of my earlier days.  He is heartily welcome to it; nor is it the only instance, by many, in which the great French romancer has exercised the privilege of commanding genius by confiscating the intellectual property of less famous people to his own use and behoof.’”

Hawthorne was a diligent reader of the Bible, and when sometimes, in my ignorant way, I would question, in a proof-sheet, his use of a word, he would almost always refer me to the Bible as his authority.  It was a great pleasure to hear him talk about the Book of Job, and his voice would be tremulous with feeling, as he sometimes quoted a touching passage from the New Testament.  In one of his letters he says to me:—­

“Did not I suggest to you, last summer, the publication of the Bible in ten or twelve 12mo volumes?  I think it would have great success, and, at least (but, as a publisher, I suppose this is the very smallest of your cares), it would result in the salvation of a great many souls, who will never find their way to heaven, if left to learn it from the inconvenient editions of the Scriptures now in use.  It is very singular that this form of publishing the Bible in a single bulky or closely printed volume should be so long continued.  It was first adopted, I suppose, as being the universal mode of publication at the time when the Bible was translated.  Shakespeare, and the other old dramatists and poets, were first published in the same form; but all of them have long since been broken into dozens and scores of portable and readable volumes; and why not the Bible?”

During this period, after his return from Europe, I saw him frequently at the Wayside, in Concord.  He now seemed happy in the dwelling he had put in order for the calm and comfort of his middle and later life.  He had added a tower to his house, in which he could be safe from intrusion, and where he could muse and write.  Never was poet or romancer more fitly shrined.  Drummond at Hawthornden, Scott at Abbotsford, Dickens at Gad’s Hill, Irving at Sunnyside, were not more appropriately sheltered.  Shut up in his tower, he could escape from the tumult of life, and be alone with only the birds and the bees in concert outside his casement.  The view from this apartment, on every side, was lovely, and Hawthorne enjoyed the charming prospect as I have known, few men to enjoy nature.

His favorite walk lay near his house,—­indeed it was part of his own grounds,—­a little hillside, where he had worn a foot-path, and where he might be found in good weather, when not employed in the tower.  While walking to and fro on this bit of rising ground he meditated and composed innumerable romances that were never written, as well as some that were.  Here he, first announced to me his plan of “The Dolliver Romance,” and, from what he told me of his design of the story as it existed in his mind, I thought it would have been the greatest of his books.  An enchanting memory is left of that morning when he laid out the whole story before me as he intended to write it.  The plot was a grand one, and I tried to tell him how much I was impressed by it.  Very soon after our interview, he wrote to me:—­