AMERICAN WRITERS 
 OP TO-DAY 
 
 HENRY C.VEDDER 
 
AMERICAN 
 
 WRITERS OF TO-DAY 
 
 BY 
 HENRY C. VEDDER 
 
 A perfect Judge will read each -work of Wit 
 With the same spirit that its aiithor writ: 
 Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find 
 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind. 
 
 POPE : Essay on Criticism. 
 
 SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY 
 NEW YORK . . . BOSTON . . . CHICAGO 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 BY SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
vw 
 
 TO HER 
 
 WHOSE SYMPATHETIC COMPANIONSHIP, 
 
 WHOSE LOVE OF THE GOOD, 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 THE TRUE, 
 
 HAVE BEEN AN INSPIRATION IN ALL MY WORK 
 THROUGH MANY HAPPY YEARS, 
 
 I DEDICATE 
 THIS BOOK. 
 
 M5S49G9 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS once defined luncheon 
 as "a reflection on breakfast and an insult to 
 dinner." In a similar spirit, one might define a 
 preface as a reflection on the author s skill and an 
 insult to his readers intelligence; for, if a book 
 requires elaborate exegesis, if its purpose demands 
 careful explanation, something must needs be wrong 
 with either book or reader. Nobody need feel under 
 the slightest obligation, therefore, to read this pref 
 ace; but should it occur to some one to glance a 
 second time at this page, let him be assured that 
 these studies of contemporary American literature 
 make no pretence of being complete, comprehensive, 
 exhaustive. There was a vague purpose in the 
 author s mind, when he began writing, to supplement 
 these chapters with some attempt at a general sur 
 vey of the American literature of our own time, after 
 the manner of Mrs. Oliphant s "Victorian Age of 
 English Literature." This would have given them 
 more formal completeness, even if it did not other 
 wise add to their value. Should the reception of his 
 
v j PREFACE. 
 
 book encourage him to persevere, he may yet fulfil 
 that intention. 
 
 In the meantime, he ventures to hope that what 
 he has done may fill a vacant place. There is very 
 little that makes any pretence of being serious criti 
 cism of the writers of our own day. Let any one 
 ransack even a large library, and he will in most 
 cases go away empty-handed of books that will aid 
 him in the study and comprehension of current lit 
 erature. Some of our leading periodicals contain 
 reviews of lately published books that are worthy 
 to rank with the best critical writing; but these 
 reviews only partially supply the reader s wants. 
 What he desires is an intelligent and critical account 
 of an author s whole performance, not a review of 
 any particular work; something that will help him 
 to comprehend the nature and value of a writer s 
 contribution to our literature, to estimate his signifi 
 cance, to perceive his characteristics and idiosyn- 
 cracies, in a word, to read him understandingly. 
 If these studies have any value, it is their fitness in 
 some sort to satisfy this desire. The writer does 
 not affect what Scott felicitously called "the big 
 bow-wow style," nor has he any ambition to be a 
 Jeffrey with a " This will never do " for anything that 
 he does not himself like; still less does he aspire 
 to make and unmake authors reputations. The 
 motto placed on the titlepage has been throughout 
 borne in mind. He has tried to read our American 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 authors sympathetically, intelligently, diligently, and 
 to report as well as he is able the results of this 
 reading. Making no claims to infallibility, he has 
 striven to give his report honestly, and 
 
 "nothing extenuate 
 Nor set down aught in malice." 
 
 Partly for the convenience of those who lack 
 other books of reference, partly because the facts 
 recited throw a side-light on the literary work of 
 the writers studied, some biographical details are 
 interwoven with the critical remarks. If to any the 
 book seem to lose dignity because of this, possibly 
 in the judgment of other readers this feature will add 
 to its interest and value. 
 
 New York t October 2, 1894. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 3 
 
 II. FRANCIS PARKMAN 27 
 
 III. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 43 
 
 IV. HENRY JAMES 69 
 
 V. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 87 
 
 VI. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 104 
 
 VII. MARK TWAIN 124 
 
 VIII. FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 141 
 
 IX. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 158 
 
 X. CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK 171 
 
 XI. ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 187 
 
 XII. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY 201 
 
 XIII. BRET HARTE 212 
 
 XIV. EDWARD EVERETT HALE 230 
 
 XV. EDWARD EGGLESTON 248 
 
 XVI. GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 261 
 
 XVII. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 275 
 
 XVIII. FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 288 
 
 XIX. JOAQUIN MILLER 301 
 
 INDEX 3 r 7 
 
AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 A MERICA has as yet produced no poet who was 
 + * poet and nothing else. No counterpart of a 
 Wordsworth or a Tennyson, conscious of his high 
 calling, has devoted his life to the faithful and single- 
 hearted worship of the Muses. This may be, in part, 
 due to the hard conditions of life in a new world. 
 Every man has had to face the problem of making a 
 living, and we are even now only beginning to see grow 
 up among us a leisure class. A people that have had 
 to subdue the wilderness, to tunnel the mountains, to 
 bridge rivers, to build railways and telegraphs and 
 factories, to dig wealth out of the bowels of the earth, 
 may be pardoned if they have somewhat neglected 
 the worship of the beautiful in eager quest of the 
 useful. Our country has thus far been too deeply 
 intent on utilitarian aims, its ideals have been too 
 gross and unspiritual, for the up-bringing of great 
 poets. 
 
 For, even had the poet been born, he had been 
 given scant encouragement to devote his life to his 
 art. A Tennyson, a Scott, a Byron, receives princely 
 
AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 sums for his verse, but what American poet has 
 been able to live by his art alone? Of all our 
 Scant rewards singers, Longfellow came nearest to this, 
 
 of American . 
 
 poesy yet he was far past middle life before he 
 
 was able to surrender his bread-winning profession 
 and give all his time to literature. Only one born 
 to affluence, like a Browning, can venture to devote 
 his life to work for which his fellows show so slight 
 esteem and offer a reward so niggard. 
 
 As a compensation, in some sort, for the lack of 
 great poets, America has been dowered with an un 
 usual proportion of clever men of letters, poets, but 
 not poets solely ; men whose Yankee shrewdness and 
 adaptability have enabled them to do many kinds of 
 work, and to touch nothing that they have not adorned. 
 Poe, Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Lowell, Holmes, 
 among the dead, Stedman, Aldrich, Howell s, among 
 the living, are names that at once suggest themselves 
 to us. It may well be that our literature as a whole 
 is more brilliant and many-sided than it would have 
 been had these and others been able to give themselves 
 wholly to poetry. There are those who hold that, if 
 one has the true afflatus in any degree, and is con 
 scious of a message to deliver to the world, he will 
 find a way and a time to speak it forth. Much may 
 plausibly be said for this view of the case ; one instinct 
 ively disbelieves in the " mute, inglorious Miltons," 
 for had they been Miltons they had been neither mute 
 nor inglorious. And yet, there may easily be such a 
 thing as the partial delivery of a message. The sky- 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAM 
 
 lark will surely sing, but we may believe that he will 
 soar higher and pipe a clearer, more melodious note, 
 when the heavens are propitious. 
 
 I. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN was born at Hart 
 ford, Conn., October 8, 1833. He is a scion of the 
 purest New England stock. Like many other men of 
 genius, he seems to have inherited his mental and 
 moral traits largely from his mother, a sister of William 
 E. Dodge, and daughter of the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, 
 great-grandfather of Grover Cleveland. Quite early 
 in life he showed special aptitude for lit- An early ap - 
 
 1 titude for htera- 
 
 erature, and gave promise of at least con- ^ re - 
 siderable talent. While a student at Yale College 
 he won honors in Greek and English, obtaining first 
 prize with a poem on "Westminster Abbey " that was 
 published in the " Yale Literary Miscellany" in 1851. 
 For some boyish escapade he was suspended from 
 college in his junior year, and never returned to take 
 his degree. What his offence was does not appear, 
 but that it was no serious affair is evidenced by the 
 mildness of the penalty, and still. more by the subse 
 quent action of his college, which in 1871 restored 
 him to his class rank and conferred on him the degree 
 of Master of Arts. 
 
 His college course being terminated in this summary 
 way, young Stedman adopted journalism as his calling, 
 and, after a brief and not too profitable experience 
 
6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 with country newspapers in Connecticut, he found a 
 place on the staff of the " New York Tribune" in 1854. 
 Here he remained until 1860, when he joined the staff 
 of the " New York World," and for some time served 
 as war correspondent. As a journalist, one gathers 
 that he was faithful, hard-working, and reasonably 
 successful, without being brilliant. Perhaps enough 
 of his strict New England training still abode with him 
 to hinder his advancement. One requires an ample 
 stock of native assurance and an acquired hardihood 
 above common, and must overboard with all his fine 
 scruples and nice sensitiveness of conscience, if he 
 A trial of jour- would get to the top in journalism. It may 
 nahsm. k e reasona bly conjectured that the discov 
 
 ery of this had something to do with Mr. Stedman s 
 course ; if so, it is to his credit that he was not willing 
 to pay the price of success in the calling he had igno- 
 rantly chosen. Another reason doubtless actuated 
 him; he still cherished dreams of becoming a poet. 
 He had continued to woo the Muses at intervals, with 
 a flattering degree of success ; and he had grounds 
 for hoping that, with added years and experience, if he 
 could attain pecuniary independence, he might write 
 his name high on the roll of American singers. 
 
 After a brief experience of office-holding, ui der 
 Attorney-General Bates, Mr. Stedman returned to 
 New York, and in 1864 became a stock-broker. Those 
 were times in which fortunes were daily made "on 
 the street," and the still youthful broker may he ve 
 cherished visions of a speedy retirement, and the 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. J 
 
 spending of the best years of his life among his books, 
 in the practice of his beloved art. If such A piu ng einto 
 were his day-dreams, this modern Alnas- Wal1 Street - 
 char soon found them rudely shattered. He was not 
 long in learning that if fortunes are quickly won in 
 Wall Street, they are as quickly swept away again. 
 It was another lake of Tantalus to the would-be poet. 
 Several times he saw his fortune just within his grasp, 
 and once it seemed to be fully attained, when a turn 
 of fortune s wheel compelled him to begin over again. 
 What seemed at the beginning to be but the occupa 
 tion of a few years at most, turned out to be the 
 grinding work of a lifetime. Within a few years, if 
 rumor is to be trusted, dame Fortune has been more 
 kind, but her favors have come too late. The pro 
 ductive years of stalwart manhood are gone. The 
 desire of great achievement doubtless remains, but the 
 full opportunity can never return. It is the old story: 
 Ah! si la jeunesse savait si la vieillesse pouvait ! 
 " When I was a boy," says Thackeray somewhere, " I 
 used to pass a confectioner s window. There was taffy 
 in it; I wanted some, but the taffy was a shilling, and 
 I had none. Now I have the shilling, but I don t care 
 for taffy." 
 
 II. 
 
 MR. STEDMAN S versifying began, as we have seen, 
 in his college days. His prize poem he has never 
 reprinted, possibly because he shares Macaulay s 
 opinion that a prize poem is like a prize sheep, and 
 
8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 that " prize sheep are good for nothing but to make 
 tallow candles, and prize poems are good for nothing 
 but to light them." It must be confessed that Tenny 
 son s " Timbuctoo " is a powerful confirmation of this 
 theory, and it might be difficult to name any other 
 production that would tend to disprove it. But Mr. 
 Stedman has not exercised this severity in the case of 
 all his juvenilia, and for this one is grateful, since we 
 are now able to trace the growth of his genius and his 
 art as we could not otherwise. What among his early 
 writings he deemed worthy of preservation, he included 
 Poems, Lyric m " P ems > Lyric and Idyllic," which ap- 
 andidymc. pea red in i860 with the imprint of Charles 
 Scribner. The verses that formed this volume may 
 still be found in the author s collected works, of which 
 they fill the first eighty-five pages. 
 
 This was a rather remarkable book for a young man 
 of twenty-seven to print, remarkable chiefly for its 
 promise, as was but natural, but remarkable in some 
 measure for actual achievement also. The verse 
 manifested present as well as potential power. We 
 find, what we might expect, obvious traces of the 
 influence of other poets, the result of generous admi 
 ration and unconscious imitation. There is more than 
 a suggestion of Hood and Saxe, especially of the latter, 
 in " The Diamond Wedding; " and one asks himself 
 whether " Penelope " would have been written except 
 by a poet who had read and even studied Tennyson s 
 " Ulysses." " Flood Tide," too, is in the spirit, as well 
 as the measure, of " Locksley Hall," and couplets like 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 the following might well have been among the frag 
 ments that the elder poet was unable to work into his 
 theme : 
 
 " Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife, 
 Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life ! " 
 
 " Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher, 
 Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire." 
 
 In " The Sleigh-Ride," again, we have a reminiscence 
 of Shelley, and a little scrutiny would doubtless detect 
 other cases of similarity. Fortunate is the youthful 
 poet who chooses such masters as these in his art. 
 But there are verses here in which the poet utters a 
 note of his own ; " The Singer " is a nearly perfect bit 
 of workmanship, and " The Freshet " is an idyll that 
 only country-bred readers can fully appreciate. 
 
 Probably the most spirited piece in the book was, 
 " How Old Brown Took Harper s Ferry," and it still 
 ranks among the best poems inspired by T h e john 
 the event that it commemorates; indeed, Brownballad - 
 one is much inclined to rank it above all competitors. 
 Though the poet skips the hard places in Brown s 
 Kansas career, if he knew of the Pottawotamie mas 
 sacres when he wrote, he indulges in less unmeasured 
 hero-worship than has been the fashion in certain cir 
 cles of the North. But if his poem would hardly have 
 passed muster then (and it would still less pass now) 
 as a cool historic estimate of John Brown, it is still 
 worthy of respect as an outburst of lofty moral sen 
 timent and passionate patriotic feeling, however ill- 
 
IO AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 chosen the occasion, or unworthy the object. Almost 
 prophetic, in the light of subsequent events, seems this 
 closing stanza, written before Brown s execution, in 
 answer to the cry of " Hang him ! " that went up from 
 the South : 
 
 " But, Virginians, don t do it ! for I tell you that the flagon, 
 Filled with blood of Old Brown s offspring, was first poured 
 
 by Southern hands ; 
 And each drop from Old Brown s life-veins, like the red gore 
 
 of the dragon, 
 
 May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave- 
 worn lands ! 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Ossawatomie Brown, 
 
 May trouble you more than ever, when you ve nailed his coffin 
 down ! " 
 
 The publication of this volume may have convinced 
 the judicious few that a poet had appeared who " knew 
 to sing and build the lofty rhyme," but it certainly 
 made no great sensation. On the whole, it may be 
 said to have been " favorably received," a phrase 
 that has a pretty sound and is usefully vague. The 
 times were not auspicious for the launching of poeti 
 cal ventures. The people of the North were too 
 intent on sterner themes to regard verses, except 
 such as had a martial ring or appealed to the rising 
 antislavery fervor. The John Brown ballad was the 
 only poem that was keyed to the feeling of the day, 
 and therefore the book had only un succh cTestime, 
 though it deserved more. All things considered, it 
 was fortunate to escape a worse fate. 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. II 
 
 III. 
 
 THE second period of Mr. Stedman s poetic activity 
 is the decade between 1860 and 1870. It is distin 
 guished by the publication of two volumes, " Alice 
 of Monmouth " (New York, 1864) and " The Blameless 
 Prince" (Boston, 1869), and was rounded off by the 
 issue in 1873 of a complete edition of the poetical 
 works, bearing the imprint of Ticknor and Fields. It 
 was during this ten or twelve years that the greater 
 part of Mr. Stedman s work as poet was done. Ab 
 sorbed as he was, first by the most exacting and 
 exhausting of callings, and afterwards by the hardly 
 less distracting cares of business, he was quite unable 
 to repress the spirit that strove within him for utter 
 ance in verse. 
 
 " Alice of Monmouth " was described in the sub 
 title as " An Idyll of the Great War," and other poems 
 were included in the volume. This title-poem was a 
 romance in verse. Experiments of this kind have been 
 sometimes phenomenally successful, but not always. 
 Scott gained an unbounded popularity, as Anldyllofthe 
 permanent as it was sudden, by means of GreatWar - 
 his " Marmion " and " The Lady of the Lake," but 
 even he failed disastrously in some of his later ven 
 tures. Tennyson, a far greater poet, though he 
 measurably succeeded in " The Princess," failed dis 
 mally in " Maud," which is only saved from oblivion 
 by two, or at most three, exquisite lyrics embedded 
 in the rubbish. The younger Lytton, as " Owen 
 
12 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Meredith," achieved immediate but transitory fame 
 among sentimental misses with " Lucile," thanks to 
 heroic stealing from George Sand, but it is now 
 pretty well agreed that while " Lucile " may be a 
 romance, it is not a poem. " Alice of Monmouth " 
 was neither a disastrous failure nor a marvellous suc 
 cess. It is a story that ought to have appealed to 
 American readers, in the midst of the Civil War, with 
 peculiar force. It has poetic merit of a high order, 
 but it never became a popular book. This fate is not 
 a little hard to justify, or even to understand. There 
 was no lack of popular interest in the theme ; readers 
 greedily devoured, as fast as the groaning presses 
 could turn them out, war novels of the most trashy 
 and sensational kind, written in an indescribable style, 
 that can be pronounced neither English nor American ; 
 there seemed to be literally no limit to the appetite of 
 the public for reading of this kind. It may be that 
 the workmanship of this poem was too fine, its passion 
 too sublimated, its charm too ethereal, to please the 
 multitude. It is still so unfamiliar to American readers, 
 of more than ordinary intelligence and culture, that 
 one might quote from it almost anywhere and vainly 
 challenge a roomful of such people to identify the 
 passage. One exception should be noted, which, 
 however, is only partially an exception, and that is 
 the spirited " Cavalry Song," which is the fifth number 
 of Part XI. of the poem : 
 
 " Our good steeds snuff the evening air, 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 13 
 
 The foeman s fires are twinkling there ; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 
 
 HALT! 
 
 Each carbine sends its whizzing ball : 
 Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
 Into the fight ! " 
 
 This song of three stanzas is, as it deserves to be, 
 one of the best known and most admired of Stedman s 
 poems. Yet it is safe to say, not one in a thousand 
 of those who have read it in some anthology of 
 American verse holds it for anything but an indepen 
 dent lyric, or would fail to be astonished on hearing 
 that it is but a small portion of a poem of some fifty 
 closely printed octavo pages. 
 
 " The Blameless Prince " is even less known. In 
 this case one cannot wish the verdict of the public 
 reversed. It is not a wholesome poem. A vein of 
 cynicism runs through it that quite vitiates The Blame , 
 it for those who still believe that men are less Prince - 
 true and women chaste. The burden of the story is 
 that those who are praised by the world for purity and 
 honor are sinners in secret; and yet, being such sin 
 ners, deserve that we should pity and spare them, for 
 
 " He who brightest is, and best, 
 Still may fear the secret test 
 That shall try his heart aright" 
 
 A tale whose moral is so immoral is deservedly 
 neglected by readers. It is the one thing in all Mr. 
 Stedman s writings, whether verse or prose, that is not 
 clean and bracing. 
 
14 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 In the collected poems of 1873 were most of those 
 with which Mr. Stedman s name is most closely con 
 nected, those of which one instinctively thinks 
 whenever his name is mentioned. There were four 
 spirited war-lyrics " Sumter," " Wanted a Man," 
 " Gettysburg," and " Kearney at Seven Pines " 
 The first " com- wm cn > of their kind, are scarcely surpassed 
 
 plete " edition. j n Qur literature. All of these but the 
 
 "Sumter" have been included, along with the 
 " Cavalry Song," in the collection of " American War 
 Ballads and Lyrics " made by Mr. George Gary Eggles- 
 ton ; and every reader of taste will pronounce them to 
 be among the very best things in the two volumes. 
 Very few of the great mass of poems called forth by 
 the Civil War still stir the blood like these. 
 
 Verses of a more peaceful sort were also first 
 gathered in this volume. " Pan in Wall Street " is 
 Deservedly a prime favorite with everybody who can 
 appreciate a blend of fancy and humor. Who has not 
 felt the charm of" Laura, My Darling," the poem/ar 
 excellence of all wedded lovers ? What reminiscences 
 of boyhood days and rural sports in " Country Sleigh 
 ing" and "The Doorstep," the latter worthy to live 
 alongside of " Zekle s Courtin ." And where is there 
 a prettier child s poem than " What the Winds Bring" ? 
 
 In all these later poems there is but one that even 
 suggests the manner of any other poet. One may be 
 wrong about that instance, but in the " Dartmouth 
 Ode" are tones that seem like echoes of Lowell s 
 " Commemoration Ode." The resemblance is more 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 15 
 
 in the structure of the verse and the general manner 
 than in anything more specific, except in one case to 
 be noted. Of any actual imitation there is of course 
 no trace ; there are no verbal similarities ; there is not 
 even the same manner of handling the theme; and 
 the theme itself is distinct from that of Lowell s ode, 
 though similar. Still, the eighth strophe, in which the 
 character of Chase is described and eulogized, im 
 presses one as strikingly like Lowell s familiar tribute 
 to Lincoln. The impression is so spontaneous and 
 so strong, one can hardly resist an inference that 
 Lowell s ode suggested in some degree Mr. Stedman s, 
 and in particular that the two passages specified are 
 thus related. One hesitates about saying this, but 
 as the resemblance is no closer than Mr. Stedman has 
 himself traced between Tennyson and Theocritus, it 
 can do no harm to let it stand. It is certainly no 
 worse to owe a hint to a contemporary poet than to 
 one who has been dead long enough to be forgotten, 
 though perhaps the choice is less prudent. 
 
 Mr. Stedman s latest verse has shown no falling-off 
 from that of his prime. He had not passed his prime, 
 indeed, when his last book appeared, " Hawthorne 
 and Other Poems" (Boston, 1876). These verses were 
 included in the " Household Edition " of his poetical 
 works (Boston, 1884). On various occasions, unfor- 
 nately too infrequent, he has broken silence since that 
 time, but he has published no volume. His careful 
 
 FTM . .1 . i workmanship. 
 
 There is, m this latest verse, the same 
 
 careful and conscientious literary art, the same high 
 
1 6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 purpose, that mark all his best work. None of our 
 American poets has been less content with " the first 
 fine careless rapture " of song, none has spared less 
 the labor of the file. Not that his poems appear 
 labored, that they smell of the lamp that were indeed 
 crude literary art ; rather his verse by its very perfect- 
 ness of form, its apparently unstudied simplicity and 
 easy grace, gives token of the severe labor without 
 which this supreme excellence is unattainable. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WITH the interruption of his original work, began 
 Mr. Stedman s labors as a critic. A sort of introduc 
 tion to this was the editing, in conjunction with Mr. 
 T. B. Aldrich, of " Cameos from Landor" (Boston, 
 1874). His actual critical work, however, was not 
 undertaken until the following year, when the first of 
 what proved to be an extended series of essays was 
 Victorian published in " Scribner s Magazine " (now 
 Poets of " The Century "). One series of these 
 
 America. 
 
 essays was collected into a volume, with 
 the title " Victorian Poets" (Boston, 1875, London, 
 1876); another and later collection being entitled 
 "Poets of America" (Boston, 1886). The popularity 
 of both volumes was immediate, great, and well de 
 served ; the former has reached its twenty-first edition, 
 while the latter is in its eleventh. Nor is the reason 
 of this popularity far to seek. For the service under 
 taken in these essays but one other American could 
 be thought of as the author s equal in equipment ; 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. IJ 
 
 and while to Lowell we may concede equal or superior 
 learning and breadth of vision, and a style quite un 
 approachable, we cannot grant that in equipoise, in 
 impartial judgment, in coolness of mind, he was Mr. 
 Stedman s equal. Lowell, had he attempted a similar 
 task, would have written delightful essays, in them 
 selves contributions of high value to our literature, 
 apart from their critical content; but in saying this 
 does not one hint at their probable defect? They 
 would have been rather literature than criticism. In 
 our author s case, temperament, scholarship, and ex 
 perience combined to make him almost the ideal 
 critic. While by no means incapable of generous 
 admiration, he is not prone to let the 
 
 His equipment 
 
 warmth of his emotion obscure the clear- asa critic - 
 ness of his mental operations. His judgment is not 
 biassed by affection; he knows how to be kindly just, 
 but he does not know how to be weakly partial. The 
 partisan of no theory of art, the champion of no school, 
 a citizen of the world, his candid spirit and catholic 
 taste inspire confidence, not merely in the rectitude of 
 his intent, but in the trustworthiness of his interpreta 
 tions, the correctness of his canons, and the accuracy 
 of his conclusions. The uninstructed reader instinct 
 ively feels that he is following a safe guide ; and, while 
 the instructed reader may differ from the critic on 
 questions of detail, he will differ seldom, and then 
 with modest self-distrust; and he is not likely to dis 
 pute the sincerity or sanity of that which he declines 
 to accept as authoritative. 
 
