Would that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or mother, that so it might be we could glorify8 them, without including their ostensible9 authors! Nor would any true man take exception to this; least of all, he who writes, "When the artist rises high enough to achieve the beautiful, the symbol by which he[54] makes it perceptible to mortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possesses itself in the enjoyment10 of the reality."
But more than this. I know not what would be the right name to put on the title-page of an excellent book; but this I feel, that the names of all fine authors are fictitious11 ones, far more so than that of Junius; simply standing12, as they do, for the mystical ever-eluding spirit of all beauty, which ubiquitously possesses men of genius. Purely13 imaginative as this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty14 from the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever come up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are composed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us? With reverence16 be it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed more than man, not even in our Saviour18, did his visible frame betoken19 anything of the augustness of the nature within. Else, how could those Jewish eyewitnesses20 fail to see heaven in his glance!
It is curious how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss the grandest or sweetest of prospects21 by reason of an intervening[55] hedge, so like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape beyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchanting23 landscape in the soul of this Hawthorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses24. His Old Manse has been written now four years, but I never read it till a day or two since. I had seen it in the book-stores—heard of it often—even had it recommended to me by a tasteful friend, as a rare, quiet book, perhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many books called "excellent," and so much unpopular merit, that amid the thick stir of other things, the hint of my tasteful friend was disregarded and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never refreshed me with their perennial26 green. It may be, however, that all this while the book, likewise, was only improving in flavor and body. At any rate, it so chanced that this long procrastination27 eventuated in a happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of mine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to strawberries and raspberries, which, like the roses and pearls in the fairy tale, seemed to fall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds,[56] her cheeks—this delightful28 creature, this charming Cherry says to me—"I see you spend your mornings in the haymow; and yesterday I found there Dwight's Travels in New England. Now I have something far better than that, something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take these raspberries, and then I will give you some moss25." "Moss!" said I. "Yes, and you must take it to the barn with you, and good-by to Dwight."
With that she left me, and soon returned with a volume, verdantly29 bound, and garnished30 with a curious frontispiece in green; nothing less than a fragment of real moss, cunningly pressed to a fly-leaf. "Why, this," said I, spilling my raspberries, "this is the Mosses from an Old Manse." "Yes," said cousin Cherry, "yes, it is that flowery Hawthorne." "Hawthorne and Mosses," said I, "no more it is morning: it is July in the country: and I am off for the barn."
Stretched on that new mown clover, the hillside breeze blowing over me through the wide barn door, and soothed31 by the hum of the bees in the meadows around, how magically stole over me this Mossy Man! and how amply, how[57] bountifully, did he redeem33 that delicious promise to his guests in the Old Manse, of whom it is written: "Others could give them pleasure, or amusement, or instruction—these could be picked up anywhere; but it was for me to give them rest—rest, in a life of trouble! What better could be done for those weary and world-worn spirits? ... what better could be done for anybody who came within our magic circle than to throw the spell of a tranquil34 spirit over him?" So 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 spun36 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 misty37 reminiscences, as if I had been dreaming of him."
What a wild moonlight of contemplative humor bathes that Old Manse!—the rich and rare distilment of a spicy38 and slowly-oozing heart. No rollicking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine,—but a humor so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and yet so richly relishable40, that it were hardly[58] inappropriate in an angel. It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it may be advanced to that. The orchard42 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 crooked43 branches, and take such hold of the imagination that we remember them as humorists and odd-fellows." And then, as surrounded by these grotesque44 forms, and hushed in the noonday repose45 of this Hawthorne's spell, how aptly might the still fall of his ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolized46 by: "In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump47 of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere48 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 hearth49 so glorified50 into an altar before? The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty folio volumes. How exquisite[59] is this: "Nor did it lessen51 the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness that the mighty52 spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates53 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 touching56. 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 mischief57 in the world, and was pretty certain to do more; but his warm heart atoned58 for all. He was kindly59 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 wither60 on the tree, after the pleasant autumn gathering61 is past. The sketch62 of The Old Apple Dealer63 is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness; he whose "subdued64 and nerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive[60] prime, which likewise contained within itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid65 age." Such touches as are in this piece cannot proceed from any common heart. They argue such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless66 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 artistic67 manifestation68 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 depict69 it in others. All over him, Hawthorne's melancholy71 rests like an Indian-summer, which, though bathing a whole country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive72 hue73 of every towering hill and each far-winding vale.
