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- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.879Z
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- 4171
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- Twenty-four hours have elapsed since writing the foregoing. I have just
returned from the haymow, charged more and more with love and admiration
of Hawthorne. For I have just been gleaning through the Mosses, picking
up many things here and there that had previously escaped me. And I
found that but to glean after this man, is better than to be in at the
harvest of others. To be frank (though, perhaps, rather foolish),
notwithstanding what I wrote yesterday of these Mosses, I had not then
culled them all; but had, nevertheless, been sufficiently sensible of
the subtle essence in them, as to write as I did. To what infinite
height of loving wonder and admiration I may yet be borne, when by
repeatedly banqueting on these Mosses I shall have thoroughly
incorporated their whole stuff into my being--that, I cannot tell. But
already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my
soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and
further and further, shoots his strong New England roots into the hot
soil in my Southern soul.
By careful reference to the table of contents, I now find that I have
gone through all the sketches; but that when I yesterday wrote, I had
not at all read two particular pieces, to which I now desire to call
special attention--_A Select Party_ and _Young Goodman Brown_. Here, be
it said to all those whom this poor fugitive scrawl of mine may tempt to
the perusal of the Mosses, that they must on no account suffer
themselves to be trifled with, disappointed, or deceived by the
triviality of many of the titles to these sketches. For in more than one
instance, the title utterly belies the piece. It is as if rustic
demijohns containing the very best and costliest of Falernian and Tokay,
were labelled ‘Cider,’ ‘Perry,’ and ‘Elderberry wine.’ The truth seems
to be, that like many other geniuses, this Man of Mosses takes great
delight in hoodwinking the world,--at least, with respect to himself.
Personally, I doubt not that he rather prefers to be generally esteemed
but a so-so sort of author; being willing to reserve the thorough and
acute appreciation of what he is, to that party most qualified to
judge--that is, to himself. Besides, at the bottom of their natures, men
like Hawthorne, in many things, deem the plaudits of the public such
strong presumptive evidence of mediocrity in the object of them, that it
would in some degree render them doubtful of their own powers, did they
hear much and vociferous braying concerning them in the public pastures.
True, I have been braying myself (if you please to be witty enough to
have it so), but then I claim to be the first that has so brayed in this
particular matter; and, therefore, while pleading guilty to the charge,
still claim all the merit due to originality.
But with whatever motive, playful or profound, Nathaniel Hawthorne has
chosen to entitle his pieces in the manner he has, it is certain that
some of them are directly calculated to deceive--egregiously deceive,
the superficial skimmer of pages. To be downright and candid once more,
let me cheerfully say, that two of these titles did dolefully dupe no
less an eager-eyed reader than myself; and that, too, after I had been
impressed with a sense of the great depth and breadth of this American
man. ‘Who in the name of thunder’ (as the country people say in this
neighbourhood), ‘who in the name of thunder, would anticipate any marvel
in a piece entitled _Young Goodman Brown_?’ You would of course suppose
that it was a simple little tale, intended as a supplement to _Goody Two
Shoes_. Whereas, it is deep as Dante; nor can you finish it, without
addressing the author in his own words--‘It shall be yours to penetrate,
in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin.’... And with Young Goodman,
too, in allegorical pursuit of his Puritan wife, you cry out in your
anguish:--
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