When the travellers arrived in the Shaker village of Canterbury, Hawthorne at once made the acquaintance of the Community there, and the account which he sent home was to the effect that the brothers and sisters led a good and comfortable life, and he wrote:  “If it were not for the ridiculous ceremonies, a man might do a worse thing than to join them.”  Indeed, he spoke to them about becoming a member of the Society, and was evidently much impressed with the thrift and peace of the establishment.

This visit in early life to the Shakers is interesting as suggesting to Hawthorne his beautiful story of “The Canterbury Pilgrims,” which is in his volume of “The Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told Tales.”

A lady of my acquaintance (the identical “Little Annie” of the “Ramble” in “Twice-Told Tales”) recalls the young man “when he returned home after his collegiate studies.”  “He was even then,” she says, “a most noticeable person, never going into society, and deeply engaged in reading everything he could lay his hands on.  It was said in those days that he had read every book in the Athenaeum Library in Salem.”  This lady remembers that when she was a child, and before Hawthorne had printed any of his stories, she used to sit on his knee and lean her head on his shoulder, while by the hour he would fascinate her with delightful legends, much more wonderful and beautiful than any she has ever read since in printed books.

The traits of the Hawthorne character were stern probity and truthfulness.  Hawthorne’s mother had many characteristics in common with her distinguished son, she also being a reserved and thoughtful person.  Those who knew the family describe the son’s affection for her as of the deepest and tenderest nature, and they remember that when she died his grief was almost insupportable.  The anguish he suffered from her loss is distinctly recalled by many persons still living, who visited the family at that time in Salem.

I first saw Hawthorne when he was about thirty-five years old.  He had then published a collection of his sketches, the now famous “Twice-Told Tales.”  Longfellow, ever alert for what is excellent, and eager to do a brother author opportune and substantial service, at once came before the public with a generous estimate of the work in the North American Review; but the choice little volume, the most promising addition to American literature that had appeared for many years, made little impression on the public mind.  Discerning readers, however, recognized the supreme beauty in this new writer, and they never afterwards lost sight of him.