e sky, said: 'Hawthorne rides well his horse of the night.'"
Later on, after he knew him better, Curtis added to this picture, "His
own sympathy was so broad and sure, that, although nothing had been said
for hours, his companion knew that not a thing had escaped his eye, nor
had a single pulse of beauty in the day, or scene, or society failed to
thrill his heart. In this way his silence was most social. Every thing
seemed to have been said."

At the close of the third year of his residence at Concord, Hawthorne
was obliged to give up the "Old Manse," as the owner was coming back to
occupy it. The Democrats had now come into power again under Mr. Polk,
and Mr. Bancroft was in the Cabinet. The Secretary, mindful of his
friend, procured him the post of Surveyor of the Port of Salem, and
Hawthorne went with his little family to live in his native town. The
Salem Custom-house was a sleepy sort of a place, and his duties were
merely nominal. He had an abundance of leisure time, and from that
leisure was born his masterpiece, "The Scarlet Letter"--the most
powerful romance which ever flowed from an American author's pen. It was
published in 1850, and in the preface to it the reader will find an
excellent description of the author's life in Salem. He held his
position in that place for three years, and then the election of General
Taylor obliged him to retire.

He withdrew to the Berkshire Hills, and took a house in the town of
Lenox. It was a little red cottage, and was situated on the shore of a
diminutive lake called the Stockbridge Bowl. He was now the most famous
novelist in America, and had thousands of admirers in the Old World. His
"Scarlet Letter" had won him fame, and had brought his earlier works
more prominently before the public than ever.

During his residence at Lenox, he wrote "The House of the Seven Gables,"
which was published in Boston in 1851. It was not less successful than
the "Scarlet Letter," though it was not so finished a piece of
workmanship.

Yet, though so famous, he was not freed from the trials incident to the
first years of an author's life. Mr. Tuckerman says of him at this time:
"He had the fortitude and pride, as well as the sensitiveness and
delicacy, of true and high genius. Not even his nearest country
neighbors knew aught of his meager larder or brave economies. He never
complained, even when editors were dilatory in their remuneration and
friends forgetful of their promises. When the