m as long as possible, because it put
off Aunt Mary and Wenham, where Jack and I had promised to stay all
night, letting the others go on to wait for us at Newburyport. Jack had
a map (he doesn't mind having maps of towns, or looking at road maps
when _in_ towns), and we took a regular Hawthorne itinerary. We began at
the house in Union Street where he was born--a rather pathetic, forlorn
house, like the birthplaces of most geniuses; then the next, where the
family lived till they moved to Raymond, in sight of the White
Mountains; and so on, following to the custom-house where the bored
genius weighed and gauged, and not missing a single landmark. All are
picturesque to the imagination, but the landmark most picturesque to the
eye is of course "The House of Seven Gables," and that, some of those
dreadful people who dispute everything nice say, isn't what it pretends
to be.

As if such an adorable and perfectly sincere and high-souled looking
house would pretend anything! Should I hear such heresy uttered I would
stop my ears, but coming on it in print was simple, because all I had to
do was to snap the book shut with a bang. It is the dearest, kindest
little gray house, which all new houses, no matter how big and
distinguished, would be proud to have for their grandmother!

Hawthorne's cousin, Miss Ingersoll, whom he called the "Duchess," lived
in the old Turner Street house, and it _had_ had seven gables before his
day. It's perfectly legitimate to put them back, and even a _duty_,
which has been exquisitely carried out. I should like to kiss the hand
of the lady who honoured Hawthorne's beautiful memory by making the
house as dear as that memory itself. I suppose it was she who had the
brilliant idea of using for a front door an old nailed oak one found in
the attic (there must be a lovely attic!), putting the quaint oven of
ancient times into the kitchen, and retrieving from oblivion the
"Duchess's" toasting fork with which she used to make toast for
Hawthorne. There's a creepy story about the way he thought of the
murder, from seeing, through a tiny window of greenish glass, a cousin
of his fast asleep and looking as if dead. But there's a story just as
fascinating about every house in Salem, connected with Hawthorne.
Romantic and interesting things followed him about in his life, like
tame dogs, though he didn't always realize at the moment that they were
romantic or interesting. Sometimes he thought only that the