wee Bird came to our ha' door," "The Auld House," and other known tunes, with a pathos and energy, as well as skill, often wanting in much grander bands; and when they subsided into modern music they did equally well, though it was rather funny to hear the Iolanthe and Patience airs in our far-away island. But, except ourselves, no one seemed to listen much; all were absorbed in the high jump then going on. Youth after youth, lithe and wiry, though scarcely so graceful as our southern athletes, cleared the pole, almost as high as themselves. At each success there was a hearty shout; at each of the few failures a good-natured laugh. Evidently the competitors were all showing off under the eyes of their "ain folk," which much increased the excitement. It reached its pitch when a long line of young men were tied by the leg in twos and twos, to run the comical three-legged race, which always delights children and the childlike populace. None sported the brilliant, if rather limited running costume familiar to English athletes, but wore just their ordinary coloured shirt, and trousers tucked up to the knee; yet there were some fine Greek forms among them, which our artist hastily sketched. And when, at the sound of a pistol shot, they all started, wild were the shouts, in Gaelic and English, that followed them; and loud was the cry, half howl, half cheer, which rang across the field, when they all fell together, a writhing mass of legs and arms, in front of a winning-post. One couple lay there some minutes, and when unbound were seen to be examined so anxiously that a whisper of "Leg broken" ran round the admiring circle, and an ardent disciple of St. John's Ambulance Society was just about to advance, proffering "first aid to the wounded," when the young man rose up and walked away. Putting the stone and throwing the caber are performances exclusively Scottish. Only Highland thews and sinews, frames hardened by mountain air and porridge, and innocent of beef and beer-Hodge, poor fellow, is too apt to overeat as well as overdrink himself if he gets a chance-only such brawny fellows as these could have "putted" so accurately and so far a twenty-pound lump of solid granite, or poised with such amazing steadi ness and then thrown over in a double somersault, a huge pine-tree that might have served as walking-stick to the "monster Polypheme." One man (I believe a game-keeper and if so, woe to the poacher who had to wrestle with him!) "putted" the stone again and again; another, grey-haired, but Herculean still, balanced the caber, and ran along with it for a few yards before throwing it over, in a way perfectly marvellous to our Saxon eyes. By this time, the excited throng of natives had been increased by a good number better dressed and calmer minded-tourists and holiday folk. It was amusing to notice what really charming costumes had been fished out of portmanteaus and chest of drawers in those tiny white "letting" cottages, which dot every corner of the island, and where whole families who have discovered, and, alas! are discovering more and more every year, what a delightful island it is, contrive to stow themselves away for the summer. No gorgeous silks or satins appeared: the dresses were chiefly of coloured cotton, or pure white brightened with a "Liberty" sash; while many a pretty face smiled from under a three-halfpenny Zulu hat, decked with a bit of bright colour, or a bunch of real heather. The young men too-does a young man ever look so well as in his grey shooting clothes, his bonnet and his knickerbockers? devot ing himself to a simply-dressed girl-not a " "young lady "-who brings an almost childlike element of frank enjoyment into the natural charm which draws men and young women together, and will do to the end of time? And if it ends in something deeper, well! which is likely to be the best and safest love, that born in a ball-room or on a Highland moor? The children too were especially happy. I noticed half-a-dozen groups of slender damsels with short frocks and long tails, who may grow up to be the belles of the next generation. And there was a boy about twelve, who went about the field dressed in the roughest of clothes, with his beautiful bare brown legs and feet shaped like an Antinous, and a face that might have been that of a young duke. And when the aristocratic element really came upon the scene, it still further exemplified the fact, that the higher you go up in the social scale the simpler are your manners, and the less you "bother about your clothes. By-and-by, the band having vacated the tiny platform, it was occupied by three ladies, very quietly attired, and two gentlemen in shooting costumes. The former had a rough garden seat provided, the latter sat dangling their legs over the wooden framework, but all five seemed thoroughly to enjoy the scene; especially the hundred yards race which now came off, accompanied by shouts of "Noo, Thomas!" "Noo, Donald !" "Well done, John!" Everybody seemed to know everybody and to call them by their Christian names. And no Pythian or Olympian games could have been watched with greater excitement, while Hymettus itself could not |