1 8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Every man has the defects of his qualities, as the 
 French say. Mr. Stedman is so thorough an artist in 
 verse, he comprehends so fully the resources as well 
 as the limitations of his art, that he lacks patience with 
 one who seems careless of the mere form of expression. 
 This makes his criticism of Browning unsatisfactory, 
 because unsympathetic. All that he says is true, or at 
 Hisiimita- least ingenious, but one is conscious through- 
 tlons * out the essay that the critic has failed to grasp 
 
 and express the whole truth. Indeed, no man to whom 
 poetry is primarily an art can understand Browning. 
 Mr. Stedman fails, with the best intentions in the 
 world, frankly and sincerely to admire Browning, and 
 his attempt to force an admiration that he does not 
 feel makes his criticism less valuable than is its wont. 
 This is the more curious, because he so ardently ad 
 mires Walt Whitman, a man who was not only not 
 an artist, but who lost no opportunity to tell the world 
 how much he despised art. 
 
 One of Mr. Stedman s largest critical undertakings 
 has been the editing, in connection with Miss Ellen 
 The Library M. Hutchinson, of a " Library of American 
 Lit"re an Literature" (New York, 1888-1891). This 
 library has filled ten large octavo volumes. The 
 making of the selections, and the preparation of the 
 large amount of critical and biographical matter 
 accompanying them, gave abundant scope for the 
 exercise of the largest learning, the soundest judg 
 ment, and the best taste. Regarding the value of his 
 labors there is no difference of opinion. By common 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 19 
 
 consent this is the completest collection of representa 
 tive writings of American authors, and the best guide 
 to a systematic study of our literature, that has ever 
 been made. 
 
 The latest claim of Mr. Stedman on our gratitude 
 is the publication of his lectures on " The Nature and 
 Elements of Poetry." In this volume he at once dis 
 cusses the fundamental principles of the art of poetry 
 and illustrates them from the practice of the great 
 masters of the art. The book is thus both creed and 
 criticism. He has little faith in untutored genius, in 
 those who compose by the light of nature The Nature and 
 
 Elements of 
 
 and pour forth in the ears of an astonished Poetry. 
 world " their profuse strains of unpremeditated art. * 
 To him poetry is not merely an art, but the noblest 
 of the arts, and not the least difficult, as little to be 
 acquired without study and practice as likely to be 
 acquired by practice and study solely 
 
 Definition of terms is always desirable and generally 
 indispensable; and a definition of poetry is none the 
 less helpful in a discussion of this kind because the 
 thing to be defined is vague and elusive, and refuses 
 to be adequately expressed in words. Mr. Stedman s 
 definition is broad and inclusive, yet sufficiently defi 
 nite : " Poetry is rhythmical, imaginative language, 
 expressing the invention, taste, thought, passion, and 
 insight, of the human soul." It is the art of expression 
 in verse, in briefer terms. But this implies, first of all, 
 that the poet have some thought requiring imaginative 
 expression, and that he be capable of giving his 
 
2O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY, 
 
 thought a fitting form. This is why he is poet (poietes, 
 maker, creator), and without this he is a mere mechan 
 ical versifier. But how to have such a thought? 
 This requires " the vision and the faculty divine," the 
 power to see into the very heart of things, the creative 
 insight what, in a word, we mean by " genius." 
 But thus far poetry is not sufficiently differentiated 
 from prose; we need the further qualification that it 
 is the rhythmical expression of the visions of genius. 
 Even this does not completely differentiate poetry 
 from prose, for there is a prose rhythm, and prose 
 may be so imaginative, so like to poetry in all save 
 form, as to be best described by the term " poetic 
 prose." The rhythm of poetry is marked by regularity, 
 while the characteristic of prose rhythm is flexibility 
 and variety. Just as soon as sentences become rhyth 
 mical according to a fixed alternation of syllable and 
 accent, in regular sequence, the form of expression is 
 no longer prose but verse. Mr. Stedman s definition 
 Poetry defined, should, therefore, be amended somewhat as 
 follows : " Poetry is the expression in imaginative 
 language and in regular rhythm, of the human soul s 
 invention, taste, thought, passion, and insight." 
 
 That this element of regularity is the differentiating 
 feature of verse, becomes evident when one examines 
 the masters of prose. There is rhythmical, imagina 
 tive language in the prose of Milton, of Landor, of 
 De Quincey, of Carlyle ; but no two successive sen 
 tences have the same rhythm. In whole pages of 
 Dickens and of Blackmore, on the other hand, one 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE S TED MAN. 21 
 
 finds that regularity of rhythm which is distinctive of 
 verse. Some of the most sonorous and majestic pas 
 sages in English literature would be spoiled by the 
 change of a word here and there, in no way affecting 
 the sense, but utterly destroying the rhythm ; while 
 the prose style of Dickens and Blackmore would be 
 happily mended by such changes as would break up 
 the regularity of their rhythmical passages. 
 
 Rhythmical regularity, however, is only one aspect 
 of the form of expression that we call poetry. Given 
 this, and the fundamental intuition of genius, poetry 
 becomes effective, according to Mr. Stedman, through 
 beauty, feeling, and imagination. Any work of art 
 that produces a serious and lasting impression will be 
 found in the end to owe its effect to beauty. That 
 which is merely bizarre and audacious can have no 
 enduring charm, and endurance is the test of worth in 
 art. Beauty in poetry is of two kinds: beauty of 
 construction and beauty of detail. Of the Beauty the 
 former, the chief element is simplicity, ofpoetr" 11 
 which must be attained through naturalness ; while in 
 the case of the latter, richness and variety must be 
 carefully restrained from the vice of over decoration. 
 But, above all, poetry to be beautiful must have the 
 attribute that we can name yet cannot describe, 
 charm. 
 
 A step further Mr. Stedman goes. Truth and 
 beauty, in the last reduction, he declares to be equiv 
 alent terms, and " beauty is the unveiled shining 
 countenance of truth," a prose version of Keats s 
 
22 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 " Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 
 
 It follows from this that a truth, to be beautiful, 
 must be a whole truth. This principle excludes from 
 poetry all didacticism, which is essentially the preach 
 ment of the gospel of half-truths by those who have 
 not the insight to perceive the soul of truth, the 
 expression of which is always beauty. In his con 
 demnation of didacticism, however, Mr. Stedman does 
 not include that nobly philosophical strain whose 
 is truth utterance is often the prophecy of inspira- 
 trmh beauty. t i on {^ sc \^ The didacticism of Pope s 
 " Essay on Man " and of Tennyson s " In Memoriam " 
 are at the extreme poles of the poetic art ; the former 
 is a collection of rhymed moral sentiments, resembling 
 poetry only in the outward form, while the latter is the 
 flower of Tennyson s prime, unsurpassed in profound 
 feeling, in chaste beauty, and in imaginative phi 
 losophy. Nor by condemning didacticism does Mr. 
 Stedman exclude from poetry the highest wisdom, 
 that of ethics. He would by no means agree with 
 those who declare that art and morals have nothing 
 in common. Mr. Oscar Wilde has informed the world 
 that a poem is either well-written or ill-written, and 
 that is all there is of it. Be it so, Mr. Stedman might 
 reply ; a poem is not well written unless it expresses 
 the highest verities of righteousness. To infuse a 
 "moral" into a work of art is, indeed, to spoil it; but 
 that beauty which is " the unveiled shining counte 
 nance of truth " will always carry a moral, the more 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 2$ 
 
 effective perhaps in that it is not formally expressed. 
 Baseness in art satiates without satisfying; it does not 
 bear the supreme test of endurance. Indeed, there is 
 no previous writer on the poetic art who grounds it so 
 surely on an ethical, even a religious basis, Th? religious 
 as Mr. Stedman. In spirit he goes back to basis of poetry 
 the time when poetry and the drama were adjuncts of 
 a nation s religion, in that he says : 
 
 " Now the artist not only has a right, but it is his duty, to 
 indulge an anthropomorphism of his own. In his conception 
 the divine power must be the supreme poet, the matchless 
 artist, not only the transcendency, but the immanence of all 
 that is adorable in thought, feeling, and appearance. Grant 
 that the Creator is the founder of rites and institutes and 
 dignities ; yet for the idealist he conceived the sunrise and 
 moonrise, the sounds that ravish, the outlines that enchant 
 and sway. He sets the colors upon the easel, the harp and 
 viol are his invention, he is the model and the clay, his voice 
 is in the story and the song. The love and beauty of women, 
 the comradeship of man, the joy of student-life, the mimic 
 life of the drama as much as the tragedy and comedy of the 
 living world, have their sources in his nature ; nor only gravity 
 and knowledge, but also irony and wit and mirth. Arcady 
 is a garden of his devising. As far as the poet, the artist, is 
 creative, he becomes a sharer of the divine imagination and 
 power, and even of the divine responsibility. " 
 
 It is possible that to many this idea may seem daring 
 to the verge of irreverence, but that can be only 
 because it is a thought to which they have 
 
 not accustomed themselves. No Christian oE|y7 ith the ~ 
 
24 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 thinker who believes in the immanence of God in his 
 universe, that in him, according to the apostle, we 
 live and move and have our being, will discover 
 anything disquieting in this theory of art. Rather will 
 it adjust itself to his theology and to his understanding 
 of the Scriptures with perfect ease, and once compre 
 hended will seem to him the only possible, as well as 
 by far the noblest, conception of the fundamental 
 nature of art. 
 
 As to the quality of poetic expression, Mr. Stedman 
 finds nothing to add to Milton s well-known dictum, 
 that it should be simple, sensuous, passionate, that 
 is to say, impassioned, marked by intensity of emotion. 
 Human passion has always been and probably always 
 will be the theme of poets of the first order. " In 
 truth," says our author, " the potent artist, the great 
 Poetic expres- P oet , is he who makes us realize the emo 
 tion defined. tions Q f those who experience august 
 
 extremes of fortune. For what can be of more value 
 than intense and memorable sensations? What else 
 make up that history which alone is worth the name 
 of life?" The most effective expression, however, is 
 not always the fullest expression in words ; Browning 
 has shown that the most dramatic effects are produced 
 by the indication of suppressed passion. The poet 
 no more than the actor should " tear a passion to 
 tatters " if he wishes to reach the summit of his art. 
 
 The poet, Mr. Stedman holds in conclusion, is not 
 merely a creator, but a prophet. His is a vision not 
 enjoyed by ordinary mortals, and on him is laid the 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 2$ 
 
 compulsion to declare it. It is required of him, there 
 fore, that he believe in his prophecy as something 
 greater than himself. His office is incompatible with 
 the scepticism that questions whether anything is 
 certain, whether anything is really worth while. 
 Neither a cynic nor a pessimist can be a great poet, 
 for the underlying motive of all strenuous effort and 
 high achievement is faith. Without such faith, become 
 vital in action, the highest flight of poetry will not be 
 essayed, or will be essayed in vain. 
 
 To sum up the results of our examination of his 
 work, we may say that Mr. Stedman seems a clear 
 case of arrested development, a man whom hard 
 fate has bereft of his highest achievement. Poetry is 
 his native speech. Herein he differs from Mr. Howells, 
 who, though the writer of very creditable verse, yet 
 finds in prose his more natural utterance. An artist in 
 Mr. Stedman hardly ranks among the first proS" 
 American writers of prose. We are now considering 
 his style only, the mere form of his expression, the 
 dress of his thought. His prose writings are of high 
 value, but it is a value that does not depend chiefly 
 on their workmanship. The substance is sterling, 
 and bears the hall-mark of genuine worth ; the form 
 is conventionally correct, but lacks the unmistakable 
 stamp of genius. He is, in other words, not the artist 
 in prose that he is in verse. His style has no serious 
 faults, but it lacks flavor, sparkle, distinction. His 
 words do not, " like so many nimble and airy servitors, 
 
26 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 trip about him at command." Now almost the con 
 trary, in every particular, may be said of his verse. 
 While he does not rank, by virtue of what he has ac 
 tually done, with the greatest of our American poets, 
 his verse has a distinct flavor that one would not like 
 to lose. His work, except in that which we may call 
 his juvenile period, could not possibly be mistaken 
 for the work of any other poet. Much of it is not 
 merely free from technical faults, but is imaginative, 
 tender, spirited. It shows genius, and it contains the 
 prophecy of greater things to be achieved. The un- 
 fulfilment of that prophecy will be a serious loss to 
 American letters. Mr. Stedman s place, nevertheless, 
 among American authors can never be anything but 
 a high one. Though his achievement in verse has not 
 yet fulfilled the bright promise of his youth, though 
 His phce in his mind is not so opulent or his style so 
 
 American 
 
 literature. luxuriant as Lowell s, though he lacks the 
 effervescing wit of Holmes, his actual performance is 
 valuable for its cosmopolitan spirit, its broad culture, 
 its genuine humor, its depth of insight, its conscien 
 tious workmanship. 
 
II. 
 
 FRANCIS PARKMAN. 
 
 AMONG American men of letters, none have a 
 higher rank than the historians. Irving, Pres- 
 cott, and Motley are names that are not eclipsed by 
 those of Gibbon, Hume, and Macaulay. If Bancroft 
 is not ranked with these, it is not because his labored 
 work is inferior in scholarly research, but because the 
 style, now dry and operose, now turgid and bombastic, 
 puts it distinctly among historical writings of the 
 second class. But there can be no doubt of the right 
 of a fourth American to rank in this company of great 
 historians. By the unanimous suffrages of competent 
 critics, as well as of delighted readers, this honor has 
 been awarded to Francis Parkman. 
 
 I. 
 
 LIKE Lowell and Holmes, Mr. Parkman belonged 
 to the Brahmin caste of New England. Three genera 
 tions of ministers were among his ancestors. His 
 father was a pupil of Channing, president of the asso 
 ciation of Unitarian ministers, founder of the chair of 
 pulpit eloquence in the theological department of 
 Harvard University, a divine of high repute in his day 
 
28 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 for learning, eloquence, and character. It was a 
 of the Brahmin brother of this divine (also a Dr. Parkman, 
 caste. Dut D octor o f Medicine, not of Divinity) 
 
 who was murdered by his friend, Professor Webster 
 one of the most celebrated cases in the history of 
 American criminal jurisprudence. Francis Parkman 
 was born in Boston, September 16, 1823, predestined 
 to the intellectual life. He was graduated at Harvard 
 in 1844, and for two years thereafter studied law, but 
 finally abandoned the idea of a professional career. 
 It does not appear that during his boyhood or his 
 college days he had shown any strong bent towards 
 literature. There are singularly few anecdotes or 
 reminiscences of friends accessible, and the side-lights 
 that such things often throw on a man s life and work 
 are quite lacking in his case. One cannot discover 
 what turned him toward the Great West and decided 
 his future ; we only know that in 1846 he set out to 
 explore the Rocky Mountains, and that he lived for 
 some months among the Dakota Indians and even 
 wilder tribes, gaining in this way such an intimate 
 knowledge of aboriginal customs and traditions as few 
 white men have ever obtained. If it was health that 
 he sought, this incursion into the wilderness was an 
 utter failure. The privations that he was compelled 
 to endure sent him back to civilization with a shattered 
 frame, and induced an affection of the eyes that would 
 have ended the literary career of any ordinary man. 
 
 The results of this exploration were first given to 
 the world in a series of articles in " Knickerbocker s 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAM 29 
 
 Magazine," and at their conclusion were published in 
 a volume called " Prairie and Rocky Mountain Life " 
 (New York, 1849), which title was afterwards changed 
 into " The California and Oregon Trail," by which 
 name the book has long been known. It is even now 
 delightful reading, and one can faintly imag- The Great 
 ine its fascination for a generation to whom West 
 the Great West was a region full of mystery and ro 
 mance. The book was a success in every way, being 
 praised by the critics and proving profitable to the 
 publisher. This decided the author s career, if there 
 was anything left to be decided. It was Mr. Parkman s 
 evident vocation to be a historian, though the state of 
 his health raised a doubt of his ability to follow the call. 
 The field of his labors was also pretty definitely de 
 limited by this first success : it was to be the story of 
 the Indian nations, in their relation to their white 
 conquerors, the English and the French; and this 
 naturally led up to the story of the contest between 
 France and England for the supremacy in North 
 America. 
 
 In a steady series the books came from the press, 
 with such breaks only as thorough work required. In 
 1851 "The Conspiracy of Pontiac " was published, 
 the failure of this conspiracy marking the downfall of 
 the power of the Six Nations. " Pioneers of France 
 in the New World" followed in 1865; 
 
 D His histories. 
 
 "The Jesuits in North America" in 1867; 
 
 " La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West " in 
 
 1869; "The Old Regime in Canada" in 1874; 
 
30 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 "Count Frontenac and New France" in 1877; 
 "Montcalm and Wolfe" in 1884; and the series was 
 concluded in 1892 with " A Half Century of Con 
 flict." These works fill twelve goodly octavos of some 
 four hundred pages each, and constitute one of the 
 notable contributions to historical literature made 
 during the nineteenth century. The bulk of this 
 writing proclaims Mr. Parkman to be one of the most 
 industrious of historians, for it is fully equal to the 
 great work of Gibbon, and is about twice that of the 
 histories of Macaulay or Hume. But the mere bulk 
 of his writing is its least remarkable feature; that 
 establishes his industry only, and Mr. Parkman was 
 a man of genius. 
 
 II. 
 
 BY what process of reasoning do we justify the 
 custom of calling " self-made " him alone who rises 
 to eminence from poverty? The fact, of course, is 
 that any man is self-made who is ever made at all. 
 Wealth and social position may supply the opportunity 
 of greatness, but they never yet made a man great. 
 It is a fair matter of debate, indeed, whether wealth 
 The obstacles an< ^ soc i a l distinction are not distinctly un- 
 O f wealth. favorable to the development of any germ 
 of greatness with which a man may have the good 
 fortune to be endowed by nature. There is something 
 wholesome and bracing in poverty. No great race 
 has ever been produced in an enervating tropical 
 climate ; the manly virtues flourish in rapidly increas- 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN* 31 
 
 ing ratio as we journey away from the equator. The 
 youth who is born with a golden spoon in his mouth 
 and is lapped in luxury from his cradle onward, has 
 not half a chance to make a man of himself. If he 
 turns out a tolerably decent fellow and does a man s 
 work in the world, he has great reason to congratulate 
 himself; while if he proves to be a man of genius and 
 makes all mankind his debtors, something very like a 
 miracle has been wrought We do well to honor those 
 who have overcome the obstacles of poverty and 
 deficient early training, but let us honor even more 
 those who have conquered the temptations of wealth 
 and the flatteries of society. 
 
 Mr. Parkman inherited an ample fortune, and a 
 place in the most cultured and refined circle of Boston 
 was his birthright. He might, without losing the 
 respect of his class, have devoted himself to a life of 
 elegant ease and learned leisure. He might have 
 cultivated any one or all of several gentlemanly and 
 costly tastes. He might have become a bibliomaniac, 
 wise in first editions and fine bindings, or a virtuoso 
 in violins and vases. He might, equally without re 
 proach, have devoted himself to yachting, coaching, 
 or some other of the methods by which the gilded 
 youth of America relieve themselves of their super 
 fluous dollars and kill the time that hangs so heavily 
 on their well-manicured hands. He might Hlsabundant 
 even have become a mere idler, a ban vivant, labors - 
 whom everybody calls " a good fellow," the type of 
 man who is envied by fools and despised by the wise. 
 
C 
 
 32 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Nay, he might have gone to the devil altogether, by 
 the old-fashioned broad road well-travelled of rich 
 young men. He did none of these things. Neither 
 undervaluing nor overvaluing the advantages of wealth 
 and station, he made them the stepping-stones of his 
 career. He labored with a zeal, an industry > an un 
 flagging purpose, not surpassed by men who have to 
 pull hard against wind and tide to get on in life. No 
 mechanic toiling for daily bread has been a harder 
 worker than he. Whether ambition or philanthropy 
 was the spur that urged him on, and there Is no 
 need that we should inquire too curiously, the spur 
 was at any rate effective. 
 
 It is conceded on all hands that Mr Parkman s 
 histories are a contribution of the highest value to our 
 knowledge of early American history. \They could 
 not well fail to be this, inasmuch as they traverse a 
 field practically untrodden, and are based on original 
 Originality. sources.1 Few readers realize the labor 
 involved in blazing a way through a virgin forest of 
 facts. But Mr. Parkman has done more than blaze 
 a way; he has cleared the forest and brought the land 
 under cultivation. In other words, he has done his 
 work with such thoroughness and minuteness of re 
 search, and with such impartiality and accuracy of 
 judgment, that it will not require doing over again for 
 many years to come, if ever!} His search has not 
 passed by any material of value known to exist; all 
 the ore in sight has been mined and the veins are ex 
 hausted. Until new discoveries are made, little of 
 value remains to be done. 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN. 33 
 
 This has involved an immense deal of travel and 
 research at first hand ; it has compelled no end of 
 mousing about for hidden and unsuspected sources 
 of knowledge ; it prompted numerous visits to France, 
 where the State archives were thrown open to Mr. 
 Parkman s inspection, and their secrets were wrung 
 from them bv, patient investigation. There was a 
 conscientious thoroughness in this historian s research 
 that would have won men s praise if he had been as 
 robust a man as Macaulay, for example. But this 
 indefatigable worker was not a robust man ; His extensive 
 most of his life was passed in a state of researches - 
 health but one degree removed from invalidism. 
 For the greater part of his work he was able to use 
 his own eyes very little; and months at a time he 
 was compelled to spend in a darkened room, in 
 imminent danger of total blindness. Most of his 
 research he was compelled to prosecute by the aid 
 of other eyes than his own, and his books were for 
 the most part composed by dictation. Prescott, it 
 is recorded, in the latter part of his life was afflicted 
 in a similar way, and his brilliant " History of the 
 Conquest of Mexico " was composed in like manner; 
 but Mr. Parkman worked by this method during a 
 period of forty years. Both the extent and the 
 excellence of his work would be remarkable in any 
 case, but are nothing less than astounding in view of 
 these circumstances. 
 
 One could hardly mention a parallel case in the 
 whole history of literature. We are accustomed to 
 
 3 
 
34 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 think of the composition of " Paradise Lost " and the 
 other great works that Milton produced in his years 
 A feat without f blindness, as an unexampled literary 
 parallel ^^ But Milton s task was not to be 
 
 named beside Parkman s for difficulty. The com 
 position of an epic, being almost wholly an intel 
 lectual process, can be carried on by the help of an 
 amanuensis with comparative ease. In historical 
 writing the mere work of composition is the small 
 est part of the undertaking. To collect, compare, 
 and sift the materials is an immense labor, even for 
 one who has the full use of his eyes, but to depend 
 on the eyes of others multiplies the difficulty im 
 measurably. Take a single instance: one who can 
 use his own eyes readily acquires the faculty of run 
 ning his glance rapidly down the page, singling out 
 the points of interest or value to him and passing by 
 the rest; while one who depends on another s eyes 
 must listen patiently while every word is read to him, 
 lest he miss something of consequence. In a thou 
 sand ways that imagination easily suggests, he is at 
 a disadvantage, and the demands made on his time 
 and patience by this method of working are not 
 easily calculable. 
 
 III. 
 
 WHOEVER comes after Mr. Parkman can only retell 
 the same story. It seems unlikely that any dis 
 coveries of material remain to be made that will 
 throw important light on this period of history, 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN. 35 
 
 though they may clear up some details and pos 
 sibly compel modifications of judgment here and 
 there. The substance of the story will remain un 
 changed. Can any future historian hope to tell it 
 better than Mr. Parkman? Who has ever had the 
 courage to retell Gibbon s story of the decline and 
 fall of the Roman Empire? Much as has 
 been said, and deservedly said, of Mr. 
 Parkman s industry in research, even mace may be 
 said, and with no less justice, of his^rilliancy of 
 style. Perhaps " brilliant " is not the happiest epi 
 thet one could choose, for it may convey to some 
 an implication that the style is unfavorable to strict 
 veracity. Of more than one great historian it has 
 been said, with at least a show of justice, that his 
 style is one in which no man could possibly tell the 
 truth. The historian who affects the grand manner, 
 who makes much use of antithesis and metaphor, 
 who overloads his pages with, allusion and quota 
 tion, a historian, in a word, who is chiefly a rhet 
 orician, is morally certain to be untrustworthy in 
 details. The desire to make an effective sentence 
 will, unconsciously to himself, often prove superior 
 to the desire to tell the truth. Mr. Froude stands a 
 melancholy example for all time of this principle. 
 Mr. Parkman s brilliancy is not rhetorical, in the 
 conventional sense of that term ; that is, he does not 
 produce his effects by the free use of the artifices 
 and ornaments of style described and illustrated at 
 length in the standard treatises on rhetoric. 
 