But it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration74. Where Hawthorne is known, he seems to be deemed a pleasant writer, with a pleasant style,—a sequestered75, harmless man, from whom any deep and weighty thing would[61] hardly be anticipated—a man who means no meanings. But there is no man, in whom humor and love, like mountain peaks, soar to such a rapt height as to receive the irradiations of the upper skies;—there is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement76 of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet77. Or, love and humor are only the eyes through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength. What, to all readers, can be more charming than the piece entitled Monsieur du Miroir; and to a reader at all capable of fully32 fathoming78 it, what, at the same time, can possess more mystical depth of meaning?—yes, there he sits and looks at me,—this "shape of mystery," this "identical Monsieur du Miroir!" "Methinks I should tremble now were his wizard power of gliding79 through all impediments in search of me to place him suddenly before my eyes."
How profound, nay80, appalling81, is the moral evolved by the Earth's Holocaust82; where—beginning with the hollow follies83 and affectations[62] of the world,—all vanities and empty theories and forms are, one after another, and by an admirably graduated, growing comprehensiveness, thrown into the allegorical fire, till, at length, nothing is left but the all-engendering heart of man; which remaining still unconsumed, the great conflagration84 is naught85.
Of a piece with this, is the Intelligence Office, a wondrous86 symbolizing87 of the secret workings in men's souls. There are other sketches88 still more charged with ponderous89 import.
The Christmas Banquet, and The Bosom90 Serpent, would be fine subjects for a curious and elaborate analysis, touching the conjectural91 parts of the mind that produced them. For spite of all the Indian-summer sunlight on the hither side of Hawthorne's soul, the other side—like the dark half of the physical sphere—is shrouded92 in a blackness, ten times black. But this darkness but gives more effect to the ever-moving dawn, that forever advances through it, and circumnavigates his world. Whether Hawthorne has simply availed himself of this mystical blackness as a means to the wondrous effects he makes it to produce in his lights and[63] shades; or whether there really lurks93 in him, perhaps unknown to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom,—this, I cannot altogether tell. Certain it is, however, that this great power of blackness in him derives94 its force from its appeals to that Calvinistic sense of Innate95 Depravity and Original Sin, from whose visitations, in some shape or other, no deeply thinking mind is always and wholly free. For, in certain moods, no man can weigh this world without throwing in something, somehow like Original Sin, to strike the uneven96 balance. At all events, perhaps no writer has ever wielded97 this terrific thought with greater terror than this same harmless Hawthorne. Still more: this black conceit98 pervades99 him through and through. You may be witched by his sunlight,—transported by the bright gildings in the skies he builds over you; but there is the blackness of darkness beyond; and even his bright gildings but fringe and play upon the edges of thunder-clouds. In one word, the world is mistaken in this Nathaniel Hawthorne. He himself must often have smiled at its absurd misconception of him. He is immeasurably deeper than the plummet of the mere critic. For it is[64] not the brain that can test such a man; it is only the heart. You cannot come to know greatness by inspecting it; there is no glimpse to be caught of it, except by intuition; you need not ring it, you but touch it, and you find it is gold.
