With great enjoyment we spent almost an hour in each separate gable.
This book is like a fine old chamber, abundantly but still judiciously
furnished with precisely that sort of furniture best fitted to furnish
it. There are rich hangings, whereon are braided scenes from tragedies.
There is old china with rare devices, set about on the carved beaufet;
there are long and indolent lounges to throw yourself upon; there is an
admirable sideboard, plentifully stored with good viands; there is a
smell of old wine in the pantry; and finally, in one corner, there is a
dark little black-letter volume in golden clasps, entitled _Hawthorne:
A Problem_....
"We think the book for pleasantness of running interest surpasses the
other work of the author. The curtains are now drawn; the sun comes in
more; genialities peep out more. Were we to particularize what has most
struck us in the deeper passages, we should point out the scene where
Clifford, for a minute, would fain throw himself from the window, to
join the procession; or the scene where the Judge is left seated in his
ancestral chair.
"Clifford is full of an awful truth throughout. He is conceived in the
finest, truest spirit. He is no caricature. He is Clifford. And here we
would say, that did the circumstances permit, we should like nothing
better than to devote an elaborate and careful paper to the full
consideration and analysis of the purpose and significance of what so
strongly characterizes all of this author's writing.
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