[Manchester—Sunday, 30 July 1871]

Sunday July 30. A whole week has gone again since I wrote. We have rain and mist and fog now-a-days—but all nature rejoices in having the sun veiled. Morning and evening and in the night when I awake & everywhere I go over the beautiful landscape all day long I hear the solemn light house bell.

Jamie came from town with news yesterday. Strahan the London Publisher is here and tells us that a novel by Hawthorne complete, has been discovered among his papers. Mrs Hawthorne revealed the fact in her last hours. She had been working laboriously over the mss. Browning has read it and others are judges and it is considered one of his finest works. The title is “Septimus”—the deathless man. The scene is laid in Lexington, time that of the Revolutionary war. Tennyson has another Idyl but he asks 2000 guineas for it. It is not long. Yesterday was a meeting of the Saturday Club—Emerson, Forbes, Pierce, Agassiz, Hunt, Lowell were there, all, with guests. Mr. Alcott, Mr. Howisson, Mr. Harris, the latter two lovers of philosophy have been here this week. Channing is still writing poems in Concord says Alcott. The latter smiles blandly at his own former absurdities, but he does not eat meat, and continues his ancient manner of living among books. The old gentleman gave me this wild rose as he went away. He quoted Vaughan, talked of a book of selections he would wish to see made “a honey pot into which he might dip at leisure”, also an almanac suitable for a lady of the choicest things among the ancient writers. He was full of good sayings and most witty and attractive. He is somewhat deaf but he bears this infirmity as he has borne all the ills of life with a mild sweet heroism most marked and worthy of love and to be copied.

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