Nathaniel Hawthorne

Dark Tales (With Original Illustrations)


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the rites above him dead. It was a perfect day of spring; the roadside banks were blue with violets, the orchards were in bloom; and lilies of the valley, which were Hawthorne's favorites among flowers, had blossomed early as if for him, and were gathered in masses about him. Like a requiem chant, the clear strains that Longfellow wrote in memory of that hour still echo for us its tender solemnity:—

      "How beautiful it was, that one bright day

       In the long week of rain!

       Though all its splendor could not chase away

       The omnipresent pain.

      "The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,

       And the great elms o'erhead

       Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms,

       Shot through with golden thread.

      "Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,

       The historic river flowed;

       I was as one who wanders in a trance,

       Unconscious of his road.

      "The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;

       Their voices I could hear,

       And yet the words they uttered seemed to change

       Their meaning to the ear.

      "For the one face I looked for was not there,

       The one low voice was mute;

       Only an unseen presence filled the air,

       And baffled my pursuit.

      "Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

       Dimly my thought defines;

       I only see—a dream within a dream—

       The hill-top hearsed with pines.

      "I only hear above his place of rest

       Their tender undertone,

       The infinite longings of a troubled breast,

       The voice so like his own.

      "There in seclusion and remote from men

       The wizard hand lies cold,

       Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,

       And left the tale half told.

      "Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power,

       And the lost clue regain?

       The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower

       Unfinished must remain!"

      V.

       Table of Contents

      This narrative of his career, in one sense so simple, so uneventful, has brought chiefly to the front, as we have followed it, a phase under which Hawthorne appears the most like other men; with motives easily understood, wishing to take his full share in human existence and its responsibilities; devoted in his domestic relations. Moderately ambitious of worldly welfare, but in poverty uncomplaining, he is so coolly practical in his view that he scarcely alludes to the products of his genius except as they may bear upon his material progress. Even this much of the character is uncommon, because of its sterling tone, the large, sustained manliness, and the success with which in the main it keeps itself firmly balanced; but it is a character not difficult to grasp, and one that appeals to every observer. It leaves out a great deal, however. The artist is absent from it. Neither is that essential mystery of organization included which held these elements together, united them with something of import far different, and converted the whole nature into a most extraordinary one, lifting it to a plane high above that on which it might, at first, seem to rest.

      The same writer adds: "There was nothing morbid in his character or temperament. He was, indeed, much the reverse of morbid. No man of genius ever had less the infirmities of genius than he.... Hawthorne was physically one of the healthiest of men. His pulse always kept even music. He cared nothing for wine or tobacco, or strong coffee or strong tea. He was a sound sleeper and an early riser. He was never moody or fitful or irritable. He was never unduly depressed or unreasonably elated. His spirits were not brilliant, but they were uniform, and, as Mrs. Hawthorne says, 'The airy splendor of his wit and humor was the light of his own home.'"

      Dr. Loring has supplied another sketch of his appearance in general intercourse, which does a great deal to fill out our conception:—