36 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 If Mr. Parkman had been a novelist he would be 
 classed as a realist, for he has carried the realistic 
 method into history as no other man of our time has 
 done itXPicturesqueness is a striking feature of his 
 style ; his descriptions do not impress one as beauti 
 ful, though they are that, but as vivid, and, above all, 
 as truthful. ^l his is precisely what they are. The 
 historian has made his sketch on the spot and from 
 nature, precisely as a painter would do it, and with 
 the same fidelity to detail that a painter would study. 
 A similar .method and effect are discernible in all 
 v his descriptions of character. Not only 
 
 Ficturesqueness. 
 
 are the great personages in his pages 
 Pontiac and La Salle, Montcalm and Wolfe drawn 
 with wonderful clearness and actually made to live 
 and move before us, but most of the men who re 
 ceive more than a passing mention are sketched wjth 
 equal fidelity and effectiveness. As the skilled artist, 
 by a few strokes of the crayon, catches and repro 
 duces the expression of a face with a power that an 
 elaborate oil portrait often fails to equal, so by a 
 phrase or a sentence interjected here and there into 
 his narrative Mr. Parkman has outlined the character 
 of scores of men, and we know them better than 
 through pages of description by most writersA 
 
 When the " Saturday Review " praises anything 
 American, we are warranted in concluding that it 
 must be very good indeed. The " Saturday Review " 
 concedes that the writings of Mr. Parkman are certain 
 of a permanent place among the most important his- 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN. 37 
 
 torical literature of our age. And it bases its pre 
 diction, not on the industry and accuracy of the his 
 torian, but on the excellence of the style. Recognition 
 It recognizes in him a great artist, as well : 
 as a diligent scholar, one who had the instinct of 
 selection, the sense of perspective, the gift of co 
 ordinating and grouping materials, in short, the 
 creative power that out of a chaos of facts evolves 
 the cosmos that men call a great historical work. 
 We may pardon the tone of condescension, and even 
 of surprise, in which it is admitted that some good 
 thing does occasionally come out of America, in 
 view of the substantial justice of the verdict. Mr. 
 Parkman s laurels were thus awarded by that con 
 temporaneous posterity, a foreign nation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IT should not be inferred from anything that has 
 been said of Mr. Parkman s methods of work that he 
 was through life a cloistered recluse. On the con 
 trary, he was a man of the world quite as much as a 
 man of letters. His books alone would warrant the 
 inference that he knew men, that he studied them 
 closely and at first hand, with careful observation of 
 their character and motives. This could never be 
 done by one who shut himself up with books and 
 musty manuscripts. Gibbon has told us, in a some 
 what celebrated passage, of the help he derived from 
 
38 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 his service in the militia: "The discipline and evolu 
 tions of a modern battalion gave me a clearer notion 
 Man of the ^ ^ Phalanx and the legion; and the 
 world. captain of the Hampshire grenadiers (the 
 
 reader may smile) has not been useless to the his 
 torian of the Roman Empire." It was no less ad 
 vantageous to Mr. Parkman to improve his social 
 opportunities. He was always a favorite in Boston 
 society, where his talk was held to be quite as bril 
 liant as his writing. He was also what Dr. Johnson 
 would have termed an eminently " clubbable " man, 
 and for a series of years was president of the far- 
 famed St. Botolph s Club. For many years he was 
 one of the seven corporators of Harvard University^ 
 and gave much of his time and thought to the affairs 
 of that institution. By thus keeping in touch with 
 his fellows and his age, he avoided that scholarly 
 aloofness from practical affairs which gives an air of 
 unreality to the work of so many men of letters. 
 
 Mr. Parkman was, in fact, one of the few Ameri 
 cans who know how to play as well as how to work. 
 Play by which one means, of course, any innocent 
 amusement, any exercise of the faculties of body or 
 mind for recreation has its place in a true phi 
 losophy of life, not as a thing permissible 
 merely, but as a duty. It is no more to 
 be disregarded than sleep or the taking of food. It 
 is a thing of which no man need be ashamed, or for 
 which he should apologize. It may be made a vice, 
 just as eating may become gluttony, but play is no 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN. 39 
 
 more dissipation than rest is laziness. Most adult 
 Americans do not know how to play, and when they 
 take recreation do it in a secret or half shame 
 faced way. Our men and women are ranging them 
 selves in two classes, those who never play and 
 those who never do anything else. It is hard to 
 choose between the incorrigible idler who lives only 
 for pleasure and the incorrigible worker who lives 
 only for his business or profession. It is a wise 
 public sentiment that insists on every man s working^ 
 even if he has inherited wealth, but society should 
 add to its law an edict that all men should play also. 
 Those who live long and accomplish much are for 
 the most part men who know how to play. Glad 
 stone is a famous chopper of trees, and Lord Palmer- 
 ston rode to hounds up to his last years. 
 
 It was, perhaps, fortunate for Mr. Parkman that his 
 health compelled him to play, to seek some out-door 
 recreation. He chose horticulture as the secondary 
 business of his life, and as he could do nothing with 
 out doing it well, he became one of the Horticultural 
 best amateur gardeners of our country, if, P ursuits - 
 indeed, he did not rather deserve to be called a pro 
 fessional. He labored with his own hands at the art, 
 as anybody must who really loves it, no matter how 
 rich he may be, but he also employed his purse 
 liberally in the gratification of what came to be with 
 him a hobby. His residence was surrounded by 
 ample grounds, and in these he had a notable col- 
 
40 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 lection of rare and beautiful trees, shrubs, and plants. 
 He was particularly successful in the culture of aquatic 
 plants, and it was largely through his intelligent 
 enthusiasm that amateur gardening has been made 
 a favorite by-pursuit of professional and business 
 
 men. 
 
 It is hardly correct to call Mr. Parkman an amateur 
 gardener, as has already been hinted, though he was 
 never a " professional " in the usual sense of that 
 term, which commonly defines one who is a gar 
 dener for revenue only, or mainly. As is almost 
 inevitable in the case of one who handles pen and 
 spade with equal skill, he made literary use of his 
 His Book of horticultural experience, and his "Book 
 Rises. 00 of R OS es," published in 1866, was highly 
 esteemed among all rosarians, amateur and profes 
 sional. In 1871 Mr. Parkman was elected professor 
 of horticulture in the agricultural school of Harvard, 
 and filled the chair with eminent ability for two 
 years. Had his health permitted him a longer di 
 version from the chief work of his life, he would, 
 doubtless, have remained in a position to which his 
 love for the subject would have attracted him so 
 strongly. He was right, however, not to let his play 
 become his work. 
 
 At one time it seemed likely that the historian 
 would allow himself another diversion, by making 
 occasional excursions into fiction. In 1856 he pub 
 lished a novel called " Vassall Morton," about which 
 
FRANCIS PARKMAN. 41 
 
 one can learn little more than the name, the date of 
 publication, and the fact that the scene of the story 
 is partly in America and partly in Europe. One 
 may, perhaps, infer, without more accurate infor 
 mation, that the book was not more than 
 
 His one novel. 
 
 moderately successful. This was, all things 
 considered, a fortunate circumstance, as a marked 
 success might have diverted the author s attention 
 from the work that he has accomplished. Some 
 fragments of his earlier composition suggest that 
 Macaulay, had he chosen to devote himself to fiction, 
 might have made a name as great as that of Scott ; 
 but who would exchange his history for a shelf-full 
 of romances? And on the other hand, who would 
 exchange the Waverley novels for a shelf-full of his 
 tories? It is well in each case that the shoemaker 
 stuck to his last, that the writer faithfully, and even 
 doggedly, continued to do the kind of work for which, 
 on the whole, he was best fitted. 
 
 Long before his death, we ceased to say of Mr. 
 Parkman that his best work was probably to come. 
 On the contrary, the reasonable forecast in his case 
 seemed to be that his work was substantially done. 
 The plan of his history was completed, and it was 
 not likely that he would attempt another enterprise. 
 We looked upon him as one entitled to spend the 
 remainder of his days in peace, enjoying the pleas 
 ures of society and of nature, honored by all who can 
 appreciate patient labor, broad scholarship, historic 
 
42 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 insight, and a style that illustrates the sparkle, the 
 richness, and the melody of the English tongue. 
 And when he died, though we felt his loss as almost 
 that of a personal friend, we had a serene conscious 
 ness that his name is securely enrolled among the 
 immortals. 
 
III. 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 ONE may easily doubt, though he be never so 
 ardent an advocate of classical study, whether 
 a knowledge of Greek and Latin literature is any 
 essential part of the equipment of a successful man 
 of letters. From the great dramatist who had 
 "small Latin and less Greek " to the latest maga 
 zine scribbler, a cloud of witnesses rise up in pro 
 test against the idea that college training The university 
 tends to make a man a great writer. ofauthors - 
 Only a graduate of the university of the world has 
 the learning required to become a great poet or a 
 great novelist, and a diploma from any other insti 
 tution makes no man free of the company of great 
 
 authors. 
 
 " My only books 
 
 Were woman s looks, 
 And folly s all they Ve taught me," 
 
 could be said sincerely only by an incorrigible fool. 
 It is in volumes of this kind in the keen and con 
 stant observation of life, that is to say that even 
 genius must find its materials, if it is to touch men 
 and move them. Among the most successful of 
 American authors, whether we measure success by 
 immediate popularity or by substantial achieve- 
 
44 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 ment, are striking instances of what, in other call 
 ings, we are accustomed to call "self-made men," 
 men who have risen to eminence without that 
 training in the schools generally regarded as indis 
 pensable. There is probably no more impressive 
 case of this sort than that of Mr. Howells. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT is a great thing to be well-born, and an almost 
 greater thing to be well-bred; happy indeed the 
 A weii bom man w ^ * s both. The Howells family, 
 lad before coming to this country, were 
 
 Welsh Quakers, but they show as far back as their 
 history can be traced an exceptional independence 
 of sectarian bias. The grandfather of the novelist 
 was a Methodist, his father was a Swedenborgian, 
 and Mr. Howells himself would probably be not 
 unjustly described as a Unitarian. The inheri 
 tance of such a tendency to hold lightly denomi 
 national bonds, while it would be very unfortunate 
 for a theologian, might be regarded as a happy 
 circumstance in the case of one whose calling pecu 
 liarly demands the widest and most sympathetic 
 knowledge of men. There is a place in the world 
 for ardent sectaries, nobody who is not a bigot to 
 liberality will question that; but their place is not 
 in the ranks of dramatists or novelists. 
 
 The father of our novelist was a man of more than 
 ordinary culture. A printer by trade and an editor 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 45 
 
 in a small way, he had made quite a large collec 
 tion of books for his time and for a back-country 
 town. Of the mother we can learn little, but that 
 little indicates a woman of gentle manners and 
 refined tastes. Into such a family a boy was born 
 March I, 1837, the parents then living at Martin s 
 Ferry, Ohio. Young Howells had the usual educa 
 tion that a boy gets in a country town ; beyond the 
 "three R s" it could not reasonably be expected 
 to go. What sort of a boy he was, and what he 
 learned that books could not teach, he ABoy , s 
 has himself told us in "A Boy s Town." 
 This book is the best autobiography of a boy in 
 existence, far less introspective and therefore more 
 truthful than Daudet s " Le Petit Chose," in which 
 the French novelist has told the story of his boy 
 hood pathetically enough, but with too much im 
 agination to make it satisfactory as biography, 
 however one may admire it as literature. 
 
 What such a boy would learn at school would 
 necessarily be the least part of his education. He 
 took to reading as naturally as a duck takes to 
 water. His father s library contained a larger 
 proportion of poetry than is common in such col 
 lections, and this fact probably had much to do 
 with shaping the first literary ideas of the lad. 
 Like Pope, he " lisped in numbers for the Juvenile 
 numbers came;" or, to state the fact more vers 
 prosaically, while still a small boy he began to 
 make verses, and set them in type himself, in his 
 
46 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 father s printing-office. It does not appear whether 
 the verses found their way into the newspaper then 
 published by his father, but very likely some of 
 them did. 
 
 The family fortunes were not uniformly good, 
 country journalism being an even more uncertain 
 venture then than now. In 1851 there came a 
 crash. The family took the matter with charac 
 teristic philosophy. Mr. Howells says that when 
 the failure was assured, "we all went down to the 
 river and went in swimming." Young Howells 
 then went to work, contributing his earnings four 
 dollars a week, as compositor on the Ohio " State 
 Journal" to the family purse. Things mended 
 not long after, and at nineteen he was graduated 
 from the composing room into journalism. Begin 
 ning as an employe of the Cincinnati "Gazette," 
 A -oumaiist at at twenty-two he became news editor of 
 nineteen. the Columbus "State Journal," and at 
 about the same time began his purely literary 
 career. He did not immediately find his real 
 vocation, for a time imagining himself called to 
 be a poet. His first publication was "Poems of 
 Two Friends" (Columbus, 1860), which he issued 
 jointly with John J. Piatt, whose acquaintance had 
 somehow been made during the brief journalistic 
 experience just described. At about this time the 
 young poet became a contributor to the "Atlantic 
 Monthly," then recently founded and on the look 
 out for new writers of promise. 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 47 
 
 In the same year that saw the appearance of this 
 volume of poems Mr. Howells wrote a campaign 
 biography of Abraham Lincoln that did The biographel 
 admirable service. Except in the West, ofLincoln - 
 Lincoln was, at the time of his nomination, com 
 paratively unknown to his own party; and when 
 the news was flashed along the wires the genera] 
 exclamation was, "Who is Abe Lincoln?" This 
 book did much to make the candidate known, and 
 it furnished newspaper editors and campaign orators 
 plenty of material for the answering of all questions 
 regarding the party s candidate. For this service 
 the biographer received one hundred and sixty 
 dollars, and later on, in accordance with time- 
 honored custom, there was added an appointment 
 from President Lincoln as consul at Venice. 
 
 The use made of both rewards was characteristic. 
 The money was expended upon a trip to Boston 
 via Montreal, a route which Mr. Howells turned 
 to excellent account afterwards in "Their Wedding 
 Journey." This was a red-letter date in the bud 
 ding author s history, for on this visit he made 
 the personal acquaintance of Lowell, Holmes, and 
 others whom he had previously known only by 
 reputation or through correspondence. One will 
 not go far astray in regarding this visit as having 
 determined the course of his life thereafter. The 
 consulship at Venice was likewise made Con?ulat 
 to contribute to the broadening of knowl- Vemce> 
 edge and sympathies, every forward step that the 
 
48 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 young author gained becoming the vantage-ground 
 for a still further advance. If the spoils system in 
 our diplomatic service produced more frequently 
 such results as these, one could look upon it with 
 a greater degree of toleration. But the pocket 
 boroughs were not saved in England by the fact 
 that Macaulay and Burke owed to them their first 
 seats in Parliament; and the appointment of Haw 
 thorne and Howells to discharge political debts 
 cannot save the spoils system. 
 
 The years from 1861 to 1865 were spent in 
 acquiring the Italian language, in study of the 
 national literature, and in travel. No complaint 
 was ever made that the consul failed to perform 
 his duty in Venice satisfactorily, but he certainly 
 found time to extend his education vastly in these 
 Venetian Life four years. His " Venetian Life " (Lon- 
 don and New York, 1866) and "Italian 
 
 Journeys" (Boston, 1867) were the first-fruits of 
 this residence abroad. Two more delightful and 
 instructive books about Italy have never been pub 
 lished, and they still deservedly find a host of 
 appreciative readers. We may not improbably 
 ascribe to this foreign residence and travel a cer 
 tain cosmopolitan spirit, a breadth of "atmosphere," 
 as painters say, that is characteristic of the work 
 of later years. 
 
 On returning to this country in 1866, Mr. 
 Howells was for a time a writer for the "New 
 York Tribune" and the "Nation," but was soon 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 49 
 
 offered the post of assistant editor of the "Atlan 
 tic Monthly" by James T. Fields, and in 1872 be 
 came editor of that magazine. In this po- T 
 
 Editor of the 
 
 sition he served with complete acceptance Atlantic - 
 and success, until his resignation in 1881 in order 
 to devote himself more completely to original liter 
 ary work. In many respects he made a model 
 magazine editor. He was painstaking, enterpris 
 ing, courteous, and firm. 
 
 He did not forget, in his sympathy with the 
 writer struggling for a hearing, that the patrons 
 of the magazine had a prior right to the best liter 
 ature to be got, whether in prose or verse. With 
 out breaking with past tradition, he introduced 
 fresh features and infused new life and spirit into 
 every department of the magazine. In spite of 
 the contempt he may even then have felt and has 
 since expressed for critics and criticism, he made 
 the critical work of "The Atlantic" a force in 
 current literature. He established the " Contrib 
 utors Club," a sort of free parliament for the 
 expression of opinion on a wide range of topics 
 by some of the cleverest of American writers. In 
 a word, if he had not preferred to be the repre 
 sentative American novelist of his day, he might 
 have become its representative editor. He has all 
 the gifts of a great journalist, except, perhaps, lack 
 of conscientious scruple. With long and patient 
 effort who knows? he might have acquired 
 even that. 
 
 4 
 
50 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 II. 
 
 WITH the publication of "Their Wedding Jour 
 ney" in 1871, Mr. Howells entered on his real 
 Their wed- career. Hitherto he had been experi- 
 ding journey. ment i ngj now ^ Q had found his vocation. 
 
 One cannot treat his poems as anything better 
 than the exercises of a clever lad, or the amuse 
 ments of a versatile man of letters. His critical 
 work is a by-product, a collection of chips from 
 the workshop of a busy writer. From this time 
 on we have to do with a man who is first of all and 
 last of all a novelist. Novel after novel has made 
 its appearance, with the unfailing regularity of the 
 seasons. Yet this fecundity has not been reached 
 at the expense of quality. None of his books bears 
 marks of undue haste, of careless workmanship, of 
 failing powers. On the contrary, if each book 
 published has not surpassed all its predecessors, 
 we can trace in the author from year to year an 
 increase of power, a completer mastery of the re 
 sources of his art, a larger view, an ampler spirit. 
 One has heard and read that of late years a change 
 has come over Mr. Howells, that the romance of 
 his earlier books has faded away into a hard, dry, 
 Hisallegedlater real ism, that he has lost the joyousness 
 pessimism. Q f y Ou ^ an( j h as become pessimistic, not 
 to say cynical. This seems an opinion founded on a 
 partial and superficial knowledge of Mr. Howells s 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 51 
 
 writings. There is nothing more romantic or 
 idyllic in the Marches when we first meet them 
 on " Their Wedding Journey " than when after a 
 score of years we renew their acquaintance in "A 
 Hazard of New Fortunes." Such change as is to 
 be noted in his later books is due rather to the 
 influence of the much -admired Tolsto f than to any 
 other cause. " The World of Chance " is quite 
 strongly tinged with the Russian novelist s views 
 of society and religion. It cannot be said, how 
 ever, that much of the light of hope is thrown on 
 the regeneration of society by a book in which one 
 would-be regenerator becomes a maniac, and com 
 mits suicide after unsuccessfully attempting murder, 
 while another dies without having accomplished the 
 great purpose of his life, the publication of a book 
 that was to be the gospel of a new era. 
 
 III. 
 
 EVEN a casual reader of these books is soon aware 
 that their author is no mere story-teller, content 
 just to amuse the public, regarding their smiling 
 approval as the be-all and end-all of his obligation. 
 He is a thoroughly instructed artist, who works not 
 at haphazard, who succeeds not by lucky strokes of 
 genius, but proceeds according to a well-defined 
 theory of his art, a theory that we must take pains 
 to understand if we would judge him fairly and 
 sympathetically. We may dissent from the theory, 
 
52 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 we may find the practice faulty; what we may not 
 do is to judge him in the empirical and a priori 
 fashion so common in current criticism. 
 
 Both in theory and in practice, Mr. Howells is 
 a realist. He believes, that is to say, that the 
 Howeiis a chief end of the novel is not to tell a 
 realist. story, but to represent life. A story 
 
 there must be, of course, but not necessarily a 
 plot; the history of the spiritual development of a 
 single personage, for example, is a "story." The 
 novel must tell a story in the sense that a picture 
 tells a story, and in no other sense; in other 
 words, whatever represents a bit of life necessarily 
 tells a story. This fundamental canon requires 
 no debate, for it is not merely truth but truism, 
 or nearly so. Like Captain Cuttle s observation, 
 the bearings of it lie in its application, and it 
 is when Mr. Howells begins to apply his canon, 
 whether in his own practice or in criticism of 
 others, that doubts begin to suggest themselves. 
 
 Art is necessarily selective, for the sufficient 
 reason that no man can represent the whole of 
 life. It is only a scrap of landscape that the 
 painter can put on his largest canvas, and only a 
 glimpse of some tiny segment of the social cosmos 
 (or shall we say chaos ?) can be afforded the readers 
 of a three-volume novel. This being the case, the 
 question immediately arises whether some principle 
 or principles should not govern the selection of 
 what is to be represented. There are professors 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 53 
 
 of realism in fiction who teach that all possible 
 objects are equally worthy of representation. They 
 do not really believe this, because even they prac 
 tise selection, and therefore, of course, re- Truerealism 
 jection; but, as children say, they "make andfalse - 
 believe " believe it when they are challenged. 
 Nay, they virtually affirm that the more worthless 
 and commonplace, the more hideous and repulsive 
 and vile an object is, the more worthy it is of 
 representation. 
 
 Now this application of the canon of realism one 
 is certainly entitled to dispute without thereby 
 incurring suspicion of questioning the canon itself. 
 All art has taken it for granted, from its rudest 
 beginnings until now, that some objects in nature, 
 some experiences in life, are better adapted for 
 representation than others. The choice of object 
 has been dictated, in the main, by its capacity to 
 please. Without disputing the fact that there is 
 a place in art for the grotesque, for the painful, 
 even, its chief function is to please and ennoble. 
 The great artists have always appealed to the moral 
 as well as to the aesthetic faculties. One is not 
 convinced, therefore, by any assertions or examples 
 of realists in fiction, that the trivial and the vile 
 furnish proper subjects for the artist. To the 
 healthy mind they give no pleasure; they inspire 
 only ennui or disgust. 
 
 Mr. Howells cannot be too promptly acquitted of 
 any suspicion of choosing the vile as subject of his 
 
54 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 art. His one villain, Bradley Hubbard, is so ill 
 done, in comparison with his other work, as to 
 suggest lack of knowledge of this type. The bad 
 woman he has never attempted to draw, though 
 American soc ety is not quite guiltless of Becky 
 Sharps. But the trivial, the commonplace, he has 
 exhibited in season and out, especially in his repre- 
 The gospel of sentations of American women. That, 
 
 trivial common- , . 
 
 place. however, introduces a subject so large as 
 
 to demand discussion by itself. Passing it by for 
 the present, it is pertinent to inquire, Can it be 
 that Mr. Howells gives us in his books a fair 
 representation of life as he has known it? Has 
 his whole experience been of this stale, flat, un 
 profitable sort ? Has he never known anybody who 
 had a soul above buttons? The thing seems diffi 
 cult to believe. It may be that the people we meet 
 in his novels are those with whom he is most 
 familiar, those that he feels himself most com 
 petent to depict, but that they exhaust his experi 
 ence of life and his knowledge of the world one 
 cannot so easily accept. 
 
 Let us be just, however. To Mr. Howells we 
 must award the praise of having done well what he 
 set out to do. Given the propriety of the choice, we 
 must grant that he has made a faithful and lifelike 
 picture of the thing chosen. It is with the choice 
 itself that many of his readers quarrel ; or, perhaps 
 one should say, they quarrel with his persistent 
 and exclusive choice of one type of character and 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 55 
 
 one sort of experience for representation in his 
 fiction. Whether he has not known higher types 
 of character among us, or has lacked courage to 
 attempt their portraiture in either case he has 
 chosen badly for his readers, though possibly pru 
 dently for himself. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No examination of the works of Mr. Howells 
 would have any claim to comprehensiveness that 
 failed to take account of his farce-come- Thefarce . 
 dies. There is quite a series of these, comedies - 
 beginning with "The Sleeping-Car" and ending 
 with the "Unexpected Guests." No American 
 author has given us more admirable fooling than 
 this, at once clever and refined. The humor is 
 free from that element of exaggeration supposed to 
 be peculiarly characteristic of American humor. 
 The humor of Mr. Howells is as well-bred and 
 studiously proper as the elegant Bostonians who 
 are his dramatis personce ; it is humor in a swallow 
 tail coat and white-lawn tie, so to say. Those 
 dramatis persona deserve a separate word : they are 
 but four, the real characters, that is to say, though 
 make-weights may occasionally be introduced, but 
 they have been ingeniously utilized, year after year, 
 in new situations, until they seem to us people 
 whom we have known all our lives. The same 
 idea has been almost simultaneously worked out 
 
56 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 by several clever writers of short stories ; l but none 
 of his rivals has succeeded like Mr. Howells in 
 making his people real flesh-and-blood persons. 
 
 These comedies bring us again face to face with 
 the chief grievance one has against Mr. Howells, 
 and it is time to have it fairly out with him, that 
 The caricature is, his curiously and indeed exasperat- 
 
 of American . 
 
 womanhood, ingly inadequate portraiture of American 
 womanhood. This is more or less a fault of all 
 his writing, but it becomes most conspicuous in 
 these farces. Are Mrs. Roberts and Mrs. Campbell 
 fair types of American womanhood? Is the Ameri 
 can woman who is both well-bred and well-read 
 usually only one remove from idiocy? Is she 
 habitually so silly and flighty as to suggest that 
 her proper place is in some institution for the 
 feeble-minded? One does not dispute that the 
 originals of Mesdames Roberts and Campbell exist 
 unfortunately, one has met them ; one only 
 pities the man who has been so unspeakably unfor 
 tunate as to meet nobody else. The plea that they 
 exist is not a valid defence to our accusation, 
 Nana and Madame Bovary and Sappho exist also, 
 without doubt; the charge being that there has 
 been a failure in literary perspective, an artistic 
 blunder of which even a demonstration of realistic 
 
 1 Notably by Mr. Thomas A. Janvier in his " Color Studies " 
 of artist life in New York, and by Mr. Richard Harding Davis 
 in his portraiture of Van Bibber, the New York young man 
 about town. 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 57 
 
 truth furnishes no justification. Art is something 
 different from and higher than photography. 
 