Now, it is that blackness in Hawthorne, of which I have spoken that so fixes and fascinates me. It may be, nevertheless, that it is too largely developed in him. Perhaps he does not give us a ray of light for every shade of his dark. But however this may be, this blackness it is that furnishes the infinite obscure of his background,—that background, against which Shakspeare plays his grandest conceits100, the things that have made for Shakspeare his loftiest but most circumscribed101 renown102, as the profoundest of thinkers. For by philosophers Shakspeare is not adored, as the great man of tragedy and comedy:—"Off with his head; so much for Buckingham!" This sort of rant15 interlined by another hand, brings down the house,—those mistaken souls, who dream of Shakespeare as a mere man of Richard the Third humps and Macbeth daggers103. But it is those deep far-away things in him; those occasional flashings-forth104 of the intuitive Truth in[65] him; those short, quick probings at the very axis105 of reality;—these are the things that make Shakspeare, Shakspeare. Through the mouths of the dark characters of Hamlet, Timon, Lear, and Iago, he craftily106 says, or sometimes insinuates107 the things which we feel to be so terrifically true, that it were all but madness for any good man, in his own proper character, to utter, or even hint of them. Tormented108 into desperation, Lear, the frantic109 king, tears off the mask, and speaks the same madness of vital truth. But, as I before said, it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. And so, much of the blind, unbridled admiration that has been heaped upon Shakspeare, has been lavished111 upon the least part of him. And few of his endless commentators112 and critics seem to have remembered, or even perceived, that the immediate113 products of a great mind are not so great as that undeveloped and sometimes undevelopable yet dimly-discernible greatness, to which those immediate products are but the infallible indices. In Shakspeare's tomb lies infinitely114 more than Shakspeare ever wrote. And if I magnify Shakspeare, it is not so much for what he did do as for what he did not do, or refrained[66] from doing. For in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakspeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth,—even though it be covertly115 and by snatches.
But if this view of the all-popular Shakspeare be seldom taken by his readers, and if very few who extol116 him have ever read him deeply, or perhaps, only have seen him on the tricky117 stage (which alone made, and is still making him his mere mob renown)—if few men have time, or patience, or palate, for the spiritual truth as it is in that great genius—it is then no matter of surprise, that in a contemporaneous age, Nathaniel Hawthorne is a man as yet almost utterly118 mistaken among men. Here and there, in some quiet armchair in the noisy town, or some deep nook among the noiseless mountains, he may be appreciated for something of what he is. But unlike Shakspeare, who was forced to the contrary course by circumstances, Hawthorne (either from simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all the popularizing noise and[67] show of broad farce119 and blood-besmeared tragedy; content with the still, rich utterance120 of a great intellect in repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart.
Nor need you fix upon that blackness in him, if it suit you not. Nor, indeed, will all readers discern it; for it is, mostly, insinuated121 to those who may best understand it, and account for it; it is not obtruded122 upon every one alike.
Some may start to read of Shakspeare and Hawthorne on the same page. They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser123 light might have sufficed to elucidate124 this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday. But I am not willingly one of those who, as touching Shakspeare at least, exemplify the maxim125 of Rochefoucauld, that "we exalt126 the reputation of some, in order to depress that of others";—who, to teach all noble-souled aspirants127 that there is no hope for them, pronounce Shakspeare absolutely unapproachable. But Shakspeare has been approached. There are minds that have gone as far as Shakspeare into the universe. And hardly a mortal man, who, at[68] some time or other, has not felt as great thoughts in him as any you will find in Hamlet. We must not inferentially malign128 mankind for the sake of any one man, whoever he may be. This is too cheap a purchase of contentment for conscious mediocrity to make. Besides, this absolute and unconditional129 adoration130 of Shakspeare has grown to be a part of our Anglo-Saxon superstitions131. The Thirty-Nine Articles are now Forty. Intolerance has come to exist in this matter. You must believe in Shakspeare's unapproachability, or quit the country. But what sort of a belief is this for an American, a man who is bound to carry republican progressiveness into Literature as well as into Life? Believe me, my friends, that men, not very much inferior to Shakspeare are this day being born on the banks of the Ohio. And the day will come when you shall say, Who reads a book by an Englishman that is a modern? The great mistake seems to be, that even with those Americans who look forward to the coming of a great literary genius among us, they somehow fancy he will come in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's day; be a writer of dramas founded upon old English history or the tales[69] of Boccaccio. Whereas, great geniuses are parts of the times, they themselves are the times, and possess a corresponding coloring. It is of a piece with the Jews, who, while their Shiloh was meekly132 walking in their streets, were still praying for his magnificent coming; looking for him in a chariot, who was already among them on an ass35. Nor must we forget that, in his own lifetime, Shakspeare was not Shakspeare, but only Master William Shakspeare of the shrewd, thriving, business firm of Condell, Shakspeare and Co., proprietors133 of the Globe Theatre in London; and by a courtly author, of the name of Chettle, was looked at as an "upstart crow," beautified "with other birds' feathers." For, mark it well, imitation is often the first charge brought against originality134. Why this is so, there is not space to set forth here. You must have plenty of sea-room to tell the Truth in; especially when it seems to have an aspect of newness, as America did in 1492, though it was then just as old, and perhaps older than Asia, only those sagacious philosophers, the common sailors, had never seen it before, swearing it was all water and moonshine there.
