In a few moments her head
drooped upon her arm, and her glittering eyes closed,--she was
sleeping. He stood looking at her still, steadily, thoughtfully,
tenderly. Presently he lifted his hand to his forehead, as if recalling
some fading remembrance of other years.
"Poor Catalina!"
This was all he said. He shook his head,--implying that his visit would
be in vain to-day,--returned to his sulky, and rode away, as if in a
dream.
* * * * *
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
The romance of "The Marble Faun" will be widely welcomed, not only for
its intrinsic merits, but because it is a sign that its writer, after a
silence of seven or eight years, has determined to resume his place in
the ranks of authorship. In his preface he tells us, that in each of
his previous publications he had unconsciously one person in his eye,
whom he styles his "gentle reader." He meant it "for that one congenial
friend, more comprehensive of his purposes, more appreciative of his.
success, more indulgent of his short-comings, and, in all respects,
closer and kinder than a brother,--that all-sympathizing critic, in
short, whom an author never actually meets, but to whom he implicitly
makes his appeal, whenever he is conscious of having done his best.
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