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- 3824
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:26.981Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3780
- text
- all that day, half-buried in the new clover, I watched this Hawthorne’s
‘Assyrian dawn, and Paphian sunset and moonrise from the summit of our
eastern hill.’
The soft ravishments of the man spun me round about in a web of dreams,
and when the book was closed, when the spell was over, this wizard
‘dismissed me with but misty reminiscences, as if I had been dreaming of
him.’
What a wild moonlight of contemplative humour bathes that Old
Manse!--the rich and rare distilment of a spicy and slowly-oozing heart.
No rollicking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the
lees of wine,--but a humour so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and
yet so richly relishable, that it were hardly inappropriate in an angel.
It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it may be
advanced to that. The orchard of the Old Manse seems the visible type of
the fine mind that has described it--those twisted and contorted old
trees, ‘they stretch out their crooked branches, and take such hold of
the imagination that we remember them as humorists and odd-fellows.’ And
then, as surrounded by these grotesque forms, and hushed in the noonday
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.’
- title
- Chunk 6