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- 4170
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.879Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4145
- text
- has somewhere furnished you with his own picture. For poets (whether in
prose or verse), being painters by nature, are like their brethren of
the pencil, the true portrait-painters, who, in the multitude of
likenesses to be sketched, do not invariably omit their own; and in all
high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though at times with
a lurking something that would take several pages to properly define.
I submit it, then, to those best acquainted with the man personally,
whether the following is not Nathaniel Hawthorne;--and to himself,
whether something involved in it does not express the temper of his
mind,--that lasting temper of all true, candid men--a seeker, not a
finder yet:--
‘A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a
thinker, but somewhat too roughhewn and brawny for a scholar. His
face was full of sturdy vigour, with some finer and keener
attribute beneath; though harsh at first, it was tempered with the
glow of a large, warm heart, which had force enough to heat his
powerful intellect through and through. He advanced to the
Intelligencer, and looked at him with a glance of such stern
sincerity, that perhaps few secrets were beyond its scope.
‘“I seek for Truth,” said he.’
- title
- Chunk 8