ure with which, when a
child, he read and re-read that marvellous book for little people,
"Grandfather's Arm Chair." It opened to him a new world of poetry and
beauty--a revelation which close and severest study of the great
author's mind and character, as developed in his maturer works, has but
made broader and deeper.

With a grateful memory of the first, I write these few lines to recall
almost the latest of Hawthorne's writings; the very last indeed, save
the charming fragment that gave to the world of letters "Little
Pansy"--"The sweetest child," says Alexander Smith, "in English
literature."

I cannot close this brief and cursory notice more appropriately than in
the words of a dear friend and appreciative admirer of our author, James
Russell Lowell:--

"This now 'sacred and happy spirit' was cruelly misunderstood
among men. There were those who would have taken him away from
his proper and peculiar sphere, in which he has done more for
the true fame of his country than any other man, and made him a
politician and reformer.

"Even the faithfulness of his friendships was turned into
reproach.

"Him in whom New England was embodied as never before, making a
part of every fibre of his soul, we have heard charged with
want of patriotism.

"There were certain things and certain men with whom his
essentially aristocratic nature could not sympathize, but he
was American to the core. Just after Bull Run he wrote to a
friend, 'If the event of this day has left the people of the
North in the same grim and bloody mood in which it has left me,
it will be a costly victory to the South.'

"But it is unworthy of this noble man to defend him from
imputations which never touched him. As the years go by, his
countrymen will grow more and more proud of him, more and more
satisfied that it is, after all, something considerable to be
only a genius."

ON HOOSAC MOUNTAIN.

BY EDWARD D. GUILD.

One day, when all the city street
Lay sultry in the summer heat,
I stood on Hoosac's rocky crest,
And drank a draught of joy and rest.

The bracing Berkshire breezes blew
Across the hills, and sweeping through
The grateful valleys, gently fanned
The sun-scorched brow of Greylock grand.

From off the cragged hills Taghkonic,
High o'er the river Housatonic,
An eagle in his