placard
with "WELCOME, KOSSUTH" inscribed upon it. There was a great throng
and press of men and women, a subdued, omnipresent roar of talk, and a
setting of the tide towards the place where the patriot stood to receive
our personal greetings. The scribe whom I have mentioned, being as
yet brief of stature, was unable to see anything except coat-tails
and petticoats, until of a sudden there was a breaking away of these
obstacles and he found himself in close proximity to a gentleman
of medium height, strongly built, with a mop of dark hair framing a
handsome, pale, smiling face, the lower parts of which were concealed
by a thick brown beard. It was Kossuth, and there was that in his
countenance and expression which satisfied all the dreams of his
admirer. He was chatting and shaking hands with the elder persons; and
in a minute we were moving on again, and the printed card, for which
the whole function had been created, had not been presented. At the
last moment, in an agony of apprehension, the boy pulled at his mother's
skirt and whispered piteously, "But my card!" She heard and remembered;
but need was for haste; we had already passed the vantage-point. She
snatched it from the tightly gripping fingers of the bearer, handed
it to Kossuth, and at the same moment, with a gesture, directed his
attention to her small companion. The Hungarian read the inscription
at a glance, looked me in the eyes with a quick smile of comprehension,
and, stepping towards me, laid his hand upon my head. It was a great
moment for me; but as I went away I suddenly dissolved in tears, whether
from the reaction of emotion, or because I had not myself succeeded in
delivering my gift, I cannot now determine. But Kossuth thereby became,
and for years he continued to be, the most superb figure in my political
horizon.

All this while The Blithedale Romance was being written. Inasmuch as it
was finished on the last day of April, 1852, it could not have occupied
the writer more than five months in the composition. Winter was his best
time for literary work, and there was winter enough that year in West
Newton. In the middle of April came the heaviest snowstorm of the
season. Brook Farm (modified in certain respects to suit the conditions)
was the scene of the story, and Brook Farm was within a fair walk of
West Newton. I visited the place some thirty years later, and found the
general topographical features substantially as described in the book.