"Thus he remained in my memory, a shadow, a phantom, until more than a year
afterwards. Then I came to live in Concord. Every day I passed his house,
but when the villagers, thinking that perhaps I had some clew to the
mystery, said, 'Do you know this Mr. Hawthorne?' I said, 'No,' and trusted
to time.

"Time justified my confidence, and one day I too went down the avenue and
disappeared in the house. I mounted those mysterious stairs to that
apocryphal study. I saw 'the cheerful coat of paint, and golden-tinted
paper-hangings, lighting up the small apartment; while the shadow of a
willow-tree, that swept against the overhanging eaves, attempered the
cheery western sunshine.' I looked from the little northern window whence
the old pastor watched the battle, and in the small dining-room beneath
it, upon the first floor, there were

'Dainty chicken, snow-white bread,'

and the golden juices of Italian vineyards, which still feast insatiable
memory.

"Our author occupied the Old Manse for three years. During that time he was
not seen, probably, by more than a dozen of the villagers. His walks could
easily avoid the town, and upon the river he was always sure of solitude.
It was his favorite habit to bathe every evening in the river, after
nightfall, and in that part of it over which the old bridge stood, at
which the battle was fought. Sometimes, but rarely, his boat accompanied
another up the stream, and I recall the silence and preternatural vigor
with which, on one occasion, he wielded his paddle to counteract the bad
rowing of a friend who conscientiously considered it his duty to do
something and not let Hawthorne work alone, but who, with every stroke,