The son of the greatest writer of romance yet produced in America, Nathaniel Hawthorne, has written in this entertaining volume his remembrances of his father and his father's friends. The author's standpoint is personal throughout, which adds Greatly to the charm of the narrative.
ing them--the giants did not withdraw their graciousness--but by comparing the lot of others with my own. And yet, to tell the truth--perhaps I might better leave it untold; only in these chapters, especially, I will not begin with reserves--to say truth, then, my world, during my father's lifetime, and afterwards for I will not say how long, was divided into two natural parts, my father being one of them, and everybody else the other. Hence I was led to regard the parties of the latter part, rich or poor, giants or pygmies, as being, after all, of much the same stature and value. The brightness (in the boy's estimation) of the paternal figure rendered distinctions between other brightnesses unimportant. The upshot was, in short, that I inclined to the opinion that while compassion was unquestionably due to other children for not having a father like mine, yet in other respects my condition was not egregiously superior to theirs. They might not know the Brownings or the Julia Ward Howes; but then, very likely