 Mr. Howells is inclined to wave aside such 
 criticism with a rather jaunty air, pronouncing it 
 " extremely comical " as he does so. " I The author 
 
 . 1 ,, . . .. "confesses 
 
 once said, so he is reported as remark- and avoids." 
 ing, "to a lady who asked me, Why don t you 
 give us a grand, noble, perfect woman ? that I was 
 waiting for the Almighty to begin. I think that 
 women, as a rule, are better and nobler than men, 
 but they are not perfect. I am extremely opposed 
 to what are called ideal characters. I think their 
 portrayal is mischievous; it is altogether offensive 
 to me as an artist, and, as far as the morality goes 
 I believe that when an artist tries to create an ideal 
 he mixes some truth up with a vast deal of senti 
 mentality, and produces something that is extremely 
 noxious as well as nauseous. I think that no man 
 can consistently portray a probable type of human 
 character without being useful to his readers. 
 When he endeavors to create something higher 
 than that, he plays the fool himself and tempts his 
 readers to folly. He tempts young men and 
 women to try to form themselves upon models 
 that would be detestable in life, if they were ever 
 found there." 
 
 Mr. Howells makes the form of plea known to 
 lawyers as "confession and avoidance." He admits 
 that the women of his fictions are imperfect, but 
 throws the responsibility on the Almighty, he 
 
58 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 has given us faithful portraits of the kind of women 
 he has found in the world. The validity of this de 
 fence can be admitted only by those who find it cred- 
 The plea not ikle. His women, taken as a class, com- 
 vaiid. prise more varieties of the species fool 
 
 than most of us have known by actual experience; 
 but that he has never in his life, as son, husband, 
 father, friend, come in contact with any other sort 
 of woman than this mixture of superficial accom 
 plishments and frivolous mind, this, as A. Ward 
 feelingly remarked, is "2 mutch." The ideal 
 heroine of fiction is not a creature as 
 
 " beautiful as sweet, 
 
 And young as beautiful, and soft as young, 
 And gay as soft, and innocent as gay," 
 
 and silly as all the rest put together, because this 
 is not the best type of woman in real life. 
 
 The plea of Mr. Howells must, therefore, be 
 overruled ; he cannot be absolved from the guilt of 
 defective art by the plea that the art is perfect, and 
 that the defect is in womankind. The plea contains 
 as little of truth as of gallantry. And by saying 
 this, one intends no impeachment of the novelist s 
 sincerity. Mr. Howells takes himself and his art 
 with great seriousness, and honestly believes in 
 both with all his might. He is merely the victim 
 of misplaced confidence in this instance. It were 
 treason to American women to accept his lame 
 and impotent conclusion that they are fit only to 
 
WILLIAM DEAiV HO WELLS. 59 
 
 chronicle small beer. It were to believe the future 
 of our country hopeless. 
 
 " For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
 The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
 His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, 
 Stays all the fair young planet in her hands, 
 If she be small, slight-natured, miserable, 
 How shall men grow ? " 
 
 Justice requires the admission that Mr. Howells 
 has shown signs of late of strengthening this weak 
 place in his stories. It is always the unexpected 
 that happens, and in his "World of TheWorld 
 Chance" he has at last given us a ofchance - 
 heroine who is neither idiotic nor feeble-minded. 
 One says "heroine," since that is the conventional 
 term for the chief female character of a novel. In 
 the strictest sense of the word, Peace Hughes is 
 not a heroine at all; she is something far better 
 than that, a genuine woman. Her station is not 
 exalted, her like may be found by anybody who 
 takes a walk on Broadway, her like in all outward 
 characteristics, one means. Her father is a social 
 istic "crank," and she is a stenographer and type 
 writer in a publishers office. Mr. Howells does 
 not represent her as saying or doing a single heroic 
 thing, anything that surpasses the experience of 
 a thousand young women in New York; yet he has 
 drawn her with so much sympathy, so much fidelity, 
 as to make her the strongest and best woman in all 
 his fictions. 
 
60 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Mr. Howells deserves congratulations on his dis 
 covery of this type of woman. If he will continue 
 to live in New York and to use his eyes he will 
 A woman at discover other types not less womanly, 
 last. Q ne ^ oes not demand impossibilities of 
 
 him in protesting against the inanities of his pre 
 vious books. Latter-day readers have no great 
 liking for the angelic or the heroic type of woman 
 that novelists used to give us. It is doubtless our 
 misfortune, but most of us never yet have happened 
 to meet either of those types. The women we have 
 known were neither angels nor heroines, but just 
 women. The greater part of them have not been 
 fools. The realistic method of Mr. Howells shows 
 to best advantage when, as in this book, he applies 
 it to the delineation of a real woman, in no way 
 exceptional, unless it be in a certain delicacy and 
 nobleness of nature. For one cannot think so well 
 of the world as to believe that women like Peace 
 Hughes are common. 
 
 V. 
 
 IF that country is most fortunate that has no 
 annals, may we not count happiest that author of 
 whose life there is little to record save the titles of 
 his books ? This is practically the case with Mr. 
 Howells since 1881; but of these records there 
 is a long series. No author has afforded us an 
 example of systematic and industrious labor at his 
 art more highly to be commended. It is something 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 6 1 
 
 to have set before our young people who cherish 
 literary aspirations, as on the whole the most pros 
 perous of American writers, a man who claims no 
 peculiar exemptions from moral obligation on the 
 score of genius, who is as regular at his desk as 
 any blacksmith at his anvil, who is blameless in 
 every private and public relation. Mr. Howells has 
 found time, by virtue of this system and diligence, 
 not only to produce a novel every year, but to do 
 a considerable quantity of other literary Howells , sby _ 
 work. Among these by-products, as they P roducts - 
 have already been called, may be specified the edit 
 ing, with critical introductions, of a series of vol 
 umes called " Choice Biographies " (8 vols. Boston, 
 1877-8); the volume of critical essays on "Modern 
 Italian Poets" (1887); and his papers contributed 
 to the Editor s Study of "Harper s Magazine," 
 the best of which have been collected in "Criticism 
 and Fiction" (New York, 1891). 
 
 It is not a little funny to read in these criticisms 
 denunciations of critics, so fierce in matter, in 
 phrases so urbane. One suspects that His uarrel 
 Mr. Howells would like to be rude to the with the critics 
 critics if he only knew how, he labors so hard to 
 say something cutting, something that will pierce 
 the notoriously thick hide of this terrible wild 
 beast. For your critic is essentially a devourer of 
 authors, and can no more be credited with good in 
 tentions than a tiger. It is doing the critic unde 
 served honor, this comparing him to a tiger, for Mr. 
 
62 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Howells will allow him to be nothing higher in the 
 scale of being than a parasite. "The critic exists," 
 he tells us, "because the author first existed. If 
 books failed to appear, the critic must disappear 
 like the poor aphis or the lowly caterpillar in 
 the absence of vegetation." This sort of thing, 
 diluted through many pages, does less to convince 
 the public than to convict the writer. Is it the 
 galled jade that winces? Has the critic s lash 
 been so vigorously wielded as to cause Mr. Howells 
 pain commensurate with this retaliation? Be this 
 as it may, he must be held to have a very defective 
 conception of the critic s function. One is aston 
 ished, if he rate this function so low, that he is 
 willing to enact the parasite himself. Shall one 
 who proclaims from the housetops that the clown s 
 part is unworthy of a man, presently don the motley 
 and himself play the fool ? 
 
 The critic, rightly considered, is not a parasite 
 but a middleman. His function in literature is as 
 The critic s valid and as useful as the merchant s in 
 
 function legiti- ~ i , -i i -, 
 
 mate. commerce. Short-sighted men have de 
 
 nounced the merchant as a parasite on the body 
 politic, their ground being that he is not a producer 
 and gains his living at the expense of those who 
 add to the world s wealth; his suppression has 
 therefore been demanded as an act of justice to the 
 world s real workers. But the more philosophical 
 economist has shown that the merchant does pro 
 duce value, by taking goods from the Dlace where 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 63 
 
 they are not wanted to the place where consumers 
 demand them. The critic who understands his 
 business and pursues it honestly is a literary pro 
 ducer, no less than the author; he finds a market, 
 that is, appreciative readers, for works that other 
 wise might never be heard of, and thus adds some 
 thing of substantial value to literature. One need 
 not maintain that the critic s function is coordinate 
 with that of the author, that the critic produces 
 what is as valuable as the masterpiece of poet or 
 philosopher, to make good his right of existence. 
 Who shall say that Addison, in his series of papers 
 on Milton, did not produce something of real, yes, 
 of high value to letters? If it were not for the 
 makers of paper and ink the author himself would 
 soon vanish, "like the poor aphis or the lowly 
 caterpillar;" but shall the worthy mechanics and 
 tradesmen who supply these materials of the scrib 
 bling art be privileged to insinuate that authors are 
 no better than parasites? Go to, they shall be 
 roundly rebuked if they are guilty of such pre 
 sumption, and that by Mr. Howells himself. 
 
 It is a vain fight on which Mr. Howells has 
 entered, even were he thrice-armed by having his 
 quarrel strictly just. The sons of Zeruiah A contest vain 
 be too hard for him. The critics grow atbest - 
 apace. Their name is legion, their spirit Ishmael- 
 itish, their activity incessant, their prolificacy por 
 tentous. It is easy to flout them, as Mr. Howells 
 has done, as Disraeli did when, with mordant 
 
64 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 sarcasm, he defined a critic as an author who has 
 failed; or as Byron, when, smarting under the lash 
 of Jeffrey he wrote, with wit vitriolic: 
 
 " A man must serve his time to every trade 
 Save censure critics all are ready made. 
 Take hackney d jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill d to find or forge a fault, 
 A turn for punning, call it attic salt ; . . . 
 Fear not to lie, t will seem a lucky hit; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, t will pass for wit ; 
 Care not for feeling pass your proper jest, 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caressed." 
 
 Obviously Jeffrey might have retorted that Byron 
 showed his own confidence in the recipe by follow 
 ing it exactly, but the critic is notoriously easy to 
 be cowed into meekness when the baited author 
 turns upon him, and so Jeffrey missed this chance. 
 On the whole, have not the flock of harried authors 
 had their fair revenge on the critics? Most of the 
 latter would never have been known to posterity 
 had they not been "damned to everlasting fame" 
 in some immortal work, as the fly is sometimes 
 preserved in the precious drop of amber. 
 
 Still let us maintain that the critic is a harm 
 less, and even a useful, animal. Like a certain 
 Not so black ther great personage he is not so black 
 as painted as fa e j s generally painted. The author 
 is often unjust to him, and sometimes let us be 
 honest now he is even more unjust to himself. 
 Criticism is not the last refuge of incompetence. 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 65 
 
 It is not fault-finding, though both critic and 
 author are but too prone to forget this essential 
 truth. A critic, as the etymology of the word 
 implies, is a judge, one who weighs evidence, 
 who impartially examines, discerns, separates, dis 
 tinguishes. It is no less the office of the judge to 
 acquit the innocent than to convict the guilty. It 
 is a small part, and the most disagreeable part, of 
 criticism to point out defects; the more agreeable 
 as well as the more important work is to recognize 
 beauties and to help others see them. The critic 
 has already been compared to the merchant, but 
 an apter analogy is perhaps suggested by the 
 cicerone. It is his business to point out to others 
 the places of interest, the strokes of genius, the 
 felicitous achievements in literary art, in the work 
 under review, and thus assist others to form a just 
 and intelligent judgment as to its total merits. 
 Nor does it avail for the author sneeringly to chal 
 lenge the critic to prove his competence by produc 
 ing superior work. The critic may reply, in the 
 saying of Didacus Stella, that a dwarf standing on 
 the shoulders of a giant may see farther than the 
 giant himself. 
 
 Anybody can find fault, anybody, at least, who 
 has a small soul, a feeble wit, and a bitter tongue. 
 To criticise, in the true sense, is not Critidsm not 
 within the powers of everybody. It de- fault - findin g- 
 mands a large soul, a trained mind, a catholic taste, 
 a teachable disposition, a sweet reasonableness, 
 
 5 
 
66 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 to use the phrase of Matthew Arnold. The just 
 judge must sometimes pronounce sentence against an 
 offender; even Mr. Howells has shown us that, when 
 he condemns so gently the rabid critic. Bad work 
 must be pronounced what it is, for the critic, like 
 every other honest man, must strive to keep "alight 
 that little spark of celestial fire conscience." 
 But the critic who recognizes the true dignity and 
 responsibility of his office will be at least as hearty 
 in recognition of good work as in condemnation of 
 bad; his praises will be bestowed quite as freely as 
 his blame, and with greater evident pleasure, for he 
 will always rejoice when his conscience absolves 
 him from the duty of censure, and warrants him in 
 inviting a warm but discriminating admiration for 
 the work under review. He will, however, shun, 
 as he would shun the plague, indiscriminate praise 
 or blame. He will regard gush as only one degree 
 less culpable than slander; for to bear false witness 
 in favor of one s neighbor is only one step above 
 bearing false witness against him. In short, he 
 will try to speak the truth, as any honest man 
 should, neither less nor more. It will, of course, 
 be the truth as he sees it that he will speak, 
 colored more or less, unavoidably, by his peculiar 
 training, prepossessions, and acquired beliefs; and 
 
 " A fool must now and then be right by chance." 
 
 But better than speak the truth as he sees it, can no 
 man do except recognize the limits of his intelli- 
 
WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 6? 
 
 gence, the fallibility of his judgments and the equal 
 presumptive honesty of those who differ from him. 
 It is in this last particular that many critics, other 
 wise well equipped, grievously fail. 
 
 Enough, with over-measure, of this. Let Mr. 
 Howells, if he will, renounce the critic and all his 
 works, and in the next breath do the same works 
 and greater things also. We do not demand of him 
 that consistency which is the virtue of feeble minds, 
 but are rather grateful to find in him a single re 
 deeming vice. Even though he occasionally aggra 
 vate us by his wrong-headedness, as some of us 
 must consider it, Mr. Howells is easily the first 
 living American novelist. We cannot deny him 
 the praise of being faithful to his own Faithful to his 
 ideal, of practising diligently his own ideal - 
 canons of art. He himself tells us, with great 
 earnestness and frequent iteration, that he utterly 
 contemns and rejects the notion that the novel 
 should aim merely to entertain. What we must 
 say to any serious fiction is this, "Is it true? true 
 to the motives, the impulses, the principles that 
 shape the life of actual men and women?" If the 
 answer be in the affirmative, such a work cannot be 
 bad, for this truth "necessarily includes the highest 
 morality and the highest artistry." To realize this 
 ideal, Mr. Howells has earnestly striven. If he has 
 failed in some instances to reach it, his failure is 
 not due to lack of conscientious industry and high 
 
68 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 resolve. And certainly, within his limitations, of 
 all our American writers none has come nearer to 
 doing in fiction what the greatest master of the 
 drama has declared to be the purpose of the stage, 
 "to hold as twere the mirror up to nature; to show 
 virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and 
 the very age and body of the time his form and 
 pressure." 
 
IV. 
 
 HENRY JAMES. 
 
 " TSOCRATES adviseth Demonicus," says quaint 
 -*- old Burton, " when he came to a strange city, to 
 worship by all means the gods of the place." If you 
 go to Boston, you must be prepared to do homage to 
 Henry James. One who is not ready to make this 
 author his idol may yet freely admit that he is not une 
 quantit^ negligeable. We may love him, or we may 
 detest him ; ignore him, we cannot. 
 
 ALMOST two decades ago Bayard Taylor wrote, 
 apropos of some of Mr. James s earlier work : " Few 
 men have been so brilliantly equipped for literary 
 performance. Carefully trained taste, large acquire 
 ments of knowledge, experience of lands and races, 
 and association with the best minds, have combined 
 to supply him with all the purely intellectual requisites 
 which an author could desire." This is Brilliantly 
 praise that is no more than scrupulously ec i ui PP ed - 
 just to one who was born, if ever an American novelist 
 was, under a lucky star. His father, distinguished 
 during his lifetime as Henry James, senior, was a 
 philosopher and theological writer of considerable 
 
70 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 note, the inheritor of an ample fortune from his 
 father, a merchant of Albany, N. Y. ; a graduate of 
 Union College in 1840, and afterward a student at 
 Princeton; by turns orthodox Presbyterian, Sande- 
 manian, Swedenborgian, Spiritualist; a man who 
 boxed the compass of theological belief retaining still 
 the personal regard of all who knew him. Henry 
 James, junior, was born in New York City, in 1843. 
 His education was altogether out of the common; 
 little of it was according to ordinary methods, and all 
 was conducted under his father s personal supervision ; 
 begun in America, after 1855 it was carried on and 
 completed abroad, at Geneva, Paris, Boulogne-sur- 
 Mer, and Bonn. What little he learned in the Har 
 vard Law School, which he entered in 1862, does not 
 require this statement to be modified, one supposes, 
 for the law was with him never a serious purpose. 
 
 Into the nature of this education there is no need 
 to inquire, since its fruits are so evident in Mr. James s 
 writings. It may have been less or more than an 
 equivalent of the scholastic lore of an ordinary uni 
 versity course; it certainly included an intimate 
 Knowied e of acquaintance with several modern lan- 
 Europe. guages and a comprehensive knowledge of 
 
 their literatures. It also comprised such a minute 
 familiarity with foreign society, with European cus 
 toms and ways of thinking, as probably no other 
 American novelist has had. Mr. Howells has certainly 
 made good use of his opportunities abroad, but he 
 has not that minute knowledge of foreigners that is 
 
HENR Y JAMES. 7 I 
 
 shown by the author of " The American." Mr. Craw 
 ford may know Italy better than Mr. James, but he 
 does not know France with anything like the latter s 
 thoroughness, nor England either, for the matter of 
 that. Indeed, it is not saying too much to assert that 
 long residence abroad has made Mr. James more 
 European than American. Since 1869 he has spent 
 most of his time between England and France. This 
 has given him peculiar qualifications for originating a 
 new type of fiction. Fortunately for his fame, he has 
 not attempted to represent a society of which he knows 
 comparatively little. In the few cases in which he has 
 chosen an American scene for his story he has selected 
 his locality with discretion, and has relied Lack of famii- 
 
 iarity with 
 
 for his chief characters on foreigners and America, 
 travelled Americans. The American abroad he has 
 studied with great care and attention to detail ; the 
 American at home he may almost be said not to know. 
 Whether one likes the flavor of his books or not, one 
 cannot fail to distinguish it from that of any other 
 American novelist. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE new species of fiction originated by Mr. James 
 has been named the International Novel. We may 
 take "The American" (Boston, 1877), Theintema- 
 " Daisy Miller" (New York, 1878), "The tionalNovel - 
 Portrait of a Lady " (Boston, 1881), and " The Princess 
 Casamassima " (London and New York, 1886), as the 
 best examples of his work in its various periods. In his 
 
72 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 earlier books he was a preacher of social righteousness. 
 His theme was the contrast between American and 
 European life and manners, greatly to the disadvan 
 tage of American manners and ideals, in many cases. 
 The American, in the book of that title, is a man in 
 middle life who has " made his everlasting fortune," 
 and has gone to Europe to enjoy it, with some vague 
 idea of marriage as a part of the enjoyment. He is a 
 very good specimen of the " self-made " American, 
 not too much inclined to worship his maker, by no 
 means vulgar in his tastes, rather intellectual and 
 artistic in a crude, untaught way, not loud or aggressive 
 in manner, appreciating himself at his full value, yet 
 modest withal, clean in morals, and unsophisticated in 
 Parisian viciousness, in short, a gentle- 
 
 The American. 
 
 man at the core, though lacking some of 
 the graces and polish demanded by " society." This 
 Mr. Newman, while he does not quite believe money to 
 be omnipotent, firmly believes that it will accomplish 
 most things, and has no doubt that it will buy his way 
 into the good graces of any foreigner. He falls in love 
 with a young French widow, of noble family, a family 
 anxious for reasons of their own that she shall marry a 
 second time, and marry a rich man. He becomes en 
 gaged to her, with her family s consent, but the noble 
 marquis and his mother (who rule the family) are 
 so overwhelmed with chagrin when they fully realize 
 what a social gulf separates the American from them 
 that they break off the match. The widow obeys her 
 mother, though heart-broken, and retires to a convent. 
 
HENRY JAMES. 73 
 
 Newman obtains proofs that the marquis and his 
 mother are base and even criminal, threatens to expose 
 them, but finally relents and burns the documents ; 
 and in this tangled state of things the story reaches 
 its conclusion with nothing concluded. In Daisy 
 Miller we have the female counterpart of Newman, 
 the young woman who is as good as gold, so sure of 
 herself that she never once dreams anybody 
 can doubt her; who, nevertheless, does all 
 manner of risky things, that in any girl of European 
 training and traditions would indicate total depravity, 
 but are in her only a combination of ignorance and 
 wilfulness. 
 
 One cannot deny that these two books are realistic 
 in every detail. There are Newmans and Daisy Millers 
 in Europe, the type was more common, perhaps, a 
 decade ago than now, there are Americans more 
 vulgar still, who do not stop with innocently doing 
 compromising and outre things, but are shamelessly 
 vicious. No doubt the American girl abroad deserved 
 the sharp rebuke conveyed in " Daisy Miller; " her 
 male counterpart was let off very easily, on the whole, 
 in " The American." If one quarrels with Mr. James 
 it must be on the ground of what he has 
 not said, rather than of what he has said. 
 He has told the truth, that is to say, he has told a 
 part of the truth. This is at once his justification and 
 the chief ground of complaint against him; for in 
 fiction, as everywhere else, one feels 
 
 " That a lie hich is half a truth is ever the blackest *>f lies." 
 
74 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Why, one asks again and again, has not Mr. James 
 told the other half of the truth? Why has he never 
 depicted the American gentlewoman and gentleman 
 abroad, cultivated, polished, courteous, refined? That 
 is a type which exists as truly as the other, and is 
 quite as worthy of representation ; nor is it beyond the 
 powers of Mr. James to represent it adequately. He 
 knows and doubtless appreciates the American cos 
 mopolite, of both sexes, and his art would be truer if 
 it had been more comprehensive. The angry criticism 
 roused by " Daisy Miller" was not, therefore, wholly 
 that are whole unjust, but it was right rather as the ex 
 pression of healthy instincts than as a result 
 of intelligent comprehension. People vaguely felt 
 that the book was unjust to America, and that the 
 author was unpatriotic. In this they were wrong; but 
 complaint may be made with at least a show of justice 
 against Mr. James for letting the book stand all these 
 years without supplement. 
 
 In some of his books, it might be replied in behalf 
 of Mr. James, he has represented the polished Amer 
 ican. But this is only partly true ; he has, indeed, 
 given us admirable portraits of the Europeanized 
 American, notably in " The Europeans " and " The 
 Portrait of a Lady," but hardly of the genuine Amer 
 ican. We certainly have among us men and women 
 who, without having lost the racy quality of Western 
 character, have acquired the culture and manner that 
 mark well-bred people the world over. An English 
 gentleman, a French gentleman, has a distinct flavor 
 
HENR Y JAMES. J 5 
 
 of his own, and is in many ways a more interesting 
 personage than a cosmopolite whose nationality cannot 
 be inferred from his speech or notions. An American 
 gentleman should have the same attractiveness for the 
 observer, and should furnish equally good material 
 for the novelist s art. This is a type, how- 
 
 r i_- 1_ -11 u 
 
 ever, for which one will search in vain 
 through the novels of Mr. James. One finds it diffi 
 cult to understand why it should have been so 
 persistently avoided by a writer so well fitted to depict 
 it. Mr. James s art has suffered by his persistent 
 preaching of the gospel according to Europe. One is 
 willing to make the acquaintance of any number of 
 Europeans, and even of Europeanized Americans, 
 in novels, provided there is not constantly obtruded 
 upon him the moral : " You are in all things less than 
 the least of these, except, perhaps, in native good 
 ness, which doesn t count." 
 
