ere was a dozen or more of these
boats always ready on the beach in front of our lodgings. These lodgings
were just back of the esplanade, which, during our sojourn, was treated
to a coat of tar from end to end--a delightful entertainment for us
children--and I have loved the smell of tar ever since. There is little
else that I remember about Redcar, except that, in the winter, there
was skating on a part of the beach; but it was "salt ice," and not to be
compared with the skating I was to enjoy a year or two later in Concord,
which I shall describe if ever I come to that epoch in my narrative.

From Redcar, with the romance more than half done, we went south to our
old Leamington, which seemed half like home; and there the loveliness of
an English spring at its best came to greet us, and there the book was
finished, and sent to the printer. We spent a month or two at Bath, and
found it very pleasant; my father rested from his labors, except the
proof-reading; and I was instructed in the use of the broadsword by an
old Peninsular officer, Major Johnstone, who had fought at Waterloo,
and had the bearing of such majors as Thackeray puts into Vanity Fair. I
once asked him whether he had ever killed a man; it was on the day when
he first allowed me to use a real broadsword in our lesson. "Well,"
replied the major, hesitatingly, "I was riding in a charge, and there
came a fellow at me, with his sword up, and made a swing for my head. I
dodged, and his blade just grazed me; but I let him have it, downright,
at the same moment, and I caught him where the neck joins the shoulder,
and he went down, and I went on, and what became of him I don't know; I
hope nothing serious!" The major sighed and looked serious himself. "And
was this the sword?" I demanded, balancing the heavy weapon in my hand.
"No--no--it wasn't that one," said the major, hastily. "I've never used
the other since! Now, then, sir, if you please, on guard!"

We went to London, and there were our old friends Bright and Bennoch,
and the Motleys appeared from Italy, and a book called (by the
publishers) Transformation came out in three volumes, being the latest
romance by the author of The Scarlet Letter. The title was not bestowed
with my father's consent. He had, at the publishers' request, sent them
a list of several titles, beginning with The Marble Faun, and among
others on the list was "The Faun's Transformation." The publishers took
the "Transformation," and