From the "Westminster Review" which lies on the table I will extract for you one passage: "Few have observed mankind closely enough to be able to trace through all its windings the tortuous course of a man who, having made one false step, finds himself thereby compelled to leave the path of truth and uprightness, and seldom regains it. We can, however, refer to at least one living author who has done so; and in 'The Scarlet Letter' by Hawthorne, the greatest of American novelists, Mr. [Wilkie] Collins might see the mode in which the moral lesson from examples of error and crime ought to be drawn. There is a tale of sin, and its inevitable consequences, from which the most pure need not turn away." In another paper in the same number the reviewer speaks of some one who "writes with the pure poetry of Nathaniel Hawthorne." As I have entered upon the subject of glorification, I will continue a little. From London an American traveler writes to Mr. Hawthorne: "A great day I spent with Sir William Hamilton, and two blessed evenings with De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey's house yours is the only portrait. They spoke of you with the greatest enthusiasm, and I was loved for even having seen you. Sir William Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says your 'House of the Seven Gables' is more powerful in description than 'The Scarlet Letter.'" Did I tell you once of an English lady who went to the Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and introduced herself as a literary sister, and who had never been in Liverpool before, and desired Mr. Hawthorne to show her the lions, and he actually escorted her about? An American lady, who knows this Englishwoman, sent the other day a bit of a note, torn off, to Mr. Hawthorne, and on this scrap the English lady says, "I admire Mr. Hawthorne, as a man and as an author, more than any other human being." I have diligently taken cold these four months, and now have a hard cough. It is very noisy and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind fog, chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly well, and is the only Phoebus that shines in England. I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin's urgent invitation to Mr. Hawthorne to go to his seat of Clandeboye, in Ireland, four or five hours from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then came another note. The first was quite formal, but this begins:-- "MY DEAR MR. HAWTHORNE,--. . . Mrs. Norton [his aunt, the Honorable Mrs. Norton] hopes . . . that you will allow her to have the pleasure of receiving you at her house in Chesterfield Street; and I trust you will always remember that I shall esteem it an honor to be allowed to receive you here whenever you may be disposed to pay this country a visit. Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne, "Yours very truly, "DUFFERIN." "CLANDEBOYE, HOLYWOOD." Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage,--"flummery" Mr. Hawthorne calls it?