[70]
Now I do not say that Nathaniel of Salem is a greater man than William of Avon, or as great. But the difference between the two men is by no means immeasurable. Not a very great deal more, and Nathaniel were verily William.
This, too, I mean, that if Shakspeare has not been equalled, give the world time, and he is sure to be surpassed in one hemisphere or the other. Nor will it at all do to say that the world is getting grey and grizzled now, and has lost that fresh charm which she wore of old, and by virtue135 of which the great poets of past times made themselves what we esteem136 them to be. Not so. The world is as young to-day as when it was created; and this Vermont morning dew is as wet to my feet, as Eden's dew to Adam's. Nor has nature been all over ransacked137 by our progenitors138, so that no new charms and mysteries remain for this latter generation to find. Far from it. The trillionth part has not yet been said; and all that has been said, but multiplies the avenues to what remains139 to be said. It is not so much paucity140 as superabundance of material that seems to incapacitate modern authors.
Let America, then, prize and cherish her[71] writers; yea, let her glorify them. They are not so many in number as to exhaust her goodwill141. And while she has good kith and kin39 of her own, to take to her bosom, let her not lavish110 her embraces upon the household of an alien. For believe it or not, England after all, is in many things an alien to us. China has more bonds of real love for us than she. But even were there no strong literary individualities among us, as there are some dozens at least, nevertheless, let America first praise mediocrity even, in her children, before she praises (for everywhere, merit demands acknowledgment from every one) the best excellence142 in the children of any other land. Let her own authors, I say, have the priority of appreciation143. I was much pleased with a hot-headed Carolina cousin of mine, who once said,—"If there were no other American to stand by, in literature, why, then, I would stand by Pop Emmons and his Fredoniad, and till a better epic70 came along, swear it was not very far behind the Iliad." Take away the words, and in spirit he was sound.
Not that American genius needs patronage144 in order to expand. For that explosive sort of stuff will expand though screwed up in a vice,[72] and burst it, though it were triple steel. It is for the nation's sake, and not for her authors' sake, that I would have America be heedful of the increasing greatness among her writers. For how great the shame, if other nations should be before her, in crowning her heroes of the pen! But this is almost the case now. American authors have received more just and discriminating145 praise (however loftily and ridiculously given, in certain cases) even from some Englishmen, than from their own countrymen. There are hardly five critics in America; and several of them are asleep. As for patronage, it is the American author who now patronizes his country, and not his country him. And if at times some among them appeal to the people for more recognition, it is not always with selfish motives147, but patriotic148 ones.
