The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1864-07-06
Hawthorne's Funeral.

Mr.. Hawthorne died in the town of Ply
mouth, New Hampshire, on the 10Th OF May
Ihe moment, and even the hour, could not be
told, for he had passed away without giving
any sign of suffering, such as might call the
attention OF the friend near him. On Monday
( the 23i of May, his body was given back te
earth In the place where he had long nveo
and which he had helped TO make widely
known-the ancient town OF Concord
The day of his burial will always live in the
memory of all who shared in its solemn, CRATE
full duties All the fair sights aud swee
sounds of the opening season mingled their
entertainments as il in homag. to the dea
master, who, as lover of Nature aud student
of life, had given such wealth of poetry to our
New England home, and invested the stern
! outlines of Puritan character with the color
of romance. 1t was the bridal day Of the sea
son, perfect in light as ii heaven were looking
on,perfect in air as il Nature herself were
signing for our loss. The orchards were all
in fresh flower,
One bouudless blush, one white empurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms;
The banks were literally blue with yiolets
the elms were putting out their tender leaves
just in that pleasing aspect which Raphael
loved to pencil In the backgrounds of his holy
pictures, not as yet printing deep shadows,
but only mottling the sunshine at their feet.
AhC UiiNs WCiC III luii sOuH, Tue piutS were
musical with the soft winds they sweetened.
All was in faultless accord and every heart
was filed with the beauty that flooded the
landscapr.
The church where the funeral services were
performed was luminous with the whitest bio
ssoms OF the luxuriant spring. A great
throng of those who loved him, OF those who
honored his genius, of those who held him in
kindly esteem as a neighbour and friend, fill
a 49, A.
ent wished to look once more at the features
they remembered with the lights and shadows
of life's sunshine upon them. The cold moon
beam of death lay white on the noble forehead
and still, placid features; but they never look
ed fuller OF power than in this last aspect with
which they met the eyes that We're turned upon
them.
In patch OF sunlight, lecked by the shade
OF tall, murmuring pines, at the summit OF a
gently swelling mound where the wild flowers
had climbed to find the light and the stirring
of fresh breezes, the tired poet was laid be-
meath the green turf. Poet let us call him,
though his chants were not modulated in the
rhythm OF verse.
The element of poetry Is air; we know the
poet by his atmospheric effects, by the blue of
his distances. by the soitening of every hard
outline be touches, by the silvery mist 10 which
he wells deformity and clothes what is CON-
mon so that 1t changes to awe-inspiring mys-
terry, By the clouds Of gold and purple which
are the drapery of his dreams. And surely
we have had but one prose-writer who could
be compared with him in aerial perspective, If
we may use the painters term. II Irving is
the Claude OF our unrhymed poetry, Hawth-
orne is its Poussin.
This is not the occasion for The analysis and
valuation of Hawthorne's genius. Ifthe read
er wishes to see a thoughtful and generous es-
innate OF his powers, and a just recognition
Of the singular beauty of his style, he may
turn TO the number of this magazine publish
ed in May. 1850.
The last effort of Hawthorne,s creative
mind Is before him in the chapter here printed.
The hand Of the dead master shows itself in
every line. The shapes and scenes he pictur-
es slide at once into our consciousness, as II
they belonged there as much as our homes aud
relatives. The limpid flow of expression,
never laboring, never, shallow, never hurried
nor uneven nor turbid but moving on with
tranquil force, clear to the depths of its pro-
foundest thought, shows itsslf with all its con-
sumate perfeetious. Our literature could i'll
spare the rich ripe autumn of such a life as
Hawthorne's, but he has left enough to keep
his name IN remembrance as long as the Lam
guage In which he shaped his deep imagina-
tions is spoken by human lips.-Dr. o. W.
Holmes, IN Attdiatic Monthly for JsSy.