 Possibly Mr. James has himself concluded that he 
 has said quite enough on this subject, for in some of 
 his more recent books, notably in "The Princess 
 Casamassima," he has ignored his countrymen alto 
 gether. The result is that, having no lesson to 
 inculcate, no warning to deliver, his story g . nsofim 
 becomes charming. Mr. James in general provement. 
 scouts the idea that a story need have a plot. There 
 is, he would say, no orderly and logical sequence of 
 events in every-day life, and why should there be such 
 sequence in fiction? He is equally contemptuous, 
 in a general way, of that sentiment which demands of 
 
76 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 a novelist heroic actions on the part of his characters. 
 He has in effect, if not in set terms, declared it to be 
 imperfect art when an author is forced to disentangle 
 the thread of his tale by recourse to murder or suicide 
 or any other catastrophe. But not even Mr. James can 
 practise this theory of the novelist s art with entire 
 consistency. In the book last mentioned he panders 
 to the unlawful desires of the ordinary novel-reader 
 by providing something that may almost be called a 
 plot ; he introduces incidents that in any other writer 
 we should unhesitatingly call romantic; and he con 
 cludes his tale with a suicide and the most approved 
 blood-curdling concomitants. Surely there is reason 
 to hope that in the course of a few more years he 
 may in practice, if not in word, subscribe to Mr. 
 Crawford s declaration of faith, and refuse to be called 
 either realist or romancer. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE art of fiction is not confined to the writing 
 of novels; it includes also the Short Story. This is 
 The short a comparatively new species of literature, 
 Story by no means to be confounded with the 
 
 Tale, of which so excellent specimens may be found 
 in the "Decameron" and " Heptameron by those 
 who can stomach those books. There were heroes 
 before Agamemnon, and there have been spinners 
 of yarns before those of the present day. But the 
 
HENR Y JAMES. 77 
 
 short story of the period is not a mere tale, begin 
 ning nowhere in particular, and going on until the 
 narrator s breath or the hearer s patience fail; it 
 has as definite rules of composition as a novel or an 
 epic. It has a distinct purpose, and that purpose 
 is accomplished by a well-regulated advance, every 
 step of which is calculated with the nicest art. 
 There is no master of this species of composi 
 tion, on the whole, comparable to Mr. James, at 
 least among American writers; and in this branch 
 of the art of fiction American writers surpass all 
 others save only the French. The short story 
 has always been a striking feature of our litera 
 ture. Nothing better in this kind of writing has 
 been produced than Irving s "Legend Americans mas- 
 of Sleepy Hollow," Poe s "Gold Bug," *" 
 and the "Twice Told Tales" of Hawthorne. In 
 England the short story has languished. The 
 "Christmas Stories" of Dickens are perhaps the 
 best specimens that "the tight little isle" can 
 boast, though some of the work of Charles Reade 
 and Wilkie Collins is not far inferior. But the 
 best of these stories lack the artistic perfection our 
 American writers have achieved. The great English 
 novelists either wrote short stories but seldom, like 
 Thackeray, or not at all, like Scott. The British 
 intellect seems to find difficulty in turning itself 
 around in less than the orthodox three-volume 
 space. 
 
 It was the good fortune of Mr. James to begin 
 
78 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 his career at the very time when American periodi- 
 Authors must ca ^ literature was entering on its most 
 rapid stage of development. A market 
 was thus provided for short stories such as had 
 never been known before. Now, authors no more 
 than other producers will keep on making unsalable 
 goods, and the periodical press is a necessary condi 
 tion of prolific production of short stories, because 
 it affords a market for them on a large scale, a 
 scale hitherto unexampled in the history of litera 
 ture. Even an author must live. Or, if the stern 
 critic reply, a la Talleyrand, " Pardon me, I do not 
 see the necessity," he will at least accept the state 
 ment with this amendment, an author must live if 
 he is to go on producing. And even if he is other 
 wise provided with the means of living than by 
 payment for his writing, as one conjectures may 
 have been the case with Mr. James, still, he will 
 not, unless he is one of a thousand, go on writing 
 unless he has some encouragement from the public 
 to do so. He is doubly fortunate if he receives 
 sufficient recognition to encourage him to proceed, 
 yet is freed from the temptation to do hasty work 
 for the sake of turning out "pot-boilers." 
 
 Mr. James appears to have been thus independent 
 of the pecuniary rewards of his pen at the outset of 
 Requirements his career. He did not need to make of 
 
 of the Short 
 
 story. his stories mere "pot-boilers." He early 
 
 discovered that this species of writing demands 
 capacity and training of a peculiar order, as any one 
 
HENR Y JAMES. 79 
 
 else is likely to discover who sits down and tries to 
 write a story by the light of nature. Power of in 
 vention, fertility of imagination, and facility of style 
 are indispensables, but the first requisites are sense 
 of proportion, and lucidity of vision. In the short 
 story there must be no fumbling with a purpose, no 
 hazy observation, no indecisive movement; all must 
 be sure, well-devised, clean-cut. 
 
 There are no stories of this sort more workman 
 like than those of Mr. James; witness the volume 
 entitled "A Passionate Pilgrim," composed wholly 
 of these tales. Witness other volumes of the same 
 character, and numerous stories in the magazines 
 not gathered into volumes. "Workmanlike" one 
 calls these stories; a little too workmanlike, per 
 haps, they are at times. The author is so delighted 
 with the perfection of skill he has attained that he 
 now and then invites us, as it were, to TOO clever by 
 admire his cleverness. His air seems to half- 
 say, " See how thoroughly I understand my trade, 
 and how neat a job I have made of this." If 
 Mr. James had taken one short step further in 
 advance, and learned the last secret of true art, to 
 conceal art, his short stories would have arrived at 
 perfection. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WHATEVER he may come to be, Mr. James is at 
 present the acknowledged coryphaeus of the Ameri- 
 
80 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 can school of realists. A disciple of Balzac, in his 
 books we leave "the realms of gold" in which the 
 romancer travels, and come down to the plane of 
 solid commonplace, 
 
 " Where the Rudyards cease from Kipling, 
 And the Haggards ride no more." 
 
 But he is also a disciple of Sainte-Beuve, and is 
 able to give a well-reasoned exposition of the faith 
 that is in him as a novelist, as well as to criticise 
 His critical tne ideals and appreciate the work of 
 essays. others. In a word, he is a thoroughly 
 
 equipped critic, whose refined taste, broad spirit, 
 generous recognition of all that is good, and skill 
 in the great art of putting things, make his essays 
 more instructive and entertaining to many readers 
 than his fiction. Anybody who has a particle of 
 literary curiosity, or any appreciation of the graces 
 of style, may be safely challenged to take up his 
 "Partial Portraits," or his "French Poets and 
 Novelists," or his volume on Hawthorne in the 
 " English Men of Letters " series, and lay the book 
 down before he has read substantially all of it. It 
 is one of the cases where if you say A you must say 
 B, and so on down the alphabet; to read one page 
 of the essay on Alfred de Musset, for example, 
 means that the whole book must be finished out of 
 hand. Not that this essay is so pre-eminently good, 
 the same result precisely would follow if the 
 reader opened the book at random; he would be 
 
HENR Y JAMES. 8 1 
 
 fascinated, and could not stop except by an effort 
 of will that he would not care to make. 
 
 These critical writings throw an illuminating 
 side-light upon the novels of Mr. James, inasmuch 
 as they contain the theory on which his practice of 
 the art of fiction is founded. The raison d? etre of 
 the novel, he tells us, is that it may represent life, 
 not a part of life merely, but all life. Other than 
 this it has no justification, no place in literature. 
 Obviously, if this principle be fully admitted, 
 it follows that the novelist cannot be Anmum i nat _ 
 restricted in his choice of subjects; he ing side - light 
 must be permitted to take his own wherever he 
 finds it. He must, indeed, select, but art is a 
 selection that is inclusive; therefore the artist 
 must not deliberately exclude any part of life 
 from his works. This may be an ideal principle 
 for a work of vast design, like Balzac s " Comedie 
 Humaine," but it is a hard saying for the guidance 
 of a novelist whose scheme is modest and whose 
 ambition is something less than world-embracing. 
 
 But the principle seems to have an even worse 
 conclusion enfolded in it, nor does Mr. James lack 
 the courage to draw this conclusion. This is, that 
 the art of fiction has nothing to do with morality. 
 If it is true to its aim, if it faithfully tries to repre 
 sent life, a novel is not to be called either moral or 
 immoral. There are bad novels and good novels, 
 it is true, just as there are good pictures and bad, 
 but in either case the adjective connotes artistic, not 
 
 G 
 
82 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 moral, qualities. A novel is good when it is well 
 written, it is bad if it is ill written, and Mr. James 
 NO morals in avows that he can see no other distinc 
 tion. Now one hopes that the American 
 public is ready to admit the truth of this theory 
 of art neither in the case of pictures nor in the case 
 of novels. The sound, healthy sense of the people, 
 uninstructed in art criticism, revolts from the state 
 ment that pictures designed to corrupt the morals 
 of youth, pictures that accomplish such corruption, 
 are to be coldly judged as works of art. Novels 
 that have no better purpose than to drag forth to 
 the light and expose to the gaze of the innocent and 
 pure a mass of festering and putrid moral corrup 
 tion, cannot be admitted to be good, because of any 
 technical skill shown in the work. The eternal 
 distinction between good and evil, between virtue 
 and vice, cannot be obscured by dilettante theories 
 of art. 
 
 Mr. James is, to be sure, entitled to the praise of 
 omitting to follow up his own theory to its legiti 
 mate conclusions. Some saving grace of common- 
 sense, some unacknowledged remnant of an Anglo- 
 Saxon conscience, has held him back from the 
 Lacks the cour- commission of many things that he defends 
 Tories. 18 as legitimate. Doubtless he has a desire 
 to be read, and that not as most people read Zola, 
 in a corner, and with a shamefaced air, but 
 openly and with a good conscience. No man of 
 American or English birth, unless his mind is 
 
HENRY JAMES. 83 
 
 hopelessly besmirched, can read a certain type of 
 French novel without apologizing to himself for 
 the insult, and trying to conceal from others what 
 he has done. At worst, he will attempt a lame 
 self-justification on the ground that "so much is 
 said about the book, you know, that I felt I must 
 read it and judge for myself." If he brings such 
 books into his house, he puts them on some shelf 
 of his bookcase where they are hidden by other 
 volumes, carefully locks the doors, and keeps the 
 key in his pocket night and day. If he runs the 
 risk of moral contagion himself, as he might risk 
 catching small-pox or typhus, he has no idea of 
 exposing his wife and children to contamination. 
 The general existence of such a feeling is the 
 strongest evidence that morals cannot really be 
 dissociated from art. Even in France the young 
 girl is most strictly and sedulously kept from see 
 ing pictures or reading books that are constantly 
 before her elders. Why ? Whoso can, let him give 
 a reason consistent with the theory that art is 
 unmoral. 
 
 V. 
 
 BEFORE we can take leave of Mr. James one or 
 two other matters demand at least a passing men 
 tion. He not only ranks, by general suffrage, 
 among the first of living novelists and critics, but 
 he has of late become a successful playwright. Some 
 
84 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 years ago he dramatized his "Daisy Miller," and 
 it had a fair success. Later his clever stage version 
 His dramatic f "The American" won him greater 
 work plaudits still, both in London and in 
 
 the United States. In London he contended with 
 the disadvantage of a temporary spasm of social 
 feeling against all persons and things American, 
 and won a hearing in spite of this prejudice, which 
 is described by competent observers as unusually 
 bitter. There has been a recent interesting an 
 nouncement that Mr. James has written another play, 
 not a dramatization of a previously printed novel, 
 but a wholly new composition. It has not yet been 
 produced, and any opinion of it can be based only 
 on imagination. 
 
 It is remarkable that so few of our American 
 writers have attempted dramatic composition. To 
 Few American one wno * s not restrained by conscientious 
 dramatists. scru pi e s play-writing offers great induce 
 ments. No other form of literary work is so well 
 rewarded. The author of a fifth-rate play, beneath 
 notice for its literary quality, provided it has the 
 "drawing" power, and can hold its place on the 
 stage, receives in the way of royalty as many hun 
 dreds a week as the author of a first-rate novel 
 receives thousands in a year. It may be that 
 American writers are restrained by conscientious 
 scruples; that while they do not see any more 
 moral evil in the drama than in the novel, they do 
 see more moral evil in the theatre than in the 
 
HENR Y JA MES. 8 5 
 
 bookstore. Be this as it may, the dramatic suc 
 cesses of American authors may be counted on the 
 fingers of one hand, with perhaps a finger or two to 
 spare. This does not necessarily imply, however, 
 that the exceptional success of Mr. James argues 
 any high literary value in his plays, for the literary 
 merit of the modern comedy is surprisingly small. 
 Such success as he has attained, or may hereafter 
 attain, by his theatrical ventures, will add more to 
 his bank account than to his fame. 
 
 A word must also be said of the style of Mr. 
 James. It would not, perhaps, be called a brilliant 
 style; it lacks the glitter and glow of A gentlemanly 
 Macaulay as much as the fulminant cor- style " 
 uscations of Carlyle, but on the other hand it is 
 not tamely correct. Without absolute lapse into 
 solecism, a sentence will often have a familiar col 
 loquial turn, even in the more serious writings, that 
 puts the reader at his ease and promotes an excel 
 lent understanding between him and the author. It 
 is the style of the most finished urbanity, of the 
 broadest and most generous culture; marked by 
 limpid clearness, by well-bred ease, by flexibility 
 and variety, not at all by mannerisms. Matthew 
 Arnold at his best, when he forgot to be elaborately 
 condescending and offensively ironical, may be 
 named as perhaps the closest analogue to Mr. 
 James in the matter of style; only there was about 
 the Englishman, even when at his best, a certain 
 stiffness of manner and a lack of nimbleness of 
 
86 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 wit, that one does not find in the American. Mr. 
 James s study of French literature has had the 
 happiest effect on his style. "Whatever is not 
 clear is not French " is a maxim generally accepted 
 in France, and if the rule might be reversed, one 
 would be compelled to pronounce Mr. James more 
 French than English. 
 
V. 
 
 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 
 
 VIRGINIA, once known as the mother of states- 
 men, has of late years yielded her function to 
 Ohio, but no State has yet wrested from Massachu 
 setts her crown as the mother of poets, orators, 
 and romancers. The rocky soil and stern climate 
 of New England, though surpassed by the genial 
 prairies and rich bottom-lands of West and South 
 in producing corn and cotton, are unequalled for 
 producing men. In the culture of the Massachusetts, 
 fruits of learning and the flowers of rheto- motherofmen: 
 ric, warmer climes and soils more fertile compete 
 with her in vain. Plain living and high thinking are 
 still found in Yankeedom oftener than elsewhere, 
 though in these degenerate days it must be con 
 fessed that " plain living " is a figure of speech, 
 which, translated into every-day language, means 
 the best of everything and plenty of it. The intel 
 lectual supremacy of New England is not wholly 
 tradition. Perhaps the sceptre is about to depart 
 to the Middle West, so we are often informed, with 
 a triumphant assurance that almost, though not quite, 
 inspires conviction, but not until a new generation 
 
88 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 of writers gains the ear and heart of the nation, and 
 those to whom we now listen needfully have gone 
 over to the silent majority. 
 
 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER was born in Massa 
 chusetts, in the town of Plainfield, in the year 1829. 
 He came of good though not distinguished Puritan 
 stock. His father, a man of culture, died when he 
 was but five years old. If his son did not fall heir 
 Bred among to a l ar g e estate, he did inherit a love of 
 the Puritans. ii terature) though for a time there was 
 
 little to encourage its growth. Books were not 
 numerous in those days in a New-England family, 
 and what few there were seldom went beyond com 
 mentaries, biographies of eminent divines, and theo 
 logical treatises of the straitest Calvinistic type. We 
 may be certain that young Warner made the best use 
 of what scant opportunities of reading fell in his way. 
 It was not a dreary boyhood that he spent, if we 
 may judge from his " Being a Boy." In this book 
 he has given us a sort of autobiography, less com 
 plete than that of Mr. Howells, and not quite so 
 vivid a reproduction of boy life. It is, no doubt, to 
 many a more enjoyable book, on account of its 
 pleasant touches of humor; and it faithfully de 
 scribes some phases of life in New-England fifty 
 years ago that are now quite non-existent. 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 89 
 
 Young Warner must have been a good student, 
 and he apparently enjoyed rather exceptional ad 
 vantages for a New-England boy, for he was gradu 
 ated from Hamilton College in 1851, first H is college 
 prizeman in English. He had begun to career 
 write for " Knickerbocker s" and " Putnam s " maga 
 zines while still a college student, and seemed thus 
 predestined to a literary career, but for some years 
 led a rather roving existence, and tried his hand at 
 several occupations. He was in 1853 a member of 
 a surveyor s party on the Missouri frontier; in 1854 
 he became a student of law at the University of 
 Pennsylvania, being graduated in 1856; and until 
 1860 he practised law at Chicago. In that year he 
 met his fate, in the shape of an engagement as assis 
 tant editor of the Hartford " Press," becoming editor- 
 in-chief the following year. In 1867 this paper was 
 consolidated with the Hartford " Courant," of which 
 Mr. Warner became co-editor with Joseph R. Hawley, 
 a position which he has held ever since. Be c 0m es a 
 Every day during these years he has J urnalist 
 walked to his office save the times of infrequent 
 absence on vacation and his daily editorial task 
 has been performed with faithfulness and ability. 
 His literary work has been done in his spare mo 
 ments, without interference with his regular profes 
 sional duties ; and yet he has accomplished an 
 amount of writing that would make a very credi 
 table record for most professed men of letters. Be 
 sides his contributions to the magazines, and his 
 
90 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 occasional articles that have never been collected, 
 he has published since 1870 a good dozen and a 
 half of volumes, all of which are established favorites 
 with the public and have a steady sale. His connec 
 tion in recent years with " Harper s Magazine " is too 
 well known to need comment. It is enough to say 
 that on the death of George William Curtis the one 
 name that suggested itself to every reader as the 
 name of him who was alone fitted by culture and 
 traditions to take up the work then laid down, was 
 Mr. Warner s. And though the " Easy Chair" has 
 been abolished in name, it still lives in spirit under 
 Mr. Warner s direction as one of the choicest feat 
 ures of the magazine. 
 
 II. 
 
 MR. WARNER S connection with literature grew 
 out of his work as a journalist. In 1868-69 he took 
 a well-earned holiday abroad, and (as the manner of 
 editors is) wrote to his journal a series of letters 
 about what he saw and heard. He had seen rather 
 First trip more of his own country than is usual with 
 abroad. Americans who go abroad for the first 
 
 time ; he had gained a very considerable personal 
 acquaintance with men and affairs ; he was tolerably 
 familiar with the history and literature of Europe, 
 in short, he was a decidedly intelligent, wide-awake 
 and observant traveller, and was besides blessed with 
 a sense of humor. These letters of his had a fresh- 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 91 
 
 ness, a piquancy, a charm, that speedily gained for 
 the writer a local literary reputation, which did not 
 long remain merely local. As the letters appeared, 
 they were generally copied by the news- s 
 papers, and when, several years later, they 
 were republished in a volume with the appropriate 
 title of " Saunterings," a wider circle of readers gave 
 them a welcome rather unusual in the case of such 
 a book. 
 
 These letters, however, while very successful, did 
 not make a " hit." That was accomplished, before 
 the appearance of " Saunterings/ by a series of 
 weekly papers on gardening published one summer 
 in the Hartford " Courant." The author s idea seems 
 to have been suggested to him by Horace Greeley s 
 " What I Know about Farming," and he apparently 
 began with some hazy idea of writing a mild bur 
 lesque on this book. Like the creator of My Summer in 
 the immortal Pickwick, however, he had aGardeiu 
 not progressed far before his serial took on a char 
 acter of its own, and totally refused to be finished on 
 the lines he had planned. A good many readers of 
 this article will doubtless recall with a smile the first 
 delightful reading of " My Summer in a Garden " 
 (1870), with its playful wit, its profound moral "ob 
 servations," its wholesome sentiment, and its whim 
 sical side-glances at literature, politics, and religion. 
 Mr. Warner s reputation as a humorist was estab 
 lished by this volume, and confirmed by his " Back 
 log Studies," which followed two years later. He 
 
92 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 well deserved his reputation, and has admirably sus 
 tained it since. His humor is of the delicate and 
 refined type, not the " side-splitting " sort that it is 
 the fashion to associate with the adjective American. 
 Delicacy of ^ recalls the traditions of Addison and 
 humon Steele, and Lamb, and Washington Irving, 
 
 not he of the Diedrich Knickerbocker period, but 
 the Irving of the " Sketch Book." 
 
 Mr. Warner s reputation as a humorist, as has been 
 said, was established by his papers on gardening, 
 too well established, shall we say? No doubt his 
 friends considered the success of " My Summer in 
 a Garden" a very fortunate circumstance, and so, 
 from some points of view, it certainly was. One 
 A dangerous might plausibly maintain, from another 
 reputation. p O m ^ o f view, that so great a success was 
 on the whole a misfortune. It is a dangerous thing 
 for an author to establish at the outset a reputation 
 as a humorist. To be known as a joker is to risk 
 being known as nothing else. The American public, 
 always ready to cry encore to anybody that enter 
 tains it, is especially quick to demand the reappear 
 ance of one who has made it laugh. We do dearly 
 love to be tickled, we Americans. When the joker 
 of established reputation faces us, we are on a broad 
 grin before he has uttered a word, and we resent it 
 as a personal insult if he fails to justify our expecta 
 tions by setting us off into fits of laughter. Rarely 
 indeed do we consent to take a man seriously who 
 begins by making us laugh. We apply to him the 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 93 
 
 Roman theory of the indelibility of orders, once a 
 humorist always a humorist, we demand shall be his 
 rule of life. Any effort on a humorous writer s part 
 to be instructive, to plead a case seriously, to take 
 a sober view of the world, we resent as in some 
 sort a breach of trust, an attempt to obtain goods 
 under false pretences. He has chosen his character, 
 and, with stern virtue, we insist that he shall live 
 up to it. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no better proof of Mr. Warner s 
 power than that he has compelled the unwilling world 
 to take him seriously, in spite of the fact that he made 
 his first hit as a joker. But he has cer- Not a mere 
 tainly not done this without strenuous Joker 
 effort; the very rarity of the achievement is proof 
 not to be controverted of its difficulty. Dr. Holmes 
 tells us, in his pleasant verses on " The Height of the 
 Ridiculous," how dangerous to others it is for a witty 
 writer to be " as funny as he can." It maybe danger 
 ous to others, but it is absolutely fatal to himself, un 
 less he has had the prudence previously to establish 
 a reputation for sobriety. Dr. Holmes took the pre 
 caution of printing certain hard and dry technical 
 medical works, and thereby making himself highly 
 respected in his professional circle, before he in 
 dulged himself in the luxury of making the world 
 laugh. John G. Saxe neglected this precaution, and 
 it was a grief carried with him to the grave that the 
 public would never look on him as anything but a 
 writer of clever parodies and side-splitting jokes in 
 
94 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 verse. In his later years, Henry W. Shaw was a 
 proverbial philosopher of extraordinary merit; his 
 pithy sentences are the quintessence of practical 
 wisdom, often startling us by the light they flash 
 into the very heart of things; but public opinion 
 compelled him to misspell his shrewd sayings, as 
 the illiterate "Josh Billings," in order to get a 
 A horrible hearing. Mr. Samuel L. Clemens has pub- 
 exampie. H s hed certain books in serious literature, 
 without in the least persuading the public to take 
 him seriously. Many read " The Prince and the 
 Pauper" through with misgiving, lest a huge jest 
 might after all be concealed beneath the apparently 
 sober tale. They failed to enjoy the story, because 
 they were continually and nervously looking for 
 some hidden snare. It is only when, as " Mark 
 Twain," he writes some such trash as " The Adven 
 tures of Huckleberry Finn " that this really capable 
 writer can make sure of an appreciative hearing. 
 But Mr. Warner has fairly conquered for himself a 
 place among the solid writers of his day, though he 
 has never scrupled to be funny, even as funny as he 
 can, whenever he has cared to do so. This fact gives 
 him a unique place among American men of letters, 
 and testifies to the possession of mental and moral 
 powers quite unusual. Even so great men as Dean 
 Swift and Sydney Smith found that it is perilous to 
 a man to gain a reputation for wit. Their 
 
 A unique place. 
 
 careers were marred by men s refusal to 
 give credit for solid ability and sterling worth to 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 95 
 
 those on whom it has come to depend for its amuse 
 ment. One might hesitate, perhaps, to say that Mr. 
 Warner s will eventually be a greater name in letters 
 than these, but he has certainly done what they 
 signally failed to do. 
 
 III. 
 
 No English authors are more generally read, or 
 are more likely to retain their hold on popular taste, 
 than the essayists. Bacon and Addison and Johnson, 
 Lamb and De Quincey and Macaulay, are names 
 that represent very diverse styles of writ- Popu]arityof 
 ing, as well as hostile opinions on almost the Essay- 
 every question of religion, history, and politics. 
 Nevertheless, in letters they meet on common ground 
 and have certain common characteristics. If there 
 may be assumed to exist an American school of 
 essayists at all comparable to the English, Mr. 
 Warner must certainly be given a very high place 
 in it, by the suffrages of future readers as well as by 
 the unanimous consent of his own day. The essay 
 seems to be his natural vehicle of thought, the form 
 in which his idea always expresses itself when he 
 does not consciously seek for some other style of 
 expression. This is evidently the case even when 
 his books are not avowedly essays. His books of 
 travel, for instance, are really essays on what he has 
 seen. He is not so much the narrator of the small 
 adventures that befall the modern globe-trotter, or 
 
96 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 the describer of landscape or of the panorama of town 
 life, as the philosophic observer. The interest of his 
 wamer essen- books depends far less on the intrinsic 
 tiaiiy an essayist. interest o f what he saw than on how these 
 sights impressed him. He is one of the most sub 
 jective of travellers, and one reads " Baddeck " or 
 " On the Nile," not to learn anything about these 
 localities, one would go to a guidebook or a gazet 
 teer for bald information, but to enjoy the sen 
 sation of looking at them through Mr. Warner s 
 spectacles. 
 