It is true, that but few of them as yet have evinced that decided149 originality which merits great praise. But that graceful150 writer, who perhaps of all Americans has received the most plaudits from his own country for his productions,—that very popular and amiable151 writer, however good and self-reliant in many things,[73] perhaps owes his chief reputation to the self-acknowledged imitation of a foreign model, and to the studied avoidance of all topics but smooth ones. But it is better to fail in originality, than to succeed in imitation. He who has never failed somewhere, that man cannot be great. Failure is the true test of greatness. And if it be said, that continual success is a proof that a man wisely knows his powers,—it is only to be added, that, in that case, he knows them to be small. Let us believe it, then, once for all, that there is no hope for us in these smooth, pleasing writers that know their powers. Without malice152, but to speak the plain fact, they but furnish an appendix to Goldsmith, and other English authors. And we want no American Goldsmiths, nay, we want no American Miltons. It were the vilest153 thing you could say of a true American author, that he were an American Tompkins. Call him an American and have done, for you cannot say a nobler thing of him. But it is not meant that all American writers should studiously cleave154 to nationality in their writings; only this, no American writer should write like an Englishman or a Frenchman; let him write like a man,[74] for then he will be sure to write like an American. Let us away with this leaven155 of literary flunkeyism towards England. If either must play the flunkey in this thing, let England do it, not us. While we are rapidly preparing for that political supremacy156 among the nations which prophetically awaits us at the close of the present century, in a literary point of view, we are deplorably unprepared for it; and we seem studious to remain so. Hitherto, reasons might have existed why this should be; but no good reason exists now. And all that is requisite157 to amendment158 in this matter, is simply this; that while fully acknowledging all excellence everywhere, we should refrain from unduly159 lauding160 foreign writers, and, at the same time, duty recognize the meritorious161 writers that are our own;—those writers who breathe that unshackled, democratic spirit of Christianity in all things, which now takes the practical lead in this world, though at the same time led by ourselves—us Americans. Let us boldly condemn162 all imitation, though it comes to us graceful and fragrant163 as the morning; and foster all originality though at first it be crabbed164 and ugly as our own pine knots. And[75] if any of our authors fail, or seem to fail, then, in the words of my Carolina cousin, let us clap him on the shoulder and back him against all Europe for his second round. The truth is, that in one point of view this matter of a national literature has come to pass with us, that in some sense we must turn bullies165, else the day is lost, or superiority so far beyond us, that we can hardly say it will ever be ours.
And now, my countrymen, as an excellent author of your own flesh and blood,—an unimitating, and, perhaps, in his way, an inimitable man—whom better can I commend to you, in the first place, than Nathaniel Hawthorne. He is one of the new, and far better generation of your writers. The smell of young beeches166 and hemlocks167 is upon him; your own broad prairies are in his soul; and if you travel away inland into his deep and noble nature, you will hear the far roar of his Niagara. Give not over to future generations the glad duty of acknowledging him for what he is. Take that joy to yourself, in your own generation; and so shall he feel those grateful impulses on him, that may possibly prompt him to the full flower of some still greater achievement in[76] your eyes. And by confessing him you thereby168 confess others; you brace54 the whole brotherhood169. For genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.
In treating of Hawthorne, or rather of Hawthorne in his writings (for I never saw the man; and in the chances of a quiet plantation170 life, remote from his haunts, perhaps never shall); in treating of his works, I say, I have thus far omitted all mention of his Twice Told Tales, and Scarlet171 Letter. Both are excellent, but full of such manifold, strange, and diffusive172 beauties, that time would all but fail me to point the half of them out. But there are things in those two books, which, had they been written in England a century ago, Nathaniel Hawthorne had utterly displaced many of the bright names we now revere17 on authority. But I am content to leave Hawthorne to himself, and to the infallible finding of posterity173; and however great may be the praise I have bestowed174 upon him, I feel that in so doing I have served and honored myself, than him. For, at bottom, great excellence is praise enough to itself; but the feeling of a sincere and appreciative175 love and[77] admiration towards it, this is relieved by utterance, and warm, honest praise ever leaves a pleasant flavor in the mouth; and it is an honorable thing to confess to what is honorable in others.
