There sat papa on the hay, and like a needle to a
magnet she was drawn, and begged to see papa a little longer, and stay
with him. Now she has come, weary enough; and after steeping her
spirit in this rose and gold of twilight, she has gone to bed. With
such a father, and such a scene before her eyes, and with eyes to see,
what may we not hope of her? I heard her and Julian talking together
about their father's smile, the other day. They had been speaking of
some other person's smile--Mr. Tappan's, I believe; and presently Una
said, "But you know, Julian, that there is no smile like papa's!" "Oh
no," replied Julian. "Not like papas!" Una has such an intuitive
perception of spheres, that I do not wonder at her feeling about her
father. She can as yet hardly tell why she is so powerfully attracted;
but her mother can sympathize,--and knows very well.
Do not wait an hour to procure the two last numbers of "The Literary
World," and read a new criticism on Mr. Hawthorne. At last some one
speaks the right word of him. I have not before heard it. I have been
wearied and annoyed hitherto with hearing him compared to Washington
Irving and other American writers, and put, generally, second. At last
some one dares to say what in my secret mind I have often
thought--that he is only to be mentioned with the Swan of Avon; the
great heart and the grand intellect combined. I know you will enjoy
the words of this ardent Virginian as I do. But it is funny to see how
he does not know how this heart and this intellect are enshrined.
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