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- 1626
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- 2026-01-30T07:57:45.581Z
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- start_line
- 1564
- text
- 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 vigor, 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.
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.
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