But I cannot leave my subject yet. No man can read a fine author, and relish41 him to his very bones while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind. And if you rightly look for it, you will almost always find that the author himself 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 sketched176, do not invariably omit their own; and in all high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though at times with a lurking177 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 lasting178[78] temper of all true, candid179 men—a seeker, not a finder yet:
A man now entered, in neglected attire180, with the aspect of a thinker, but somewhat too roughhewn and brawny181 for a scholar. His face was full of sturdy vigor182, 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 sincerity183, 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 gleaning185 through the Mosses, picking up many things here and there that had previously186 escaped me. And I found that but to glean184 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 culled187 them all; but had, nevertheless, been sufficiently188 sensible of the subtle essence in them, as to write as I did. To what infinite height of loving wonder and admiration I may[79] yet be borne, when by repeatedly banqueting on these Mosses I shall have thoroughly189 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 contemplate190 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 fugitive191 scrawl192 of mine may tempt193 to the perusal194 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 belies195 the piece. It is as if rustic196 demijohns containing the very best and costliest197 of Falernian and Tokay, were labelled "Cider," "Perry," and "Elderberry wine." The truth seems to be,[80] 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 esteemed198 but a so-so sort of author; being willing to reserve the thorough and acute appreciation of what he is, to that party most qualified199 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 vociferous200 braying201 concerning them in the public pastures. True, I have been braying myself (if you please to be witty202 enough to have it so), but then I claim to be the first that has so brayed203 in this particular matter; and, therefore, while pleading guilty to the charge, still claim all the merit due to originality.
But with whatever motive146, 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[81] 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 neighborhood), "who in the name of thunder, would anticipate any marvel204 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 penetrate205, 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 anguish206:
"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying, "Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches207 were seeking her all through the wilderness208.
Now this same piece entitled Young Goodman Brown, is one of the two that I had not[82] all read yesterday; and I allude209 to it now, because it is, in itself, such a strong positive illustration of the blackness in Hawthorne, which I had assumed from the mere occasional shadows of it; as revealed in several of the other sketches. But had I previously perused210 Young Goodman Brown, I should have been at no pains to draw the conclusion, which I came to at a time when I was ignorant that the book contained one such direct and unqualified manifestation of it.
The other piece of the two referred to, is entitled A select Party, which, in my first simplicity211 upon originally taking hold of the book, I fancied must treat of some pumpkin-pie party in old Salem; or some chowder party on Cape22 Cod212. Whereas, by all the gods of Peedee, it is the sweetest and sublimest213 thing that has been written since Spenser wrote. Nay, there is nothing in Spenser that surpasses it, perhaps nothing that equals it. And the test is this. Read any canto214 in The Faerie Queene and then read A select Party, and decide which pleases you most,—that is, if you are qualified to judge. Do not be frightened at this; for when Spenser was alive, he was thought of[83] very much as Hawthorne is now,—was generally accounted just such a "gentle" harmless man. It may be, that to common eyes, the sublimity215 of Hawthorne seems lost in his sweetness,—as perhaps in that same select Party of his; for whom he has builded so august a dome55 of sunset clouds, and served them on richer plate than Belshazzar when he banqueted his lords in Babylon.
But my chief business now, is to point out a particular page in this piece, having reference to an honored guest, who under the name of the Master Genius, but in the guise216 "of a young man of poor attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence," is introduced to the Man of Fancy, who is the giver of the feast. Now, the page having reference to this Master Genius, so happily expresses much of what I yesterday wrote, touching the coming of the literary Shiloh of America, that I cannot but be charmed by the coincidence; especially, when it shows such a parity217 of ideas, at least in this one point, between a man like Hawthorne and a man like me.
And here, let me throw out another conceit of mine touching this American Shiloh, or[84] Master Genius, as Hawthorne calls him. May it not be, that this commanding mind has not been, is not, and never will be, individually developed in any one man? And would it, indeed, appear so unreasonable218 to suppose, that this great fulness and overflowing219 may be, or may be destined220 to be, shared by a plurality of men of genius? Surely, to take the very greatest example on record, Shakspeare cannot be regarded as in himself the concretion of all the genius of his time; nor as so immeasurably beyond Marlowe, Webster, Ford221, Beaumont, Jonson, that these great men can be said to share none of his power? For one, I conceive that there were dramatists in Elizabeth's day, between whom and Shakspeare the distance was by no means great. Let any one, hitherto little acquainted with those neglected old authors, for the first time read them thoroughly, or even read Charles Lamb's Specimens222 of them, and he will be amazed at the wondrous ability of those Anaks of men, and shocked at this renewed example of the fact, that Fortune has more to do with fame than merit,—though, without merit, lasting fame there can be none.
Nevertheless, it would argue too ill of my[85] country were this maxim to hold good concerning Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man, who already, in some few minds has shed "such a light as never illuminates223 the earth save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect."