 In his avowed essays, Mr. Warner s most ambitious 
 work has, perhaps, been his study of Washington 
 Irving. This first appeared in 1880 as a Preface to 
 the " Geoffrey Crayon edition " of Irving s works, the 
 publication of which was begun in that year by the 
 Messrs. Putnam. The year following, this study, 
 much expanded in details but written on the same 
 general lines, appeared as a volume in the " American 
 Men of Letters " series, of which Mr. Warner is the 
 wamer and general editor. This was a peculiarly con- 
 irving. genial task, since there is an evident 
 
 likeness of character and literary taste between sub 
 ject and critic. This likeness does not go beyond a 
 general sympathy of method and style ; it does not 
 in the least imply imitation. Mr. Warner does not 
 appear to have "formed himself" upon any model, 
 and no mousing critic will ever be able to establish an 
 undue resemblance between his work and that of any 
 other writer ; but there are certain elements in Irving s 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 97 
 
 work that are found also in his. He has the more 
 correct taste, according to present standards, espe 
 cially in that he is more robust and virile, less given 
 to sentimentality, and not so prone to value gentility 
 above manhood. In appreciation of Irving s best 
 work, in gentle but unsparing comment on his un 
 worthy performance, and in the accuracy with which 
 it distinguishes the one from the other, this criti 
 cal essay must be pronounced work of a very high 
 order. 
 
 As has already been intimated, one of Mr. Warner s 
 chief merits as an essayist is his originality. His 
 books are evidently the work of a man who is accus 
 tomed to associate with the best people, both in 
 society and in books, but he makes no 
 
 f i i- .u r t.- Originality. 
 
 more parade of his literary than of his 
 social acquaintance. Very entertaining essays have 
 been written, and such will doubtless be written again, 
 that are a mere cento of fine passages openly or 
 secretly borrowed from other writers. One need not 
 deny that such essays have their place, and even show 
 a good deal of cleverness in the writer, if one yet ex 
 presses a modest preference for those that do not 
 point out the author as one who has been to a great 
 feast of languages and stolen the scraps, or designate 
 him as an adroit snapper up of unconsidered literary 
 trifles. Mr. Warner does not appear before the 
 world as a critic of literature and of life deep versed 
 in books and shallow in himself. He has doubtless 
 read widely that appears in a general tone and 
 
 7 
 
98 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 manner of culture rather than in any vain show of 
 learning but he has observed keenly and thought 
 much, viewing life from many points, looking upon it 
 with the knowledge of a practical man of affairs, yet 
 with the mental aloofness of a humorist. 
 
 Another great merit of Mr. Warner as an essayist 
 is his independence. He does not judge according to 
 conventional standards, but according to the higher 
 verities of character. This power to see things as they 
 are, undistorted by the media of current ideas, he 
 showed in a truly remarkable way in his book " On 
 Horseback through the South." The 
 
 Independence. 
 
 reader of that book must remember that 
 its author was in his youth an abolitionist, and through 
 out his manhood had been a Republican ; that he had 
 been for many years editor of the chief Republican 
 newspaper of a State in which almost every citizen 
 of wealth or culture or social standing was a Repub 
 lican. There was every reason in the world why he 
 should have been swayed by ancient prejudices, by 
 present partisanship, by social feeling, and all uncon 
 sciously to himself should have been unable to see 
 any good in the South, or any prophecy of hope for 
 the future of that section. Just the reverse was the 
 fact. Casting aside all the sentiments and prepos 
 sessions of his past, Mr. Warner travelled with a mind 
 open to receive his impressions from the facts them 
 selves, as he saw them. He was not such a fool as 
 to suppose that he saw in this brief trip everything to 
 be seen ; but what can any traveller do more than 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 99 
 
 carefully observe and truthfully tell what he does see? 
 This Mr. Warner did with so much intelligence, accur 
 acy, and faithfulness as to win the sturdy dislike of 
 many with whom he had been politically on Horseback 
 
 . f. XT r~- i through the 
 
 associated for years. No Southern man South. 
 could have given a more hopeful picture of the New 
 South, and no Southern man s description would 
 have been received with such credence as was Mr. 
 Warner s. Recognizing the fact that the picture was 
 only a partial one, the people of the North saw in 
 it much to warrant bright hopes of the future, and 
 many of the misapprehensions and misgivings indus 
 triously fostered by politicians for selfish purposes 
 were incontinently swept away with other rubbish that 
 had accumulated since the Civil War. Mr. Warner has 
 written books that will probably be read long after 
 this, but nothing that he has ever done constitutes a 
 better title to the grateful remembrance of Americans 
 who love their country. 
 
 IV. 
 
 EVERY woman, it has been said, has it in her to 
 write at least one novel, but why not every man as 
 well? It was to be expected that so enterprising and 
 successful a writer as Mr. Warner would sooner or 
 later try his hand at fiction ; the only wonder is that 
 he has never yielded to the temptation to " drop into 
 poetry." It is only within a few years, however, that 
 he has made the venture, and his stories are still but 
 
100 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 two : " Their Pilgrimage," and " A Little Journey 
 
 in the World." Both of these ventures have been 
 
 fairly successful, sufficiently so to warrant 
 
 Two novels. r 1 
 
 further attempts, but by no means so strik 
 ingly successful as to eclipse, or even to rival, his 
 work as an essayist. A disciple of the new school of 
 realism might object that Mr. Warner has not eman 
 cipated himself from slavery to traditional theories of 
 the novel. For one thing he shows too much desire 
 to construct a plot even though he is not entirely 
 successful in the attempt to win praise from this 
 school. Then in his representation of character he is 
 not so stiffly and dryly realistic as it is latterly the 
 fashion to be. His people talk too much like living 
 men and women. He does not trouble himself to affect 
 profound philosophy of life or art, like one who stalks 
 
 about, 
 
 " His cogitative faculties immersed 
 In cogibundity of cogitation." 
 
 In a word, he is in great danger of excommunication 
 from the church of true believers, who hold, as is well 
 known, that a novel must be so vapid or so foul that 
 nobody can read it. This, however, though it make 
 him the scoff of the elect, is not a serious objection to 
 those of us who are not ashamed to be frankly Philis 
 tine, and bow down to our ancient idols, Scott and 
 Dumas, Dickens and Thackeray and George Eliot; 
 who have a sneaking fondness for Robert Louis 
 Stevenson and Rider Haggard, and are not even above 
 being entertained by an adventure of Terence Mul- 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. IOI 
 
 vaney s. Indeed, were one to pick a quarrel with Mr. 
 Warner at all on the score of his fiction, it would be 
 on the ground that he has not the full courage of his 
 convictions. He sometimes sacrifices to the god of 
 realism. Thus " Their Pilgrimage " reads in spots as 
 if it had been written to be a guide-book for certain 
 fashionable resorts and afterward made over into a 
 novel. " A Little Journey in the World " is almost 
 too carefully lifelike a study of the " Napoleon of 
 Finance " with whom more than one recent Wall 
 Street transaction has made every reader of newspapers 
 familiar. These are at worst venial faults. 
 
 One is compelled to add, nevertheless, that both 
 these books show a lack of that technical skill in the 
 art of fiction which comes from long practice. They 
 are the books of a gifted amateur, rather than of a 
 trained novelist. They would have been excellent as 
 the first ventures in literature of a young man ; they 
 are not without promise as the first novels Lack technical 
 of any writer; but they do not reach a skilL 
 level in fiction comparable to their author s eminence, 
 so well won, in another department of literature. It 
 is hard to say whether he would do better to make 
 further experiment, with a prospect of genuine success 
 before him, or continue to do the work for which he 
 had before shown so singular fitness. The latter course 
 might be pronounced the more prudent, but the 
 former if crowned with success in the end might do 
 more to enhance his repute, enlarge his audience, and 
 increase his usefulness. All depends on whether he 
 
102 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 is himself conscious of having a further message for 
 the world that can be delivered in no other way so 
 well as through the medium of the novel. It would 
 be unfortunate if one who stands in the front rank of 
 essayists should decline to the third rank among 
 novelists. And yet analogy seems to point out such 
 a fate as only too probable. Bayard Taylor and 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes are examples of men who 
 have done work of the highest worth in poetry and in 
 general prose writing, but came far short of success 
 as writers of fiction. Taylor s " Story of Kennett " 
 and the Autocrat s "Elsie Venner " are far from 
 failures, they would indeed have been successes for 
 other men, but they are not worthy of the best powers 
 of the authors, as shown in other forms of literary 
 expression. Fiction was not, for either of these, the 
 best way of giving his message to the world. 
 
 Mr. Warner is still in the prime of life. Not for 
 another decade at least will he need to say, 
 
 " It is time to be old, 
 To take in sail." 
 
 In this matter we Americans are improving, and no 
 longer look on a man as beginning to fall into his 
 dotage the minute he has passed fifty. The men 
 between sixty and ninety have, with rare exceptions, 
 been the real rulers of the world ; and when a man of 
 fifty wins a prominent place in imperial affairs, Eng 
 lishmen commonly speak of him as rather young for 
 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 103 
 
 such responsibility, this, too, in spite of the fact that 
 Pitt was Premier at twenty-five. That the ripest fruit 
 is yet to come from Mr. Warner s tree of wisdom is a 
 reasonable forecast, which ^very one who loves his 
 country and enjoys a good book will earnestly hope 
 may be realized. 
 
VI. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 ANEW HAMPSHIRE town was a good place 
 to be born and bred in some fifty years ago. 
 Especially if it were a thriving seaport town, with 
 a good "academy" and plenty of chance for fish 
 ing and boating, it was a very paradise for a boy. 
 It was such a town namely, Portsmouth 
 
 Portsmouth. _ .^ ^.^ ThQmas Bailey Aldrich 
 
 came November 11, 1836, and it was here that the 
 foundations of his character were laid. Shortly 
 after his birth, his father removed to Louisiana, 
 and there invested his capital in a banking business, 
 invested it so securely, so the son informs us, 
 that he was never able to get any of it out again. 
 After a few years the father and mother decided 
 that New Orleans was no place for the up-bringing 
 of a Yankee youth, and accordingly "Tom Bailey" 
 was sent back to Portsmouth to sojourn with his 
 relatives and get an education. The history of 
 those years at Portsmouth he has himself given us 
 in "The Story of a Bad Boy" (Boston, 1869), a 
 book that delights young and old in almost equal 
 measure. The boys enjoy it because it is so per- 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 1 05 
 
 feet a picture of a boy s life, full of amusing pranks 
 and adventures, and written in a spirit of boyish 
 ness that manhood had not outgrown. Their elders 
 value the book somewhat for this very freshness of 
 spirit, but still more for its delicate humor and the 
 literary charm of the narrative. "Tom Bailey" 
 was a bad boy only in a Pickwickian sense. He 
 was the opposite of the "good little boy" of the 
 story books, who always died young. That is to 
 say, he was a genuine boy, who would much rather 
 spend his stray pennies for "bull s-eyes" T h e bad 
 than give them to send missionaries to boy " 
 the heathen ; who dearly loved a frolic and had no 
 desire to be an angel. Of course he got into 
 scrapes, and of course he tried to run away to 
 sea, no New England boy of any spirit failed to do 
 that at some time, but these are the worst things 
 that he brings forward to justify his self-imposed 
 title. In all of Mr. Aldrich s writings one seems 
 to detect the savor of that New England boyhood. 
 
 I. 
 
 THIS happy youth-time and an education that was 
 to end with a course at Harvard were brought to 
 an untimely close by the failure of the An interrupted 
 father s New Orleans business, closely education - 
 followed by his death. Relatives were ready and 
 more than willing to furnish the means for the 
 college course, but young Aldrich, while no dul- 
 
IO6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 lard at his books, had never developed any marked 
 scholastic tastes, and he was too self-reliant to accept 
 the proffered aid. It seemed better to him to make 
 the plunge at once into the great world and seek 
 his fortune. An uncle who was a merchant in New 
 York offered him a clerkship, and the youth of six 
 teen entered on a business career that he doubtless 
 hoped would be brilliant, but which proved remark 
 able for little else than its brevity. 
 
 It does not appear, at least from any of his own 
 confidences, that Mr. Aldrich was a precocious 
 writer. He never lisped in verses; he did not 
 produce plays and novels by the ream in his salad 
 days ; he was too healthy and active a boy to spend 
 hours sacred to play in spoiling paper and inking 
 himself. But he had the root of the matter in him 
 
 Drops into nOne the leSS > and Q2LT ^ IU his " teenS " 
 
 Poetry his bent showed itself. The "Ballad of 
 
 Babie Bell " he had written and printed before he 
 was twenty; and if he has written stronger verses 
 since, he has not written anything more sweet and 
 tenderly pathetic. One may gratefully note in 
 passing, as a mark of sounder taste, that in the 
 later editions of his poems Mr. Aldrich has dropped 
 the affected spelling that originally spoiled this 
 poem, and we have now the "Ballad of Baby Bell." 
 It was a few affectations like this, and a somewhat 
 dandified style of portrait published with some of 
 his earlier works, that made many people look on 
 Mr. Aldrich for a long time as a literary Miss 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. IO/ 
 
 Nancy. They were slow in giving him credit for 
 the real virile power that his writings show. 
 
 Even during his clerkship days Mr. Aldrich spent 
 more hours at the shrine of the Muses than in the 
 temple of Mammon. This is not to say that he 
 was an idle and inefficient clerk; it is merely to 
 say that his business service, though conscientious, 
 was perfunctory, and that the work to which his 
 heart was given was that of letters. Nor need 
 one hesitate to say that he chose the better part. 
 Doubtless the posting of ledgers is a calling as full 
 of dignity and as worthy of honor as that of poet 
 or romancer, provided one has the vocation and 
 honestly obeys it. 
 
 " Who sweeps a room as for Thy cause 
 Makes that and th action fine." 
 
 But the posting of ledgers is not honorable work 
 for him who is conscious of another vocation; it 
 can at best be nothing more than an honest way of 
 earning his bread. For three years the budding 
 author continued his attempt to serve two masters, 
 and then gave up the struggle, devoting The parting of 
 himself without reserve to the Muses. A theways - 
 happy choice this was for American literature, and 
 a fortunate one it has proved to be for the author, 
 but the issue was for a time doubtful. At that day 
 there was little encouragement for a young man 
 to undertake the earning of a living by his pen. 
 " Knickerbocker s " and " Putnam s " and " Godey s " 
 
108 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 were the only periodicals then published that could 
 accept and pay for even an occasional contribution. 
 Mr. Aldrich was compelled, therefore, to look for 
 some semi-literary occupation that would ensure 
 him a living while he wrote. This he found for a 
 time in a publishing house, for which he acted as 
 " reader" of manuscripts submitted for publication, 
 and as a proof-reader also. In 1856 he joined the 
 staff of the "Home Journal," then conducted by 
 Messrs. Willis and Morris. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich s connection with New York lasted, 
 with varying fortunes, until 1870. While here he 
 cemented friendships with many of the young men 
 Early friend- ^ letters of his day, notably with Sted- 
 shlps> man, Stoddard, and Bayard Taylor, 
 
 friendships that have lasted unbroken to the pres 
 ent day, or have been severed only by death. He 
 seems to have been a man who made friends easily, 
 and he had also the qualities that hold friends once 
 made. How much he is respected and admired by 
 his fellow-craftsmen was shown clearly in the pub 
 lic dinner lately given him by New York men of 
 letters, who vied with one another to do him 
 fitting honor. But aside from this circle of friends, 
 it would be hard to say that the New York experi 
 ences of Mr. Aldrich made any impression on his 
 life and work, any impression that can be identi 
 fied, one means, of course. That these years had 
 an important part in the making of the man it 
 would be absurd to question. The point is that 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 1 09 
 
 in his writings there is singularly little trace of 
 his New York life. He has attempted no study 
 of metropolitan life in his more ambitious work, 
 and even in his short stories and jeux d esprit the 
 tone of the metropolis is not discernible. One 
 might almost infer that he has, for some reason 
 good in his own sight, deliberately avoided turn 
 ing his New York life to account in his verse 
 and fiction. His readers may well regret that this 
 is the case, for he is a man in some ways pecu 
 liarly fitted both to appreciate and to describe life 
 in New York. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE second period in Mr. Aldrich s literary 
 career began with his removal to Boston, in 1870, 
 to become the editor of "Every Satur- A journalistic 
 day," a young and ambitious periodical, ex P eriment - 
 that it was hoped would become a sort of Ameri 
 can "Spectator." More purely literary than the 
 " Nation, " it was not adapted to interest and hold 
 so large a constituency of readers, and its success 
 did not meet the expectations of the founders. It 
 may be doubted whether a high-class literary weekly 
 can succeed in the United States, the "Critic" is 
 the nearest approach to such a paper, but it seems 
 clear that the failure of " Every Saturday " to be a 
 brilliant success was, at any rate, no fault of its 
 editor. A better choice for the post could not well 
 
110 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 have been made. He had published "The Dells," 
 a volume of verse, in 1855; "Babie Bell and Other 
 Poems" in 1856; and collected editions of his 
 poems in 1863 and 1865 respectively. He had 
 experience in practical work for periodicals and 
 publishers that had prepared him for editing such 
 a journal with intelligent appreciation of the public 
 taste, and then he had a considerable personal ac 
 quaintance with American writers that was of great 
 value to a young periodical, since it was easy for 
 him to secure the co-operation of the best talent. 
 All this did not avail, however, to make the paper 
 financially successful. When in 1874 its publica 
 tion was suspended, Mr. Aldrich might have made 
 his valedictory in Cato s words: 
 
 " T is not in mortals to command success, 
 But we 11 do more, Sempronius ; we 11 deserve it." 
 
 This did not complete his editorial career. A 
 few years later in 1881, to be precise Mr. 
 Editor of the Howells retired from the editorship of 
 Atlantic. The Atlantic Monthly," and the pub 
 lishers naturally turned to Mr. Aldrich as to a fore 
 ordained successor. For some years he had been 
 a regular and welcome contributor to the magazine; 
 he was familiar with its traditions, and by training 
 and temperament was suited to carry on the work, 
 with some infusion of original ideas, but avoiding 
 any marked break with the past. This work he 
 continued until 1890. Without disparagement of 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. Ill 
 
 other editors the " Atlantic " has had and there 
 has been a brilliant succession of them one can 
 not fail to recognize in the work of these years the 
 very highest editorial and literary ability. "A 
 nightingale dies for shame if another bird sings 
 better," says some old writer, but Mr. Aldrich has 
 never shown such jealousy of his fellow-singers. 
 On the contrary, it was his good fortune to bring 
 before the public for the first time writers, in both 
 verse and prose, of now established reputation; and 
 others, who may have appeared in print before, 
 made their present fame during his editorship. 
 Among these it suffices to mention as examples 
 " Charles Egbert Craddock " (Miss Murfree), Sarah 
 Orne Jewett, and Louise Imogen Guiney, with the 
 addition, possibly, of Arthur Sherburne Hardy, 
 though his reputation was fairly made, in the first 
 instance, by the publication of a story Authors dis- 
 that had not appeared serially. It was covered< 
 creditable to the editor s enterprise, however, that 
 he promptly " annexed " the new writer. Mr. 
 Aldrich held most of the regular staff of "Atlantic " 
 writers, even in the face of hot competition from 
 New York magazines, and their offers of higher 
 prices for work. Authors are but human, however, 
 and it is not wonderful that some forsook their New 
 England divinity and went after strange gods. 
 
 Since going to Boston, Mr Aldrich s most impor 
 tant publications have been : two new and enlarged 
 editions of his poems (in 1873 and 1876), "Mar 
 
112 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 jorie Daw and Other Stories "(1873), "Prudence 
 Palfrey" (1874), "The Queen of Sheba " (1877), 
 " The Stillwater Tragedy " ( 1 880), " From 
 Ponkapog to Pesth," and "Mercedes" 
 (both 1883). All the volumes named, save the last, 
 are prose. The title-work of the last volume is a 
 prose tragedy, but at least half the book consists of 
 " Later Lyrics. " This is a very respectable list of 
 works, as regards number merely, and if it does 
 not entitle the author to be reckoned the peer of 
 Messrs. Howells and Crawford in industry, it shows 
 that he has by no means idled his time aimlessly 
 away. 
 
 III. 
 
 MR. ALDRICH S prose writings fully deserve their 
 vogue. There are no cleverer short stories than 
 "Marjorie Daw" and its companions. Marjorie in 
 The prose particular is a masterpiece, the surprising 
 writings. conclusion being artfully concealed from 
 
 the reader until the very last sentence. The only 
 story with which it can be fairly compared, in this 
 particular, is Mr. Frank R. Stockton s "The Lady 
 or the Tiger? " The denouement of Mr. Stockton s 
 story may be pronounced the more humorous, but 
 that of Mr. Aldrich s is certainly the more witty. 
 And in the matter of style, Mr. Stockton is nowhere 
 in comparison with Mr. Aldrich. There is in the 
 latter s prose a bonhomie, we have no adequate 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 113 
 
 English phrase for this combination of high spirits 
 and gentlemanly manner, a deftness of touch, a 
 sureness of aim, a piquancy of flavor, a playfulness 
 of wit, a delicacy of humor, that make it perfectly 
 delightful reading. No other of our writers has 
 caught so much of the spirit of French prose, 
 save Mr. Henry James; and Mr. Aldrich deserves 
 the praise that, while he has learned from the 
 French all that they have to teach, he has still 
 remained essentially American. 
 
 We have been considering his short stories only 
 thus far, but what has been said is true of the other 
 fictions. Indeed, with the single excep- Longshort . 
 t ion of "The Stillwater Tragedy," these stories 
 books are nothing else than long short-stories, if 
 such a Hibernicism be permissible. "The Queen 
 of Sheba " requires very large type and very thick 
 " leads " to draw it out into the decent semblance 
 of a duodecimo novel, and " Prudence Palfrey " is 
 little better. But this is a trifling detail after all; 
 what classifies these books with short stories is not 
 their actual length, but quality of plot. In neither 
 of the two volumes named is there material for a 
 novel. The stories are so essentially simple and 
 uncomplicated, the characters are so few and so 
 easily developed, that to spin these yarns out to the 
 orthodox novel limit would be to dilute all the 
 flavor and sparkle into unmitigated flatness. Mr. 
 Aldrich has too nice a taste to spoil good wine by 
 adding three times its bulk of water; he is too good 
 
 8 
 
114 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 an artist to disregard the self-limited development 
 of his plot. 
 
 In "The Stillwater Tragedy" he has a subject 
 that justifies, if it does not require, more elaborate 
 treatment. His characters are more complex; his 
 plot demands space for working out to a natural con 
 clusion; his situations are dramatic. It is, there 
 fore, his most ambitious prose work, and it shows 
 more power than anything else he has written. 
 This is true of the artistic treatment of the theme 
 only; the moral element in the book, while whole 
 some in intent, is vitiated by sentiment. There 
 The labor nas been no treatment of the vexed 
 question. ] a ^ or question " in fiction that is not 
 weakened by its sentimental tone. Sympathy with 
 one side or the other has prevented all novelists 
 from throwing the white light of truth on the sub 
 ject, and it is probably in the nature of things that 
 this should always be the case. Mr. Aldrich 
 comes short of the highest achievement precisely 
 where Dickens and Charles Reade had failed before 
 him, and it must therefore be allowed that he has 
 at least failed in good company. The excellences 
 of the story are quite independent of this defect, 
 and the book was so good as to warrant the hope 
 that its author would at the next trial rise much 
 higher. In the dozen years that have since passed 
 there has been no next trial, and this book therefore 
 remains his high-water mark in prose writing. 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRfCH. 115 
 
 IV. 
 
 As a poet, Mr. Aldrich deserves more general 
 recognition than he has ever received. " The Ballad 
 of Baby Bell," one of his earliest poems, 
 
 His verse. 
 
 still remains that by which he is chiefly 
 known to the majority of readers. His circle of 
 admirers is comparatively small, but it comprises 
 all who have a genuine love for poetry, and a culti 
 vated taste, all who can enjoy 
 
 " A perpetual feast of nectar d sweets, 
 Where no crude surfeit reigns." 
 
 We have among our American poets, living and 
 dead, no more intelligent and conscientious artist 
 in verse. His conception of the poet s art is well 
 expressed in some lines to an unnamed author: 
 
 " Great thoughts in crude, inadequate verse set forth, 
 Lose half their preciousness, and ever must. 
 Unless the diamond with its own rich dust 
 Be cut and polished, it seems little worth." 
 
 There has been no lack of the cutting and polish 
 ing in Mr. Aldrich s verse, and his workmanship 
 approaches perfection. He excels in short poems. 
 A poetic thought that can be adequately set forth 
 in a quatrain, a sonnet, a dozen couplets, or a half- 
 dozen stanzas, he treats to perfection, but he has 
 never shown the same ability to handle a Acarverof 
 large theme. He is a carver of exquisite cameos - 
 cameos, not a sculptor of great statues, or a painter 
 
Il6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 of splendid landscapes. Let it not be supposed 
 that this is said in any spirit of disparagement; it 
 is merely a proper description of the work he has 
 chosen to do. Critics of all time are agreed that 
 the lyrics of Sappho evince a poetic genius not less 
 fine and perhaps a more precious poetic art 
 than the epics of Homer. To carve cameos may 
 be an art as dignified and as worthy of the world s 
 honor as the building of cathedrals : that depends 
 on the artist, rather than on the bulk of his 
 product. 
 
