I give a letter which must have come like the song of a wood-thrush to
the author, its diction being as pure as his own, and yet as strong.
BROOKLYN; July 7, 1852.
MR. HAWTHORNE,--You have expressed the kind hope that your writings
might interest those who claim the same birthplace with yourself. And
as we need but slight apology for doing what inclination suggests, I
easily persuade myself that it will not be very inappropriate for me
to assure you that in one heart, at least, pride in your genius and
gratitude for high enjoyment owed to you have added to, and made still
more sacred, the strong love otherwise felt for the spot where the
precious gift of life was received.
In earlier days, with your "Twice-Told Tales," you played upon my
spirit-harp a sweet melody, the notes of which have never died
away--and years after, when my heart was just uplifting itself from a
deep sorrow, I read the introduction to your "Mosses from an Old
Manse;" and I rejoiced in your words, as a tree, borne down by the
wind and storm, rejoices in the first gentle breeze or ray of kindly
sunshine.
And now, as after repeated griefs and lengthened anxieties I think I
am come to that period of second youth of which you speak, I am
permitted to delight in the marvelous beauty and infinite delicacy of
the narration of "The Scarlet Letter," and the deep insight into human
hearts and minds shown in that and the later production. When I am
tempted to lay down the burden which, of one kind or another, mortals
must daily bear, and forget that "all human liberty is but a restraint
self-imposed or consented to," I shall call to mind the touching
moment when Hester Prynne sadly bound up her flowing tresses, but just
released, and meekly reassumed the badge of her shame.
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