Conceding, however, that
Donatello's act was murder, and not "justifiable homicide," we are
still not sure that the author's conception of his nature and of the
change caused in his nature by that act, are carried out with a
felicity corresponding to the original conception.
In the first volume, and in the early part of the second, the author's
hold on his design is comparatively firm, but it somewhat relaxes as he
proceeds, and in the end it seems almost to escape from his grasp. Few
can be satisfied with the concluding chapters, for the reason that
nothing is really concluded. We are willing to follow the ingenious
processes of Calhoun's deductive logic, because we are sure, that,
however severely they task the faculty of attention, they will lead to
some positive result; but Hawthorne's logic of events leaves us in the
end bewildered in a labyrinth of guesses. The book is, on the whole,
such a great book, that its defects are felt with all the more force.
In this rapid glance at some of the peculiarities of Hawthorne's
genius, we have not, of course, been able to do full justice to the
special merits of the works we have passed in review; but we trust that
we have said nothing which would convey the impression that we do not
place them among the most remarkable romances produced in an age in
which romance-writing has called forth some of the highest powers of
the human mind.
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