Three of the most perfect
Englishmen of our day are Americans,--Irving, Prescott, and this great
new writer, Mr. Hawthorne." So far my friend Mr. Hockey. I forget, dear
Mr. Hawthorne, whether I told you that the writer of whose works you
remind me, not by imitation, but by resemblance, is the great French
novelist, Balzac. Do you know his books? He is untranslated and
untranslatable, and it requires the greatest familiarity with French
literature to relish him thoroughly.... I doubt if he be much known
amongst you; at least I have never seen him alluded to in American
literature. He has, of course, the low morality of a Frenchman, but,
being what he is, Mrs. Browning and I used to discuss his personages
like living people, and regarded his death as a great personal calamity
to both.
I am expecting Mrs. Browning here in a few days, not being well enough
to meet her in London.... How I wish, dear Mr. Hawthorne, that you were
here to meet them! The day will come, I hope. It would be good for your
books to look at Europe, and all of Europe that knows our tongue would
rejoice to look at you.
Ever your obliged and affectionate friend,
M. R. MITFORD.
I must transcribe here, too, part of a letter from Herman Melville, who,
in the midst of his epistle, suddenly assumes the tone of a reviewer,
and discourses as follows, under the heading, "_The House of the Seven
Gables: A Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne_. 16_mo. pp._ 344."
"The contents of this book do not belie its clustering romantic title.
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