{"id":"01KG6GMNZS2YGFF39QFAF0AT7G","cid":"bafkreidbd3qte6p7yowy2jmcyzc6prj3mdwcypcxjmp5egx5oi247f56oe","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":3761,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T03:55:03.879Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG6FXSCNX5F3D880P3YP3PKR","start_line":3699,"text":"                        HAWTHORNE AND HIS MOSSES\r\n\r\n                BY A VIRGINIAN SPENDING JULY IN VERMONT\r\n\r\n\r\nA papered chamber in a fine old farmhouse, a mile from any other\r\ndwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage--surrounded by mountains,\r\nold woods, and Indian pools,--this, surely, is the place to write of\r\nHawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem\r\nboth impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized\r\nme in this seclusion. His wild, witch-voice rings through me; or, in\r\nsofter cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds\r\nthat sing in the larch-trees at my window.\r\n\r\nWould that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or\r\nmother, that so it might be we could glorify them, without including\r\ntheir ostensible authors! Nor would any true man take exception to this;\r\nleast of all, he who writes, ‘When the artist rises high enough to\r\nachieve the beautiful, the symbol by which he makes it perceptible to\r\nmortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit\r\npossesses itself in the enjoyment of the reality.’\r\n\r\nBut more than this. I know not what would be the right name to put on\r\nthe title-page of an excellent book; but this I feel, that the names of\r\nall fine authors are fictitious ones, far more so than that of Junius;\r\nsimply standing, as they do, for the mystical ever-eluding spirit of all\r\nbeauty, which ubiquitously possesses men of genius. Purely imaginative\r\nas this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty\r\nfrom the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever\r\ncome up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are\r\ncomposed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us?\r\nWith reverence be it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed\r\nmore than man, not even in our Saviour, did his visible frame betoken\r\nanything of the augustness of the nature within. Else, how could those\r\nJewish eyewitnesses fail to see heaven in his glance!\r\n\r\nIt is curious how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss\r\nthe grandest or sweetest of prospects by reason of an intervening hedge,\r\nso like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape\r\nbeyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchanting landscape in\r\nthe soul of this Hawthorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses. His Old\r\nManse has been written now four years, but I never read it till a day or\r\ntwo since. I had seen it in the book-stores--heard of it often--even had\r\nit recommended to me by a tasteful friend, as a rare, quiet book,\r\nperhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many\r\nbooks called ‘excellent,’ and so much unpopular merit, that amid the\r\nthick stir of other things, the hint of my tasteful friend was\r\ndisregarded, and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never\r\nrefreshed me with their perennial green. It may be, however, that all\r\nthis while the book, likewise, was only improving in flavour and body.\r\nAt any rate, it so chanced that this long procrastination eventuated in\r\na happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of\r\nmine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to\r\nstrawberries and raspberries, which, like the roses and pearls in the\r\nfairy tale, seemed to fall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds,\r\nher cheeks--this delightful creature, this charming Cherry says to\r\nme--‘I see you spend your mornings in the haymow; and yesterday I found\r\nthere Dwight’s _Travels in New England_. Now I have something far better\r\nthan that, something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take\r\nthese raspberries, and then I will give you some moss.’ ‘Moss!’ said I.\r\n‘Yes, and you must take it to the barn with you, and good-bye to\r\nDwight.’\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG6GKXWDXFM3DZHBPM1RWGSW","peer_type":"section","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG6FXSCNX5F3D880P3YP3PKR","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG2T49K0H5GDRB0G4YDTPG8H","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG6GMNZQETSSMXDAX5BAQQJM","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T03:55:07.641Z","ts":"2026-01-30T03:55:15.844Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}