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gray, deep set, with large projecting eyebrows. His mouth is wide and massive, the expression of the smile hard, cold — even sardonic. The forehead is broad, with prominent organs of ideality; a good deal bald; the hair thin and grayish, as are also the whiskers, which he wears in a simple style. His bearing is quite distinguished, full of the aristocracy of intellect. In general, he looks in better health than before his last visit to England. He seems active — physically and morally energetic. His dress is plain to the extreme of simplicity, although of late there is a certain degree of Anglicism about it.

In character no man stands more loftily than Bryant. The peculiarly melancholy expression of his countenance has caused him to be accused of harshness, or coldness of heart. Never was there a greater mistake. His soul is charity itself, in all respects generous and noble. His manners are undoubtedly reserved.

Of late days he has nearly, if not altogether abandoned literary pursuits, although still editing, with unabated vigor, “The New York Evening Post.” He is married, (Mrs. Bryant still living,) has two daughters, (one of them Mrs. Parke Godwin,) and is residing for the present at Vice-Chancellor McCown’s, near the junction of Warren and Church streets.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

THE reputation of the author of “Twice-Told Tales” has been confined, until very lately, to literary society; and I have not been wrong, perhaps, in citing him as the example, par excellence, in this country, of the privately-admired and publicly-unappreciated man of genius. Within the last year or two, it is true, an occasional critic has been urged, by honest indignation, into very warm approval. Mr. Webber, for instance, (than whom no one ­has a keener relish for that kind of writing which Mr. Hawthorne has best illustrated,) gave us, in a late number of “The American Review,” a cordial and certainly a full tribute to his talents; and since the issue of the “Mosses from an Old Manse,” criticisms of similar tone have been by no means infrequent in our more authoritative journals. I can call to mind few reviews of Hawthorne published before the “Mosses.” One I remember in “Arcturus” (edited by Matthews and Duyckinck) for May, 1841; another in the “American Monthly” (edited by Hoffman and Herbert) for March, 1838; a third in the ninety-sixth number of the “North American Review.” These criticisms, however, seemed to have little effect on the popular taste — at least, if we are to form any idea of the popular taste by reference to its expression in the newspapers, or by the sale of the author’s book. It was never the fashion (until lately) to speak of him in any summary of our best authors.

The daily critics would say, on such occasions, “Is there not Irving and Cooper, and Bryant and Paulding, and — Smith?” or, “Have we not Halleck and Dana, and Longfellow and — Thompson?” or, “Can we not point triumphantly to our own Sprague, Willis, Channing, Bancroft, Prescott and — Jenkins?” but these unanswerable queries were never wound up by the name of Hawthorne.

Beyond doubt, this inappreciation of him on the part of the public arose chiefly from the two causes to which I have referred — from the facts that he is neither a man of wealth nor a quack; but these are insufficient to account for the whole effect. No small portion of it is attributable to the very marked idiosyncrasy of Mr. Hawthorne himself. In one sense, and in great measure, to be peculiar is to be original, and than the true originality there is no higher literary virtue. This true or commendable originality, however, implies not the uniform, but the continuous peculiarity — a peculiarity springing from ever-active vigor of fancy — better still if from ever-present force of imagination, giving its own hue, its own character to everything it touches, and, especially, self impelled to touch everything.

It is often said, inconsiderately, that very original writers always fail in popularity — that such and such persons are too original ­to be comprehended by the mass. “Too peculiar,