The words are his,—in the select Party; and they are a magnificent setting to a coincident sentiment of my own, but ramblingly expressed yesterday, in reference to himself. Gainsay224 it who will, as I now write, I am Posterity speaking by proxy—and after times will make it more than good, when I declare, that the American, who up to the present day has evinced, in literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that man is Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moreover, that whatever Nathaniel Hawthorne may hereafter write, Mosses from an Old Manse will be ultimately accounted his masterpiece. For there is a sure, though secret sign in some works which proves the culmination225 of the powers (only the developable ones, however) that produced them. But I am by no means desirous of the glory of a prophet. I pray Heaven that Hawthorne may yet prove me an impostor in this prediction.[86] Especially, as I somehow cling to the strange fancy, that, in all men, hiddenly reside certain wondrous, occult properties—as in some plants and minerals—which by some happy but very rare accident (as bronze was discovered by the melting of the iron and brass226 at the burning of Corinth) may chance to be called forth here on earth; not entirely227 waiting for their better discovery in the more congenial, blessed atmosphere of heaven.
Once more—for it is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all subjects are infinite. By some people this entire scrawl of mine may be esteemed altogether unnecessary, inasmuch "as years ago" (they may say) "we found out the rich and rare stuff in this Hawthorne, who you now parade forth, as if only you yourself were the discoverer of this Portuguese228 diamond in your literature." But even granting all this—and adding to it, the assumption that the books of Hawthorne have sold by the five thousand,—what does that signify? They should be sold by the hundred thousand; and read by the million; and admired by every one who is capable of admiration.
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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warranty
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| n.担保书，证书，保单 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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17
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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18
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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eyewitnesses
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| 目击者( eyewitness的名词复数 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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23
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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24
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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28
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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29
verdantly
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| adv.青绿地，生疏地 | |
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30
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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32
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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35
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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38
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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40
relishable
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| 可实现的，可实行的，可了解的 | |
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41
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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42
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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43
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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44
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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45
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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46
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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50
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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51
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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52
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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54
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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55
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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58
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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59
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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60
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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61
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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62
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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63
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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64
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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66
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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67
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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68
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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69
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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70
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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71
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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72
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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73
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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74
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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75
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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76
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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77
plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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78
fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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79
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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80
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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81
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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82
holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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83
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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84
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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85
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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86
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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87
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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88
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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89
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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90
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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91
conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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92
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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93
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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94
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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95
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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96
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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97
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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98
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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101
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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102
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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103
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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104
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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105
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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106
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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107
insinuates
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| n.暗示( insinuate的名词复数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入v.暗示( insinuate的第三人称单数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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108
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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109
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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110
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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111
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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115
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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116
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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117
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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118
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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119
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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120
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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121
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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122
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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124
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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125
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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126
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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127
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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128
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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129
unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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130
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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131
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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132
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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133
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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134
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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135
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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136
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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137
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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138
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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139
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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140
paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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141
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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142
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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143
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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144
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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145
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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146
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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147
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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148
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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149
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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150
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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151
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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152
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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153
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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154
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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155
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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156
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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157
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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158
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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159
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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160
lauding
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的现在分词 ) | |
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161
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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162
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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163
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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164
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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166
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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167
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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168
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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169
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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170
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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171
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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172
diffusive
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| adj.散布性的，扩及的，普及的 | |
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173
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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174
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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176
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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177
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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178
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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179
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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180
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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181
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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182
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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183
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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184
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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185
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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186
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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187
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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189
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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190
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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191
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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192
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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193
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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194
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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195
belies
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| v.掩饰( belie的第三人称单数 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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196
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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197
costliest
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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198
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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199
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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200
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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201
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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202
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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203
brayed
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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204
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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205
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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206
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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207
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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208
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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209
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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210
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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211
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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212
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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213
sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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214
canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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215
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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216
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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217
parity
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| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
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218
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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219
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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220
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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221
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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222
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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223
illuminates
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| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
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224
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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225
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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226
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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227
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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228
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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