Year: 1871

We noticed briefly, when it occur
I red. the death of the widow OF Nathn-
/ iel, Hawthorne in England, and there,
| perhaps, It Is best that we should
/ pause. When the gentle, quiet life
/ Of woman such as this ebbs away
into the gsntleF quiet Of death, silence
over her grave has more meaning
| than any requiem. AS a cheerful


song, or a happy day in the autumn
fields, her memory becomes q pleas
ant, tender reality with Us forever
I but we can not, II we would, impart


or share 1t with Others. There Is a
morbid curiosity through. the country,
however, about Hawthorne and all
/ that surrounded him, arising out Of
the as yet half acknowledged feeling
| that in him America lost her greatest
| poet; and it is only right that this
7 curiosity should be so far gratified as
7 20 do justice to this woman, whom
/ II he had never loved, Hawthorne


would, in al probability, have died
undeveloped and unknown.


! No biographer Of the great roman
| Ger can ever dellneate the strange ele-


ments Of character that mixed them
/ selves in him, and were expressed in
I
abnormal tendencies toward solitude


and gloom; the almost insane dread


Of contact with his fellow men the


obliQue and shadowed aspect in which


as he stood apart, the world appeared


to him. Friendly hands may give


US the outside facts Of his life. the cut


of his clothes, the attitude and gest-


ures which he used to those about


him while trying, out Of keen fear


Of being ridiculous, to fit himself with


their alien habits of thought and


speech but the only glImpses left to


US Of the real Hawthorne are in his
books. The man was Of his own blood,


alone, in the world of thought, and
has left no kinsman. Between him
and the outer world came only his


wife. There was something at once
eomical and pathetic in the dismayed
appeal with which he turned to her
when the ordinary business Of life be-
Wildered and Jared on him, and the
alertness and brightness with which
she served him as mis- shield and shell
ter. She belonged TO one of those old
families in New England who have
imbibed culture with the air. She had
an intellect Of quick and harmonious
movement, which found aptand pleas
ant expression both by her pen and
pencil. But there are so many Of
whom all this may be said Now,
when woman seeks primarily self-de-
velopement, there are so many artists
and authors! 1t may do US no harm
to look for a moment at this ona who
had no other aim than to be simply a
wife. There is a Significance to all
women in the fact that, while the
genius and idiosynerasies of her hus-
band placed him on an entirely differ
ent intellectual level from her own,
the intimate love between them made
them one, and fitted her, with her
keen tact and wholesome sweetness of
temper, to interpret between him and
the world. If 10 had not been for that
eheerfulness and sunny temper, which
kept daylight about him perpetually,
the moody genius Of Hawthorne
would never have struggled through
its shadows into light. The world
owed a great debt to this woman, who
was eontented to be only a wife.


There is a pleasant hill slope near
Concord, full of fshady lanes and dusky
with apple trees, where Hawthorne
and his wife were used to walk at
evening, cheerfully talking as they
went. He sleeps their now alone.
We can not bear to think they will
leave the gentle, bright faced lady to
rest in one Of the damp churchyards Of
foggy London. But, however that
may be, we think that somewhere,
where ne waited for her, they must
have met ere now. We like to fan
cy that the wife's work is not yet all
done; that even in the limitless
possibilities of the heresfter, the home
IL love and care which are left behind
US here are needed and waited for;
and to believe that through the lives
to come this man and his true wife
will pass on side by side together
N. Y. Tribune.