Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1864-07-07

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,
grateful duties. All the fair sights aud
sweet sounds OF the opening season mingled
their eDcbantments Is il iD homage TO the
dead master, who, as o lover of Nature and
q student OF life, had given such wealth of
poetry to our New England home. and In.
vested the stern outlines Of Puritan char
ac.er with the colors Of romance. II waa
the bridal day Of the season, perfect iD lght
ss If heaven were looking on, perfect in air
as if Nature herself we're signing for our
loss. The orchards were all in fresh nov-
er,-
"one boundles. slu,h, one whis-snpurpisa s.ows,
OF mingled blossonsrf-
the banks were literally blue with violets /;
the elms were putting out their tender
leaves, Just in that passing aspect which
Raphael loved to pencil In the back grounds
of his holy pictures, not as yet printing
deep shadows but only Noting the sun
shine at their feet. The birds were in full
song; the pines were musical with the soft
winds they sweetened. All was in faultless
accord, and every heart was filed with the
beauty that flooded the landscape.
The church where the funeral services
were performed was luminous with the
whitest blossoms Of the luxurant SPRING
A great throng Of those who loved him, Of
those who honored his genius, of those who
held him in kindly esteem as neighbor and
friend, filed the edGce. Most of those who
were present wished to look once more at
the features which they remembered with
the lights and shadows Of life's sunshine
upon them. The cold moonbesn Of death
lay white on the noble forehead and still,
placid features but they never looked fuller
Of power than in this last aspect with which
they met the eyes that were turned upon
them.
In patch Of sunlight. fecked by the
shade Of tall, murmurihg pines. at the SUN.
init OF gently swelling mound where the
wild flowers had climbed to find the light
and the stirring Of fresh bree.ss. the tired
poet was laid beneath the green turf Poet
let US call him, though his chants were not
modulated in the rythm of verse. The ele-
ment Of poetry is air; We know the poet by
his atmosphere effects, by the blue Of his
distances, by the softening Of every hard
outline he touches, by the slvery mist in
which he vciis deformity and clothes what
is common so that it changes TO awe inspiring
mystery, 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 Brial per-
spective, if we may use the painters term.
If Irving is the Claude of our unrbymed
poetry, Hawthorne is its Poussin.
This. is not the occasion for the analysis
and valuation of Hawthorne's genius. If
the reader wishes to see thoughtful and
generous estimate of his powers, and just
recognition Of the singular beauty Of his
style, he may turn to the number of this
magazine published in May, 1860. 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 aud scenes he pie.
lures slide at once into our consciousness, Is
if they belonged there as much as cur owu
homes and relatives. That limpi5 flow oi
expression, never laboring, never shallow,
hnever hurried nor uneven nor turbid. but
moving on with tranquil force, clear to the
depths of its profoundest thought, shows
itself with all its contummate perfectious
Our literature could i'll spare the rich ripe
autumn Of such life as Hawthorne's, but
he has left enough to keep his name in re.
menibrahce as long asthe language in which
he shaped his deep ilnaginations is spoken
by human lips.