"His good blade carves the casques of men, for the Free Lance
thrusleth sure."
Vol. XIII.
The song of the soul, like the song of the spheres,
Too sweet for expression, too deep for all measure,
Like the sparkle of wine that gives zest unto pleasure
We dream and enjoy, and although we forget,
'Twill lie deep in the soul through an aeon of years
To be sung at the throne in that Haven of Rest,
When we've passed o'er the River of Tears.
HAWTHORNE'S EARLY LIFE.
I — N all New England, where romatic towns abound and
the very haze of romance seems to linger lovingly, no
more romantic town could be found than Salem of Puritan
fame. . It may seem a coincidence that America's greatest
romancer was born in this sleepy village of Massachusetts;
and yet it was the very surroundings of the man that mould
ed his character and, "ripened his genius." In speaking of
Hawthorne's early life, I will confine myself to his boyhood
and early manhood. There is much that is mysterious
about his early years. . .
In this picturesque and historic town, around which so
many harrowing memories cling, was born in Union Street,
REE
JANUARY, 1900.
THr, SONG OF THF, SOUL.
A NCE.
No. 7.
V., 'OO.