 The fault of American literature in general is 
 hasty, crude workmanship. Our writers are not 
 sufficiently sincere; they lack genuine reverence 
 for their art; conscientious fidelity in details they 
 have never learned. This is true of even so affluent 
 a genius, so perfect an artist when he chose to take 
 Defect of pains, as Lowell; and how much truer it is 
 
 American . 
 
 literature. of the ninety and nine who lack his genius 
 and resemble him only in their faults. American 
 authors consider their work done when it is only 
 well begun, when they have given a first crude, 
 imperfect expression to a happy inspiration. The 
 weeks and months of patient toil needed to cut and 
 polish the rough gem, they are either unable or un 
 willing to give. So far as the artistic defects of 
 American literature may be fairly ascribed to in 
 ability to do better work, the failure may be par 
 donable. The slaves of the pen must live of the 
 pen ; and bread must be had, if the writing suffers 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 by undue haste to publish. Poetry, however, is 
 rather a case apart. In most instances the publi 
 cation of verses puts little money in their author s 
 purse, or in the publisher s either, if all be true 
 that s said, and the temptation to market one s 
 unripe fruit is not great. The inducement being 
 so small, whether from poverty or from cupidity, 
 to rush into the market-place out of due time, he 
 who prints his verse before he has made it as good 
 as he can is without excuse. Mr. Aldrich has no 
 cause to enter any plea for mitigation of judgment. 
 He has certainly done his best, and that is to suc 
 ceed in the noblest sense, as he himself says in one 
 of his sugar d sonnets : 
 
 " Enamoured architect of airy rhyme, 
 Build as thou wilt ; heed not what each man says. 
 Good souls, but innocent of dreamers ways, 
 Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time ; 
 Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 
 Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all their days; 
 But most beware of those who come to praise. 
 O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime 
 And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all ; 
 Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, 
 Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given : 
 Then, if at last the airy structure fall, 
 Dissolve, and vanish take thyself no shame. 
 They fail, and they alone, who have not striven." 
 
 It cannot be said, because Mr. Aldrich has con 
 fined himself chiefly to "short swallow-flights of 
 song," that he is incapable of a longer effort. His 
 
Il8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 " Spring in New England " is the best ode that 
 Decoration Day has inspired, though not the best 
 known; and the longest of his poems, "Judith," is 
 conceived in the spirit of Milton and composed in 
 the spirit of Keats. One suggests these two names 
 only to characterize the work, not to imply doubt of 
 its original power. Probably Mr. Aldrich is too 
 fastidious in taste, too careful in workmanship, to 
 attempt a long poem, in despair of ever finishing 
 it according to his high standard of excellence. 
 
 In most of his verse there is a blithe and debonair 
 spirit. Especially is the humor that flashes from 
 His wholesome m ^ny of the poems" marked by this fresh- 
 spint nesg Q S pi r it. Even in the youthful 
 
 verses there is singularly little of that cynical, 
 world-worn manner affected by juvenile poets in 
 general. Mr. Aldrich has never posed as a Blighted 
 Being. The dash of cynicism that one occasionally 
 lights on is of the quiet sort that a well-bred man 
 of the world now and then shows, not a manner 
 assumed for effect, but a genuine, though a passing, 
 mood. If one describe the poems as a whole, in 
 any terms but those of praise, it is only to express 
 some surprise mingled with regret that the author 
 has not more frequently struck a note that thrills 
 one s higher nature. Yet his art is so fine at its 
 best, so apparently spontaneous in its finished 
 excellence, that all regret vanishes as one reads. 
 What, for instance, could be finer than this closing 
 stanza from " Spring in New England ? " 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. I IQ 
 
 " Hark! tis the bluebird s venturous strain 
 High on the old fringed elm at the gate 
 Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, 
 
 Alert, elate, 
 
 Dodging the fitful spits of snow, 
 New-England s poet-laureate 
 Telling us Spring has come again ! " 
 
 Verse like that ranks alongside of the best of 
 Shelley or Wordsworth; one s sole lament is that 
 there should be so little of it, and that he who is 
 so well qualified to be nature s poet should have 
 employed himself so largely with society verse. 
 
 V. 
 
 AMERICAN writers who have produced a play that 
 has real literary merit, and is at the same time 
 adapted to stage representation, are few indeed. 
 Mr. Aldrich holds an honorable rank among this 
 small band by reason of his "Mercedes." 
 This drama was published in 1884, but 
 it was not acted until 1893, when it held the 
 stage at Palmer s Theatre, New York, for a week. 
 This is a brief, but a decided, dramatic success. 
 Though divided into two acts or scenes, the 
 drama is practically continuous. In the first scene 
 we learn from a dialogue at the bivouac fire that 
 Captain Luvois has been ordered to attack the 
 Spanish hamlet of Arguano with a detachment of 
 French soldiers, and put all the inhabitants to the 
 
120 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 sword. The duty is most unwelcome, for in that 
 village dwells the woman he loves, whom he has 
 been compelled to leave by the exigencies of mili 
 tary service. He is determined to save her. In 
 the second act Mercedes is discovered in the 
 hamlet with her child, unable to flee with her 
 neighbors because she cannot abandon her old 
 grandmother. The soldiers find wine, which they 
 believe has been poisoned. They demand that 
 Mercedes drink some of it as a test ; and, believing 
 her lover false, and sick of life, she drinks and 
 gives some of the wine to her child. The soldiers 
 then drink and all are poisoned. Just then Luvois 
 arrives, and Mercedes lives only long enough to 
 hear that he has been faithful and still loves her; 
 but he, too, has drunk of the wine before seeing 
 "Supp dfuii h er - The curtain falls on a stage 
 with horrors." strewec j ^ ifa corpses. This is tragedy 
 in allopathic doses, to be sure, yet the incident is 
 probable, possibly historical, and the strength of its 
 situations is obvious and undeniable. The theme 
 is worked out in the details with dignity, self- 
 restraint, and power, and the literary finish is what 
 we always expect, and never expect in vain, from 
 Mr. Aldrich. Altogether, the production of the 
 play must be pronounced most gratifying, since 
 it was well staged and well acted, and pleased 
 about equally the critics and the public. It does 
 not place the author among the great dramatists, 
 but it marks him a successful playwright, and war- 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 121 
 
 rants expectations of something stronger when he 
 next essays dramatic composition. 
 
 VI. 
 
 IT is the distinction of Mr. Aldrich that he 
 belongs to the small group of American writers 
 who have a European reputation. Several of his 
 stories have received the compliment of publica 
 tion in a French version in the " Revue des deux 
 Mondes," which is the blue ribbon of the Th? British 
 novelist. His books have been " pirated " "P irate -" 
 freely by those canny European publishers who have 
 stolen both wisely and too well. His name is 
 sometimes mentioned in English periodicals with 
 that tone of polite condescension which the Briton 
 means for compliment. It is true that the refer 
 ences to him and his writings are not always intel 
 ligent, and betray on the writer s part a plentiful 
 lack of all knowledge save the one fact that Mr. 
 Aldrich does exist. Mr. Brander Matthews not 
 long ago, in the course of some strictures on the 
 insularity of English men of letters, instanced the 
 case of a critic of pretensions who had classified 
 the " Queen of Sheba " among the poems of Mr. 
 Aldrich. He very properly said that this was a 
 sort of ignorance that would be considered dis 
 graceful in an American writing of Mr. Andrew 
 Lang, for instance. Mr. Lang came to the defence 
 of his brothers of the craft, and denied their insu- 
 
122 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 larity, but in so doing gave an amusing proof 
 that Mr. Matthews was right. "I have not read 
 Mr. Aldrich s Queen of Sheba " (I quote from 
 memory, but with substantial correctness, I am 
 sure), "but I am quite willing to believe that it is 
 equal to his other poems." The point, of course, is 
 insular ignor- that tne Briton is not compelled to write 
 about American authors, he always has 
 the privilege of silence, but if he does undertake 
 to write about them, he should at least be familiar 
 enough with the title-pages of the books mentioned 
 not to confound a prose romance with poetry. Mr. 
 Matthews was quite justified in directing attention 
 to the fact that the English man of letters seldom 
 thinks it worth his while to learn something about 
 American matters before he undertakes to write 
 about them. Why, indeed, should he, since he 
 writes for a public so much more ignorant than him 
 self that his worst errors, and even his deliberate 
 inventions, will pass for accurate knowledge? 
 
 Mr. Aldrich is still on the sunny side of sixty. 
 His friends declare that he has discovered the 
 Reserved secret of perpetual youth, and that while 
 power. others grow gray and infirm, he is still 
 
 "alert, elate," with body unworn and mind unflag 
 ging, capable of greater things than he has yet 
 accomplished. There is, as one reads his books, an 
 impression left that he has never quite put forth his 
 full strength. The well-poised mind and deliberate 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRJCH. 12$ 
 
 art imply reserve power. That this may prove to 
 be a correct forecast, and that the crowning master 
 piece is yet to come, will be hoped by none so 
 devoutly as by those who appreciate most justly 
 both the excellence and the defect of what Mr. 
 Aldrich has thus far produced. 
 
VII. 
 
 MARK TWAIN. 
 
 ON a certain street in Hartford, Conn., towns 
 men showing the local lions to the visitor 
 from abroad will point with pride to a group of 
 three comfortable, not to say handsome, houses as 
 the homes of as many distinguished American 
 writers. In one of these houses lives Charles 
 Three Hart- Dudley Warner, in another, Harriet 
 ford iions." Beecher Stowe; the third, the finest of 
 the three, is the winter home of the writer known 
 the world over as Mark Twain. His winter home 
 only is here, for this favorite of fortune has a 
 summer home also, at Elmira, N. Y., where he has 
 done most of his literary work of late years. Mr. 
 Clemens is not like most American authors; his 
 fertile season is the hot weather, when brain- 
 workers in general are either taking a vacation or 
 envying those who can take one. To a building 
 detached from the house, and a room accessible to 
 no one when he has once locked the door, he 
 repairs every morning after breakfast, and remains 
 there the better part of the day with his work. 
 Those who think that books, especially the books 
 
MARK TWAIN. 125 
 
 of a "funny man," write themselves will do well 
 not to express that opinion within reach of Mark 
 Twain s arm or pen. No American writer has 
 won his fame by more honorable toil than Mr. 
 Clemens. 
 
 IT is not surprising that Mr. Warner and Mrs. 
 Stowe should be neighbors in a staid Connecticut 
 town ; Mrs. Stowe was born in that State, and Mr. 
 Warner is a New Englander. But that Mark I wam 
 should have drifted to Hartford as a permanent 
 residence is only less astonishing than Mr. Cable s 
 emigration from New Orleans to Northampton, 
 Mass. For Samuel Langhorne Clemens A M j ssouri 
 first saw the light in the village of Florida, boy- 
 State of Missouri. This was in 1835, at a time 
 when Missouri was on the very frontier of civiliza 
 tion, and its exact limits had not yet been defined. 
 The condition of this western country at that time 
 may be inferred from the fact that St. Louis was 
 then a city of some twelve thousand people, while 
 Chicago was not incorporated as a city until 1837, 
 when it had rather more than four thousand inhabi 
 tants. It is not wonderful, therefore, that all the 
 education young Clemens received was what he 
 could obtain in the village school of Hannibal. 
 This was supplemented by his training in a print 
 ing-office, which he entered at the age of thirteen. 
 
126 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 A bright boy in an old-fashioned printing-office 
 was certain to pick up a very fair education of the 
 practical kind. He would learn spelling, punctua 
 tion, and the other minor moralities of literature, 
 as these things are seldom learned by boys whose 
 schooling may have been better, but who enter 
 other callings. He would also gain some knowl 
 edge of machinery; for in a country office the boy 
 has to learn to work the press, and to repair it 
 when it gets out of order, as it has a trick of doing 
 often. 
 
 When the lad had acquired enough skill to call 
 himself a journeyman printer he set out to see the 
 world, and his native State thenceforth saw little 
 The "jour" f him. Those were the halycon days 
 printer. Q the j our " pr i n ter; the world was all 
 
 before him where to choose. He set out, with no 
 kit of tools to carry, and with certainty of employ 
 ment almost anywhere he might go, or of assist 
 ance from his felltfws in the craft, thanks to a sort 
 of free-masonry that prevailed everywhere among 
 them. He might work his passage all around the 
 continent and see life in all its phases, as no 
 man of any other trade or profession could. We 
 are told that Mr. Clemens worked at his trade by 
 turns in St. Louis, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and 
 New York ; and doubtless, if the whole truth were 
 known, this would be a very imperfect catalogue 
 of the places where he has stood at the case in 
 his day. 
 
MARK TWAIN. 12? 
 
 By 1851 he had tired of wandering about in this 
 way, and became enamoured of another calling 
 not less adventurous. He "learned the A Mississippi 
 river" and became a Mississippi pilot, pllot 
 continuing in this work for some ten years it would 
 seem. At any rate, the next change in his life of 
 which one can learn is his appointment in 1861 as 
 private secretary to his brother, who had obtained 
 an appointment as Secretary of the Territory of 
 Nevada. Going to Nevada means, sooner 
 
 Tries mining, 
 
 or later, going into mining. It seems 
 to have been sooner with Mr. Clemens, but he 
 failed to "make his pile," as the miners say, though 
 he did lay the foundations for the sympathetic 
 studies of life in this region that he gave the 
 world in "Roughing It." No doubt it was this 
 failure that turned him again to the printing-office, 
 but this time he had a promotion; he was made 
 city editor of the Virginia City " Enterprise." The 
 rise from the composing-room to the editorial desk 
 in those days, and in a far western town, was not 
 so long a step. One conjectures that the city 
 editor of the " Enterprise " " surprised by himself " 
 the entire reportorial staff, and usually then journal- 
 carried his office in his hat. What we lsm< 
 are more interested to know than the number of 
 assistants this city editor had is the fact that he 
 began while in this service to write humorous con 
 tributions, and to sign them "Mark Twain," a 
 reminiscence of his pilot days, when this was a 
 
128 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 frequent call from the man who was taking sound 
 ings from the deck of a Mississippi boat. 
 
 Mr. Clemens was now beginning his real work, 
 but he had not yet settled into his stride, if we may 
 borrow a phrase from athletics. In 1865 we find 
 him in San Francisco, engaging in journalism and 
 in mining operations. He spent six months of the 
 following year in Hawaii, and on his return deliv 
 ered lectures in California. These, together with 
 other of his published writings, were gathered into 
 The jumping a volume called "The Jumping Frog and 
 Frog< Other Sketches " (New York, 1867). He 
 
 was now fairly launched in a literary career, but his 
 first great success was to come, though he had not 
 long to wait for it. The publication of his account 
 of a voyage through the Mediterranean, and travels 
 innocents m tne adjoining countries, under the title 
 Abroad. of ,< The Innocents Abroad" (Hartford, 
 
 1869), made him famous at once; one hundred and 
 twenty-five thousand copies were sold in three 
 years, and probably not less than half a million 
 copies have been sold by now, and yet the public 
 is not tired of buying it. The fortunate author 
 was now independent. After a brief connection with 
 the "Buffalo Express," and the editing of a depart 
 ment in the "Galaxy," he settled for the rest of 
 his life in Hartford, not to be icjle, but to work 
 leisurely, with little or no temptation to spoil his 
 writing by undue haste to get it to market. Since 
 then he has published: "Roughing It" (Hartford, 
 
MARK TWAIN. I2Q 
 
 1872), "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" (Hart 
 ford, 1876), "A Tramp Abroad" (Hartford, 1880), 
 "The Prince and the Pauper " (New York, 
 
 Other books. 
 
 1882), "The Adventures of Huckleberry 
 Finn" (New York, 1884), "A Yankee at King 
 Arthur s Court," (New York, 1889), besides several 
 other volumes of less note. He has also edited 
 "A Library of Wit and Humor " (New York, 1888), 
 the best collection ever made of representative 
 pieces by American humorists. In the preface 
 he characteristically remarks that, could he have 
 had his way, the " Library " would have consisted 
 wholly of extracts from his own works. The reader 
 may season this with as many grains of salt as he 
 chooses. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE immediate and permanent popularity of 
 "Innocents Abroad" is not wonderful; it is a book 
 of even greater merit than the public gave it credit 
 for possessing. It was read and enjoyed for its fun, 
 and though nearly twenty-five years have passed, it 
 is still a funny book, whether one reads it now for 
 the first or the forty first time. But underneath 
 the fun was an earnest purpose that the great mass 
 of readers failed to see at the time, and even yet 
 imperfectly appreciate. This purpose was to tell, 
 not how an American ought to feel on seeing the 
 sights of the Old World, but how he actually does 
 
 9 
 
130 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 feel if he is honest with himself. From time im- 
 A hater of memorial, books of travel had been written 
 by Americans purporting to record their 
 experiences, but really telling only what the writers 
 thought they might, could, would, or should have 
 experienced. This is a very familiar type of the 
 genus globe-trotter; specimens of it are seen every 
 where in Europe, Murray or Baedeker constantly 
 in hand and carefully conned, lest they dilate with 
 the wrong emotion or, what is almost as bad, 
 fail to dilate with the proper emotion at the right 
 instant. For sham sentiment, sham love of art, 
 sham adventures, Mark Twain had no tolerance, 
 and he gave these shams no quarter in his book. 
 "Cervantes smiled Spain s chivalry away" is a fine 
 phrase of Byron s, which, like most fine phrases, 
 is not true. What Cervantes did was to "smile 
 away " the ridiculous romances of chivalry, chiv 
 alry had been long dead in his day, the impos 
 sible tales of knightly adventure, outdoing the 
 deeds of the doughty Baron Munchausen, that were 
 produced in shoals by the penny-a-liners of his 
 time. Not since this feat of Cervantes has a 
 wholesome burst of merriment cleared the air more 
 effectually or banished a greater humbug from liter 
 ature than when "The Innocents Abroad " laughed 
 away the sentimental, the romantic book of travels. 
 Mark Twain, perhaps, erred somewhat on the 
 other side. His bump of reverence must be ad 
 mitted to be practically non-existent; and while 
 
MARK TWAIN. 131 
 
 his jests about the saints may make the unskilful 
 laugh, the judicious grieve. The fact seems to be 
 that he sees so clearly the humbug and pretence 
 and superstition beneath things conventionally held 
 to be sacred that he sometimes fails to see that 
 they are not all sham, and that there is really 
 something sacred there. In truth, Mark Twain 
 has been slow to learn that "quips and cranks and 
 wanton wiles " are not always in good taste. 
 Throughout the book the author was just Afrank 
 a little too hard-headed, too realistic, too philistlne - 
 unimpressionable, too frankly Philistine, for entire 
 truthfulness and good taste ; but it may have seemed 
 necessary to exaggerate something on this side in 
 order to furnish an antidote to mawkish sentimen 
 tality. His lesson would have been less effective if 
 it had not been now and then a trifle bitter to the 
 taste. Since that time travellers have actually 
 dared to tell the truth ; or shall we say that they 
 have been afraid to scribble lies so recklessly? 
 Whichever way one looks at the matter, there is 
 no doubt that American literature, so far as it has 
 dealt with Europe and things European, has been 
 more natural, wholesome, and self-respecting since 
 the tour of this shrewd Innocent. 
 
 The same earnestness of purpose underlies much 
 else that Mark Twain has written, especially "The 
 Prince and the Pauper," and "A Yankee Two English 
 at King Arthur s Court." The careless tales< 
 reader no doubt sees nothing in the first of these 
 
132 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 books but a capital tale for boys. He cannot help 
 seeing that, for it is a story of absorbing interest, 
 accurate in its historical setting, and told in remark 
 ably good English. In the latter book he will no 
 doubt discover nothing more than rollicking humor 
 and a burlesque of " Morte d Arthur." This is to 
 see only what lies on the surface of these volumes, 
 without comprehending their aim, or sympathizing 
 with the spirit. Not the old prophet of Chelsea 
 The seamy side himself was a more inveterate hater of 
 
 of chivalry. 
 
 of the glamour of chivalry is as unreal as the 
 tinsel splendors of the stage; to study history is 
 like going behind the scenes of a theatre, a disen 
 chantment as thorough as it is speedy. " Morte 
 d Arthur" and Tennyson s "Idylls of the King" 
 present to the unsophisticated a very beautiful, but 
 a very shadowy and unsubstantial picture of Britain 
 thirteen centuries ago. Even in these romances 
 a glimpse of the real sordidness and squalor and 
 poverty of the people may now and then be caught 
 amid all the pomp and circumstance of chivalry, 
 and yet nobody has had the pitiless courage here 
 tofore to let the full blaze of the sun into these 
 regions where the lime-light of fancy has had full 
 sway, that we might see what the berouged heroes 
 and heroines actually are. 
 
 But Mark Twain has one quality to which Carlyle 
 never attained; joined to his hatred of shams is a 
 hearty and genuine love of liberty. His books could 
 
MARK TWAIN. 133 
 
 never have been written by one not born in the 
 United States. His love of liberty is character 
 istic in its manifestation. In a French- A lover of 
 man it would have found vent in essays hberty 
 on the text of liberte, fraternity tgalitt, but eloquent 
 writing about abstractions is not the way in which 
 an American finds voice for his sentiments. Mark 
 Twain s love of liberty is shown unostentatiously, 
 incidentally as it were, in his sympathy for, and 
 championship of, the down-trodden and oppressed. 
 He says to us, in effect : " Here you have been 
 admiring the age of chivalry; this is what your 
 King Arthur, your spotless Galahad, your valiant 
 Launcelot made of the common people. Spending 
 their lives in the righting of imaginary wrongs, 
 they were perpetuating with all their energy a sys 
 tem of the most frightful cruelty and oppression. 
 Cease admiring these heroes, and execrate them as 
 they deserve." This, to be sure, is a one-sided 
 view, but it is one that we need to take in endeavor 
 ing to comprehend the England of King Arthur. 
 There is no danger that we shall overlook the 
 romantic and picturesque view while Malory and 
 Tennyson are read, but it is wholesome for us some 
 times to feel the weight of misery that oppressed 
 all beneath the privileged classes in England s days 
 of chivalry. No books are better fitted to help a 
 student of history "orient himself," as the French 
 phrase it, than these two of Mark Twain s. 
 
134 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 III. 
 
 EXCEPT in the two books that may be called 
 historic romances, Mark Twain has been a con 
 sistent realist. He was probably as innocent of 
 intent to belong to the realistic school when he 
 began writing as Moliere s old gentleman 
 
 K.6cilistn 
 
 had all his life been of the intent to talk 
 prose. He was realistic because it "came sort o 
 nateral " to him, as a Yankee would say. His first 
 books were the outcome of his personal experiences. 
 These were many and varied, for few men have 
 knocked about the world more, or viewed life from 
 so many points. Bret Harte has written of life on 
 the Pacific coast with greater appreciation of its 
 romantic and picturesque features, but one suspects 
 with considerably less truthfulness in detail. The 
 shady heroes and heroines of Bret Harte s tales are 
 of a quality that suggests an amalgam of Byron and 
 Smollett; they smack strongly of Bowery melo 
 drama. Mark Twain s "Roughing It" is a whole 
 some book, and as accurate in its details as a 
 photograph, but there is nothing romantic or thril 
 ling about it. 
 
 It is in the Mississippi Valley, however, that our 
 author finds himself most at home, not only because 
 his knowledge of it is more comprehensive and 
 minutely accurate, but because it is a more con 
 genial field. Mark Twain understands California, 
 
MARK TWAIN. 135 
 
 admires it even, but he loves the great river and 
 the folk who dwell alongside it. He is especially 
 happy in his delineation of the boy of Understands 
 this region. If ever any writer under- theboy - 
 stood boy nature in general, from A to izzard, the 
 name of that writer is Mark Twain. He has 
 explored all its depths and shallows, and in his 
 characters of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn 
 he has given us such a study of the American boy 
 as will be sought in vain elsewhere. He has done 
 more than this ; he has given us a faithful picture, 
 painfully realistic in details, of the ante bellum 
 social condition of the Mississippi Valley. This 
 realism redeems the books from what would other 
 wise seem worthlessness, and gives them a positive 
 value. 
 
 One ought also to recognize the great merit of 
 this writer s short stories. Most of these stories 
 are humorous in their fundamental conception, or 
 have a vein of humor running through them, but 
 they are not, for the most part, boisterously funny. 
 They range in style from the avowedly His short 
 funny tale of " The Jumping Frog of Cale- stories 
 veras" to the surface sobriety of "The .1,000,000 
 Bank Note." In the composition of the short story, 
 Mark Twain is so evidently perfecting his art as 
 to warrant one in hazarding the prediction that 
 much of his best work in future is likely to be done 
 along this line. 
 
