“The Italian spring commences in February, which is certainly an advantage, especially as from February to May is the most disagreeable portion of the English year.  But it is always summer by a bright coal-fire.  We find nothing to complain of in the climate of Leamington.  To be sure, we cannot always see our hands before us for fog; but I like fog, and do not care about seeing my hand before me.  We have thought of staying here till after Christmas and then going somewhere else,—­perhaps to Bath, perhaps to Devonshire.  But all this is uncertain.  Leamington is not so desirable a residence in winter as in summer; its great charm consisting in the many delightful walks and drives, and in its neighborhood to interesting places.  I have quite finished the book (some time ago) and have sent it to Smith and Elder, who tell me it is in the printer’s hands, but I have received no proof-sheets.  They wrote to request another title instead of the ‘Romance of Monte Beni,’ and I sent them their choice of a dozen.  I don’t know what they have chosen; neither do I understand their objection to the above.  Perhaps they don’t like the book at all; but I shall not trouble myself about that, as long as they publish it and pay me my L600.  For my part, I think it much my best romance; but I can see some points where it is open to assault.  If it could have appeared first in America, it would have been a safe thing....

    “I mean to spend the rest of my abode in England in blessed
    idleness:  and as for my journal, in the first place I have not got
    it here; secondly, there is nothing in it that will do to publish.”

* * * * *

Hawthorne was, indeed, a consummate artist, and I do not remember a single slovenly passage in all his acknowledged writings.  It was a privilege, and one that I can never sufficiently estimate, to have known him personally through so many years.  He was unlike any other author I have met, and there were qualities in his nature so sweet and commendable, that, through all his shy reserve, they sometimes asserted themselves in a marked and conspicuous manner.  I have known rude people, who were jostling him in a crowd, give way at the sound of his low and almost irresolute voice, so potent was the gentle spell of command that seemed born of his genius.

Although he was apt to keep aloof from his kind, and did not hesitate frequently to announce by his manner that

                      “Solitude to him
    Was blithe society, who filled the air
    With gladness and involuntary songs,”

I ever found him, like Milton’s Raphael, an “affable” angel, and inclined to converse on whatever was human and good in life.

Here are some more extracts from the letters he wrote to me while he was engaged on “The Marble Faun.”  On the 11th of February, 1860, he writes from Leamington in England (I was then in Italy):—­