of the world, the better I think of my own country (not that I like it very enthusiastically, either!), and, thank God, England's day is past forever. I have such a conviction of the decline and fall of England, that I am about as well satisfied as if it had already taken place. I will disown Frank Pierce if he backs down one inch (but I am sure he never will), and I would rather see America sink (in which case I will come back and sink with her) than have her give up her just rights. But there is no danger of her sinking! . . . I hate England; though I love some Englishmen, and like them generally, in fact. I shall be true to my country, and get on with John Bull as well as I can. The time will come, sooner or later, when the old fellow will look to us for his salvation. He is in more danger from his allies than we are either from them or from him. The truth is, I love England so much that I want to annex it, and it is by no means beyond the scope of possibility that we may do so,—though hardly in my time. I would far rather have it than Cuba. There are several weeks of the year when, so far as weather is concerned, I would not change the island for Paradise. I shall never take root anywhere, unless I establish myself in some old manor-house, like those I see here. The United States are fit for many excellent purposes, but they certainly are not fit to live in. Yet the advantages of living in England are concentrated in London,—leave that out, and I would rather be in America—that is to say, if Presidential elections and all other political turmoil could be done away with—and if I could be deprived of my political rights, and left to my own individual freedom."
Hawthorne was never seriously the enemy of any human being; but he could talk about some who bored him rather tartly at times. "Grace Greenwood sailed for America yesterday," he writes. "I fear she has left her heart in England; though whether in possession of a single individual, or of the whole nation, is more than I can tell. Her book, I suppose, is a republication of her letters in The Era, and in that case you will not make much money out of them. Ink-stained women are, without a single exception, detestable."
Another ink-stained sister fares better. "I recollect bestowing some vituperation on female authors lately," he remarks; "I have since been reading Ruth Hall, and, I must say, I enjoyed it a good deal. The woman writes as if the devil was in her; and that is the only condition under which a woman writes anything worth reading. Generally, they write like emasculated men, and are only to be distinguished from male authors by greater feebleness and folly; but when they throw off the restraints of decency, and come before the public stark naked, as it were—then their books are sure to possess character and value. Can you tell me anything about this 'Fanny Fern'? If you meet her, I wish you would tell her how much I admire her." Of yet another he thinks better, and worse: "These are admirable poems of hers; but the devil must be in the woman to publish them. It seems to let out a whole history of domestic unhappiness. What a strange propensity it is in these scribbling women to make a show of their hearts, as well as their heads, upon a bookseller's counter, for anybody to pry into that chooses! However, I, for one, am much obliged to the lady, and esteem her beyond comparison the first of American poetesses. What does her husband think of it?"
He is more genial towards men writers, his own friends especially. Longfellow published "Hiawatha" in 1856, and Hawthorne writes: "I heard in London a strong and confident assurance that Longfellow is coming over this summer. Are there any grounds for this report? If he cares about being lionized, let him come now; for his reputation can never be higher, or hotter. I wish he would come. His 'Hiawatha' seems to be perfectly original—the annexation of a new dominion to our poetical territories; and he seems to have caught the measure and rhythm from the sough of the wind among forest boughs. It puts him higher in my estimation of his originality, and I love to see him still on the ascent. It gives me great pleasure to hear of the great success of 'Hiawatha'; on this side of the water, too, it is received with greater favor, I think, than any of Longfellow's former works, and has gained him admirers among those who have
