This period was one of great discouragement. Hawthorne was very lonely, very poor, and practically unnoticed by the public. He had a little chamber under the eaves in which he sat and wrote. "Here I sat a long, long time," he said later, "waiting patiently for the world to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not know me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at all."

When he became engaged to be married, he decided that he must look about for other work to do, in order to earn more money. He succeeded in getting a position at the Custom House in Salem, but as he was utterly unsuited to the work, he soon lost the place. Then he tried living for a while at Brook Farm, where many famous literary men and women of that day used to meet. There he rose at daybreak, milked cows, hoed potatoes, raked hay, and for a short time was a true farmer. But he did not like this life any better than that of the Custom House, and in 1842 he married and removed to Concord. The young writer and his wife had to struggle to "make both ends meet." During this time he wrote but little.

He always composed slowly and with difficulty, and found it impossible to write much at one time. He was too dreamy and sensitive a man to succeed in business, and all his attempts in that direction failed. He was a second time appointed to a position in the Salem Custom House, this time to the

important post of inspector, but he was a second. time dismissed.

After this dismissal he settled down to writing once more, and in 1850 brought out "The Scarlet Letter," which established his fame. The scene of this story was laid in Salem, as was that of "The House of Seven Gables," which followed. His two famous children's books, " The Wonder-Book," and "Tanglewood Tales," belong in this successful period of his life. The latter book has been called "a work of sunshine from cover to cover."

Hawthorne was perfectly devoted to his children and used to have good times with them. "He made those spring days memorable to his children," his son writes. "He made them boats to sail on the lake, and kites to fly in the air; he took them fishing and flower-gathering, and tried to teach them swimming. In the autumn they all went nutting, and filled a certain disused oven in the house with bags upon bags of nuts. The children's father displayed extraordinary activity and energy on these nutting expeditions. Standing on the ground at the foot of a tall walnut tree, he would bid them turn their backs and cover their eyes with their hands; then they would hear, for a few seconds, a sound of rustling and scrambling, and, immediately after, a shout, whereupon they would uncover their eyes and gaze upward; and lo! there was their father swaying and soaring high aloft on the topmost

branches. And then down would rattle showers of ripe nuts, which the children would diligently pick up. It was all a splendid holiday; and they cannot remember when their father was not their playmate, or when they ever desired or imagined any other playmate than he."

In 1853, Hawthorne was sent to Liverpool, England, as United States Consul. He was so shy that he did not make acquaintances very readily among the well-known writers and literary men in England, but he was very careful about fulfilling his public duties. When his term of office was ended, he and his family went to Italy, settling first in Rome, and then in Florence. Here it was that Hawthorne wrote the famous "Marble Faun." This was the last book from his hand, for he died at Plymouth, New Hampshire, shortly after his return to this country (May 19, 1864).

Hawthorne's style is considered very remarkable. It is quite unlike that of any other writer, and a single paragraph quoted from one of his books is easy to recognize as his work. He wrote fewer books than most noted writers, but on this very account those that he has given us are all the more valuable.

ab sorbed', wholly engaged. chron'i cle, a record.

ex haus'tion, utter weariness. mas'sive, large and heavy in appear

ance.

pro fu'sion, a very large quantity. mem'o ra ble, worthy to be remembered.

dil'i gent ly, actively; in a painstak

ing way.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

THAT very singular man old Dr. Heidegger once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen

Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne — and a withered gentlewoman whose name was the widow Wycherly. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that these three old gentlemen were early lovers of the widow Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. And before proceeding further I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves, as is not infrequently the case with old people when worried either by present troubles or woful recollections.

"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments with which I amuse myself here in my study."

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with cobwebs and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several oaken book-cases, filled with books. Over the central book-case was a bronze bust of

Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. Between two of the book-cases hung a lookingglass, within a tarnished gilt frame.

The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady, but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions and died on the bridal evening.

The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned: it was a ponderous folio volume bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic, and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it merely to brush away the dust, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor and several faces had peeped forth from the mirror, while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned and said, “Forbear!"

Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table as black as ebony stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut glass vase of beautiful form and elab