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- repose of this Hawthorne’s spell, how aptly might the still fall of his
ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolised by: ‘In the stillest
afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible,
falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect
ripeness.’ For no less ripe than ruddy are the apples of the thoughts
and fancies in this sweet Man of Mosses.
_Buds and Bird Voices._ What a delicious thing is that! ‘Will the world
ever be so decayed, that spring may not renew its greenness?’ And the
_Fire Worship_. Was ever the hearth so glorified into an altar before?
The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty
folio volumes. How exquisite is this: ‘Nor did it lessen the charm of
his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness that the mighty spirit, were
opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap
its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save
their whitened bones. This possibility of mad destruction only made his
domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of
him, being endowed with such power, to dwell day after day, and one long
lonesome night after another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then
betraying his wild nature by thrusting his red tongue out of the
chimney-top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was
pretty certain to do more; but his warm heart atoned for all. He was
kindly to the race of man; and they pardoned his characteristic
imperfections.’
But he has still other apples, not quite so ruddy, though full as
ripe:--apples, that have been left to wither on the tree, after the
pleasant autumn gathering is past. The sketch of _The Old Apple Dealer_
is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness; he whose ‘subdued and
nerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive prime, which likewise
contained within itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid
age.’ Such touches as are in this piece cannot proceed from any common
heart. They argue such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless sympathy
with all forms of being, such an omnipresent love, that we must needs
say that this Hawthorne is here almost alone in his generation,--at
least, in the artistic manifestation of these things. Still more. Such
touches as these--and many, very many similar ones, all through his
chapters--furnish clues whereby we enter a little way into the
intricate, profound heart where they originated. And we see that
suffering, some time or other, and in some shape or other,--this only
can enable any man to depict it in others. All over him, Hawthorne’s
melancholy rests like an Indian summer, which, though bathing a whole
country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive hue of every
towering hill and each far-winding vale.
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