136 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 EVEN our English cousins, as a rule, not too 
 lenient in their judgments of kin across the sea, 
 admit that American humor has a distinct flavor. 
 Not only so, they also admit that this flavor is 
 delightful. To their tastes there is something wild 
 and gamy about American humor, a tang that is 
 both a new sensation and a continuous source of 
 English appre- enjoyment. British commendation of 
 ciauon. American humor, however, is not always 
 
 as discriminating as it is hearty. We must allow 
 Englishmen the praise of having been prompt to 
 appreciate Artemus Ward the only; but of late 
 years they seem impervious to American humor, 
 except of one type that which depends for its 
 effect on exaggeration. Exaggeration is, no doubt, 
 one legitimate species of humor. The essence of 
 humor lies in the perception of incongruity, and 
 the effect of incongruity may be produced by exag 
 geration. This is the more effectively done if the 
 style is dry; the writer must give no sign, until 
 the very end (if even there) that he does not take 
 himself seriously. The narrator must not by a tone 
 of voice or change of facial expression betray any 
 lack of exact veracity in his tale, or the effect is 
 measurably lost. Mark Twain has frequently shown 
 himself to be master of this style of humor. He 
 can invent the most tremendous absurdities, and 
 
MARK TWAIN. 137 
 
 tell them with such an air of seriousness as must 
 frequently deceive the unwary. 
 
 But this is not, as English readers mistakenly 
 imagine, the best type of American humor; it is 
 not even the type in which Mark Twain 
 
 Cheap humor. 
 
 reaches his highest level. Exaggeration 
 is comparatively cheap humor. Anybody can lie, 
 and the kind of Mark Twain s humor most admired 
 abroad is simply the lie of circumstance minus the 
 intent to deceive. It is morally innocuous, there 
 fore, but it is bad art. No doubt it is frequently 
 successful in provoking laughter, but the quality 
 of humor is not to be gauged by the loudness of 
 the hearers guffaws. The most delightful fun is 
 that which at most provokes no more than a quiet 
 smile, but is susceptible of repeated enjoyment 
 when the most hilarious joke is received in a grim 
 silence more expressive than words. To borrow a 
 metaphor from science, humor is the electricity of 
 literature, but in its finest manifestation it is not 
 static but dynamic. The permanent charm of 
 humorous writing is generally in inverse ratio to 
 its power to incite boisterous merriment when first 
 read. The joker who at first gives one a pain in 
 the side soon induces "that tired feeling" which is 
 fatal to continued interest. It is Mark Twain s 
 misfortune at present to be appreciated abroad 
 mainly for that which is ephemeral in his writ 
 ings. His broad humanity, his gift of seeing far 
 below the surface of life, his subtle comprehension 
 
138 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 of human nature, and his realistic method, are but 
 dimly apprehended by those Britons who go off in 
 convulsions of laughter the moment his name is 
 mentioned. It is probably in vain for us to pro 
 test against this misjudgment of American authors 
 by Britons 
 
 " Against stupidity the very gods 
 Themselves contend in vain." 
 
 A false standard of what is truly "American" 
 has been set up abroad, and only what conforms to 
 that standard wins admiration. For that reason 
 British readers have gone wild over Bret Harte and 
 Joaquin Miller, while they neglected Bryant and 
 Holmes, and for a time even Lowell, on the ground 
 that the latter were "really more English than 
 American, you know." Their own countrymen 
 have a juster notion of the relative standing of 
 American authors. In the case of Mark Twain 
 they do not believe that he is rated too high by 
 foreign critics and readers, but that his true merits 
 are very imperfectly comprehended. 
 
 V. 
 
 MR. CLEMENS has forever silenced those who affirm 
 that a successful author, or at any rate a man of 
 genius, must necessarily be a fool in business. No 
 reader of his books needed to be assured that he is a 
 man of much shrewdness, alert in observation, and 
 
MARK TWAIN. 139 
 
 understanding what he sees. These are qualities that 
 make the successful man of affairs, and as a man of 
 affairs he has been even more successful than as a 
 writer. From the publication of his " Innocents 
 Abroad " Mr. Clemens found himself in the fortunate 
 position of an author sure of his audience. Business 
 He had only to write and publishers would sagacity - 
 stand ready to bid against each other for his manu 
 script, and the public were equally eager for the 
 opportunity to buy the book. Whether by good 
 fortune or by design, the Innocents fell into the hands 
 of a firm that sells books by subscription only. This 
 is undoubtedly the most profitable method of publish 
 ing books for which there is a certain, a large, and an 
 immediate sale. It did not take so shrewd a man 
 long to discover that large as his profits were from 
 the phenomenal sale of his books, the publisher 
 reaped an even larger harvest of dollars. It took not 
 much longer for Mr. Clemens to ask himself why he 
 should not be both publisher and author, and take to 
 himself both profits. With a man like him, to think 
 is to plan, and to plan is to execute. And though his 
 publishing venture has proved on the whole an unfor 
 tunate one, this result is not due to Mr. Clemens. 
 Had he given more of his personal attention to the 
 business, the outcome would have been different, 
 beyond a reasonable doubt. 
 
 In private life Mr. Clemens is reputed to be one of 
 the most genial and companionable of men. After 
 all, the best humor, and the rarest, is good humor, 
 
I4O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 and of this Mark Twain has an inexhaustible stock. 
 His friends say that he has never done himself justice 
 as a humorist in his books ; he produces his master 
 pieces over a cigar with a few choice spirits. Pity it 
 is, if this be true, that there is not a chiel amang them 
 to take notes and prent em. 
 
VIII. 
 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 BOSWELL tells us that when an English poet, 
 whose very name nobody now recalls, wrote 
 in a heroic poem 
 
 " Who rules o er freemen should himself be free," 
 
 bluff old Sam Johnson mercilessly parodied the line 
 
 into 
 
 " Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat." 
 
 One hesitates to provoke a like fate by declaring that 
 the writer of romances should himself have led a 
 romantic life, but a certain subtle fitness of things may 
 be acknowledged when such is the case. No writer 
 of our day has a history of so varied adventure, so 
 checkered experience, so sudden fame, as this Ameri 
 can who was not born in America, and has lived fewer 
 of his adult years in his own country than he has spent 
 in almost any nook of Europe or Asia. 
 
 Dates are stubborn things, but when one looks over 
 the long row of volumes written by Mr. Crawford 
 one finds it hard to realize that he was born at Bagni 
 di Lucca, Italy, in 1853, and is therefore barely on 
 the shady side of forty. He is the son of Thomas 
 
142 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Crawford, America s most original sculptor, who, 
 though born in New York City, was of pure Irish 
 Bmh and descent. His mother was a daughter of 
 lineage. Samuel Ward, a New York banker, and a 
 
 sister of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe and of genial " Uncle 
 Sam " Ward, the favorite of Boston and Washington 
 society. This mixture of Irish and Yankee blood, of 
 artistic and practical temperaments, may be traced 
 without too much fancifulness in all of Mr. Crawford s 
 career, as well as in the lineaments of that counterfeit 
 presentment with which his publishers have favored 
 us. It is a frank, genial, manly face that looks out at 
 us from this picture, suggesting an athletic frame and 
 a capacity for the fullest enjoyment of the good things 
 of life, while it also implies mental power and a domi 
 nant ideality. It is not the face of a mere dreamer, 
 still less of a sensualist, but that of a well-rounded, 
 well-balanced man, in whom mind and spirit dominate 
 body. 
 
 After the premature death of Thomas Crawford, the 
 widowed mother and the young lad returned to this 
 country, and made New York their home. Young 
 Crawford s education was begun, but he himself con 
 fesses to his friends that the school in the neigh 
 borhood of Union Square had for him less 
 attractions than the circuses that were then wont to 
 make that locality their headquarters. In course of 
 time he picked up enough learning to enter Harvard, 
 but did not complete his course. In the early seven 
 ties he was a student of Trinity College, Cambridge ; 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 143 
 
 later he spent two years at Karlsruhe and Heidelberg, 
 and a final two years at the University ot Rome, where 
 he devoted himself especially to Sanskrit. While he 
 was still not far advanced in his twenties, the financial 
 disasters following the panic of 1873 Romant ; c 
 wrecked the ample fortune his mother had career> 
 inherited from her banker-father, and the young man 
 was unexpectedly thrown on his own resources. It 
 was a severe test of both character and ability, but 
 both bore the test well. To a young man of desultory 
 education, literary tastes, and pressing necessities, 
 journalism offers irresistible attractions. To this pro 
 fession Mr. Crawford at once turned, and after devious 
 wanderings he became a member of the editorial staff 
 of the " Indian Herald," of Allahabad. His knowledge 
 of Sanskrit stood him in good stead during this Indian 
 episode, of which he has since made excellent use in 
 " Mr. Isaacs " and " Zoroaster." We are told that his 
 cue, as an Indian editor, was to write down Madame 
 Blavatsky, theosophy and kindred subjects ; which is 
 rather amusing when one remembers that his first 
 essay in fiction was in this very realm of the marvel 
 lous and unknown that as a journalist he treated so 
 lightly. The last ten years Mr. Crawford has spent in 
 Italy, with occasional visits to this country, his home 
 being a beautiful spot near Sorrento. In these facts 
 of his history we find the key to his marked success 
 as a novelist, as well as the sufficient explanation of 
 his limitations. 
 
144 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 MR. CRAWFORD may be said to have stumbled upon, 
 rather than to have chosen, his career. After he had 
 tired of Indian journalism, and had come to this 
 country in search of some better occupation, he was 
 one day spinning yarns about India to his uncle, Sam 
 Ward. Mr. Ward was a man of some literary ability, 
 and of much business shrewdness; in one of these 
 yarns he saw literary possibilities, and he advised his 
 nephew to write it out at length and submit it to a 
 publisher. Such was the origin of " Mr. Isaacs," 
 for the nephew had, in this case, sense enough to take 
 a bit of avuncular good advice. The success of the 
 book was immediate and gratifying. It 
 was also well deserved, for, though " Mr. 
 Isaacs" is crude, it is a book of great promise. There 
 was a freshness in the subject, Mr. Kipling had not 
 then been heard from, and an attractiveness about 
 the mysterious hero, that atoned for defects obviously 
 due to inexperience in story-writing. It was believed 
 by those who read the book that the author would 
 soon obtain the technical mastery of his art ; and that 
 his native gifts, when matured and developed, would 
 give him a high place on the roll of American novel 
 ists. This hope has not been disappointed, though at 
 times its entire fulfilment has seemed improbable. 
 
 Mr. Crawford has been astonishingly prolific. Since 
 the appearance of his first story, in 1882, he has 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 145 
 
 written and published no fewer than twenty-three other 
 volumes, most of them of full average novel size, and 
 has others in manuscript. This is about a book and 
 a half a year, a rate of production that in any case 
 entitles him to be reckoned one of the most industrious 
 of modern writers. His composition is almost incred 
 ibly rapid when he once begins a story in good 
 earnest. He must, of course, have it mapped Astonishingly 
 out completely, so that nothing remains P rohfic - 
 but the actual work of clothing his conception in 
 words. Then he has been known to compose a com 
 plete novel of one hundred and fifty thousand words 
 in twenty-five consecutive working days, broken only 
 by the intervening Sundays. This is an average of 
 six thousand words a day, all written with his own 
 hand, without aid of amanuensis, stenographer, or 
 typewriter. Let anybody sit down some day and 
 copy six thousand words ; he will find that the mere 
 physical labor constitutes an exhausting day s work. 
 Let him keep this up day after day for a month, then 
 let him add thereto in imagination the mental strain 
 of original composition, and he will have some 
 conception of the stupendous nature of the feat 
 accomplished by Mr. Crawford. Most literary workers 
 occasionally write as many as six thousand words in 
 a day, as a sort of tour de force, but this is one of those 
 things that we look back upon as matter of just pride. 
 Who of us ever dreams of keeping this up for any 
 number of consecutive days? 
 
 10 
 
146 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 II. 
 
 IT is not enough, however, that an author be indus 
 trious ; we also demand that what he does shall be 
 worth doing, and shall be done with intelligent pur 
 pose. The late excellent Anthony Trollope to the 
 Gemus wanted contrar y notwithstanding, a big piece of 
 shoemaker s-wax on the seat of one s chair 
 is not the chief condition of success as a writer of 
 fiction. It is important first of all that an author 
 have something to say, something worth saying, and 
 that he know how to say it ; that granted, the wax 
 may be very useful in getting it said, but that lacking, 
 all the diligent labor in the world will result in quires 
 of nothings, nothing worth. " Cudgel thy brains no 
 more about it," says the grave-digger in " Hamlet," 
 " for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating." 
 If Mr. Crawford s books do not show genius, they at 
 least show a cleverness that cannot be expressed in 
 units of labor. Whatever may have been the case in 
 the beginning, his later stories show the touch of the 
 conscious artist, and we shall do well to consider the 
 theory on which he avowedly works. 
 
 For himself, he declines to be classified either as 
 realist or romancer, since, in his view, a good novel 
 should combine romance and reality in just propor- 
 Neither realist tions, and neither element need shut out 
 noi romancer. the Qthen Every-day life would be a 
 
 very dull affair without something of romance, and 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 147 
 
 decidedly incoherent without reality ; so that the novel 
 that excludes either cannot be a true representation 
 of life. Mr. Crawford s artistic creed is not complex : 
 the novel must deal chiefly with love, a passion in 
 which all men and women are interested ; it must be 
 clean and sweet, since its tale is for all mankind ; it must 
 be interesting; its realism must be of three dimen 
 sions, not flat and photographic; its romance must 
 be truly human. What he tries to do is to " make 
 little pocket-theatres out of words." In short, to his 
 mind fiction is intimately allied to the HIS artistic 
 drama if, indeed, these are not essen- c 
 tially one art, applied to different conditions of 
 expression. To criticise this theory of fiction would 
 lead us too far afield, and might be unprofitable in 
 any event; what concerns our present purpose far 
 more than its truth is the inquiry, How successful 
 and how consistent has been the application of this 
 theory to the actual work of novel-writing? 
 
 III. 
 
 MR. CRAWFORD S stories may be classified as novels 
 and romances. A " novel " may be defined as a more 
 or less realistic fiction, a serious attempt to represent 
 life as it is. By " romance " one understands a tale 
 in which the illusion of probability is for the most 
 part successfully maintained, while the story yet con 
 tains elements or incidents that on sober reflection one 
 decides to be, if not contrary to fact, yet transcending 
 
148 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 all ordinary experience and setting the probabilities 
 Crawford s quite at defiance. Stories whose leading 
 
 romances. . . . . . _ . 
 
 motive or turning point or chief interest 
 depends upon something marvellous, mysterious, 
 beyond ordinary human knowledge, not to say dis 
 tinctly supernatural, are romances. To illustrate by 
 reference to models now classic in the literature of 
 fiction, Hawthorne is the typical romancer, while 
 Thackeray is the typical novelist. Mr. Crawford has 
 tried his hand at both species of fiction, not once but 
 many times. In " Mr. Isaacs" he makes free use of 
 the marvels of Oriental theosophy, treating seriously 
 for the purposes of his art that which as a journalist 
 he had made the butt of numberless flouts and gibes 
 and jeers. In " The Witch of Prague " the plot turns 
 on the latest theories of hypnotism and the far-reaching 
 possibilities of a new psychological science. These 
 are the most conspicuous instances, and the most 
 successful by far, of an ability to construct a powerful 
 and interesting story out of materials which in the 
 hands of a less skilful writer would have produced 
 only an effect of grotesqnerie or something much worse. 
 It is a short step from the impressive and the thrilling 
 to the ridiculous, and nothing is more fatal than to 
 produce an effect of burlesque when one would be 
 tragic. Mr. Crawford somehow compels us to take 
 his marvels seriously while we are reading them, 
 however we may scout them when we lay the book 
 down, because he seems to take them with so tremen 
 dous seriousness himself. There is none of that 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 149 
 
 cynical by-play of Thackeray s, in which we are now 
 and again informed that we are only gazing on a 
 puppet-show, not at life itself; no prestidigitateur 
 ever kept up the illusion better, or more gravely pre 
 tended to his audience that his feats are the result, 
 not of manual dexterity, but of mysterious powers 
 with which he has been in some extraordinary way 
 endowed. 
 
 These romances are clever, perhaps they exhibit 
 Mr. Crawford s cleverness at its best ; for, surely, the 
 more intrinsically improbable a tale is, the greater 
 the skill of the story-teller who persuades 
 
 His novels. 
 
 us to accept it as real, even during the 
 telling of it. Still, one may confess to a juster appre 
 ciation and a higher enjoyment of the novels in which 
 only ordinary men and women appear, whose plots 
 violate no man s notion of the probable, but adjust 
 themselves readily to the experience of life each 
 reader has gained. Some one has said of this work 
 of Mr. Crawford s that it includes the best and the 
 worst novel ever written by an American, meaning 
 by the best " Saracinesca," and by the worst " An 
 American Politician." More readers will, perhaps, 
 subscribe to the latter half of this saying than to the 
 former. There have been, possibly, a few worse books 
 than this story of American political life, one does 
 not care to inquire too curiously about that ; but if so 
 they must be very bad. The truth is, that in writing 
 this story the novelist ventured out of his depth. No 
 amount of cleverness can supply the place of knowl- 
 
I5O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 edge, and Mr. Crawford does not know his own 
 country and its ways. How, indeed, should he? He 
 has never lived here, for any length of time, that is 
 *o say, and he knows his countrymen only in a 
 superficial, which is always a false, way. In " The 
 Three Fates " he made a second venture in 
 
 Two failures. 
 
 this field, and again failed, not quite so 
 disastrously as before, it is true, but still failed. To 
 be sure, the book was praised by a critic of some 
 pretensions, as a felicitous picture of New York life. 
 Mr. Crawford s New York friends should beseech him 
 not to lay that flattering unction to his soul. It is not 
 a picture of New York life, though as a travesty it 
 may be allowed to be not without merit. But the 
 author did not set out to write a travesty ; he aimed 
 at portraiture. He did not succeed; he never will 
 succeed until he knows America and things American 
 as he knows Rome and the Romans. He is still a 
 young man, and has ample time to make the acquain 
 tance of his countrymen. Let us hope that he will 
 do so, and that he will then give us such studies of 
 life in New York and Boston as he has given us of life 
 in Rome. One is encouraged in this hope by a remark 
 that he is credited with having lately made : " I think 
 there is a richer field for the novelist in the Urited 
 States than in Europe. There are more original 
 characters to be found here, and they are in greater 
 variety. " 
 
 Mr. Crawford s Romans are convincing to one 
 who knows nothing whatever about Rome, which 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 151 
 
 means all but a few score of Americans. No trav 
 eller, not even one who spends months in Rome, can 
 know enough about the city to say with Knows his 
 authority that these books are or are not Rome 
 true to the life. To say that, one must know the 
 city like a native. He must have the entree to the 
 most exclusive society; he must have the personal 
 confidence of people with whom most Americans 
 never get so far as to exchange a word ; he must 
 know their family life, their pleasures, their preju 
 dices, their very souls, in a word. For the acquiring 
 of this knowledge Mr. Crawford had one qualification 
 that is rare among American dwellers in Rome; 
 though of Protestant parentage, sometime during 
 his wanderings about the world he embraced the 
 Roman Catholic religion, and is a devout son of 
 the Church. It is not too much to say that no 
 Protestant will ever be admitted to the intimate as 
 sociation with great Roman families that is apparent 
 on every page of his three greatest novels. 
 
 One risks no contradiction in applying this term 
 to " Saracinesca," " Sant Ilario," and " Don Orsino," 
 a trio of stories that no American novelist can be 
 fairly said to have surpassed. One is almost inclined, 
 in view of these three books, to modify a An unsurpassed 
 little the opinion expressed concerning Mr. tr10 
 Howells, that he is easily the first of American nove 
 lists. First, he is, on the whole, beyond doubt, but 
 not quite "easily;" it is no case of " Eclipse is first 
 and the rest are nowhere," for, by virtue of these 
 
152 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 three books, Mr. Crawford is an uncommonly good 
 second. And the elder novelist is first rather be 
 cause of the sustained excellence of his writings than 
 because he has risen to any higher level. Mr. How- 
 ells has written no novel that one would be willing to 
 say is better than " Saracinesca," but Mr. Crawford 
 has written many that are worse. 
 
 These three books are the history of a patrician 
 family of modern Rome, and together form a single 
 story. The history begins with the Rome of 65 and 
 ends about the year 1888, with a possibility of further 
 development hereafter. Mr. Crawford is evidently 
 Thesarad- fond of Don Orsino, has taken immense 
 nescas. pains with his portraiture, and can hardly 
 
 have taken leave of him for good. The young man 
 is little more than twenty-one; he has just escaped 
 ruin in those great building speculations after which 
 Rome went mad for a time ; he has just passed through 
 his first grand passion, he is, in fine, far too inter 
 esting a personage, and his future contains too many 
 delightful possibilities, for his creator to abandon 
 him. In the mean time, some of us find his family 
 even more delightful. The old Prince Saracinesca 
 is positively delicious, and Corona, his daughter-in- 
 law, is charming. It is among the highest society 
 that the reader moves in these books ; for the time 
 being he lives in great palaces, he assists at Embassy 
 balls and other high " functions," he becomes a spec 
 tator at a duel between a prince and a count, he is 
 admitted to a private audience with Cardinal Anto- 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 153 
 
 nelli, he even has a glimpse of a revolution from the 
 patrician point of view. When one comes to review 
 the acquaintances he has made he finds among them 
 all but two untitled men, one a painter, the other 
 an architect ; and the latter exists only to shield the 
 name of his patrician partner from public view. And 
 one can think of no higher praise to bestow on Mr. 
 Crawford than to say that in all this he escapes the 
 faintest taint of snobbery. Every reader of fiction 
 will recall Lord Beaconsfield s "Lothair," and perhaps 
 will remember even better Bret Harte s clever trav 
 esty of it in his "Condensed Novels." Beaconsfield , 8 
 Lord Beaconsfield also deals almost ex- Lothair - 
 clusively with dukes and earls and countesses, but in 
 a way to suggest ignorance of the great people he 
 described. His tawdry magnificence first amuses 
 and finally disgusts the judicious reader. Mr. Craw 
 ford s is the antipodes of this style of writing. He 
 chooses to write of princes, it is true, and of sur 
 roundings befitting their rank and wealth, but he 
 describes them simply and easily, as if he had been 
 familiar with them from his earliest years. And when 
 he chooses he writes of other orders of Roman 
 society with equal simplicity and fidelity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MR. CRAWFORD avows that the ideal novel must 
 be clean and sweet, if it is to tell its story to all 
 mankind. This is the only manly creed, yet he 
 
154 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 avows it somewhat shamefacedly and with an ap 
 parent longing that it might be otherwise. We are, 
 The school-girl ^ e says, men and women, and we have the 
 thoughts of men and women, and not of 
 school-girls; yet the school-girl practically decides 
 what we are to hear at the theatre, and, so far as our 
 language is concerned, determines to a great extent 
 what we are to read. It is well for us all that Mr. 
 Crawford has the school-girl usually in his mind s eye, 
 if his " To Leeward " is a sample of what we may 
 expect from our American novelists when they lose 
 sight of the school-girl. It is very thin ice, indeed, 
 that he skates over in this book, and the reader is 
 relieved at the end to find that he has not broken 
 through into a very slough of vileness. With this 
 single exception Mr. Crawford s books may be safely 
 commended virginibus puerisque. 
 
 After all, is there not a good deal of humbug in. 
 that complaint of Thackeray s, echoed now and then 
 by other novelists, that nobody nowadays dares to 
 paint a man? meaning, of course, a rake. The 
 English and American tradition of decency is less of 
 a restraint on the art of fiction than the French tradi 
 tion of indecency. And the French novelist has the 
 excuse of a sort of necessity, while the English or 
 American writer who is indecent is guilty of gratui- 
 indecencyof tous wallowing in filth. How does one 
 
 French fiction. j ust jfy th j s hard say i n g ? ft J s a VCry 
 
 simple matter, and may be done in the squeezing of 
 a lemon. The novel, as Mr. Crawford tells us, must 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 155 
 
 deal mainly with the passion of love. The inter 
 course of English and American youths of both 
 sexes is practically unrestrained, and their marriages 
 are commonly preceded by a somewhat prolonged 
 courtship and are founded on affection. Here is the 
 amplest material for the art of the novelist. In 
 French society, on the contrary, girls are brought 
 up in the strictest seclusion, and marriages are ar 
 ranged by parents on a purely business basis. It 
 may be true that these marriages turn out quite as 
 well as those of England or America, the revela 
 tions of our divorce courts strongly confirm those 
 who so assert, but it is evident that there is no 
 material for romance in the French pre-matrimonial 
 customs. The only passion of love from which the 
 French novelist can extract dramatic situations and 
 thrilling interest is a guilty passion, and this is why 
 French fiction represents the breach of the Abaseless 
 seventh commandment as more honored plamt> 
 than its observance. The English and American 
 novelists have the advantage every way, and they 
 speak to deaf ears when they ask our sympathy 
 because of the hard condition under which they 
 work, of showing some respect for the laws of God 
 and the decencies of life. Mr. Crawford s instinct is 
 better than his theory in regard to the dominance 
 of the school-girl in fiction. 
 
 The author of " Saracinesca" is one of the few 
 living American writers who have a European repu 
 tation equal to their standing at home. His books 
 
156 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 have been translated into most of the languages of 
 Europe, for the most part without his consent or 
 A polyglot profit. Being a polyglot himself, and 
 wnter - speaking several languages as fluently 
 
 as his own, he has accomplished one feat never 
 paralleled by an American. His "Zoroaster" and 
 " Marzio s Crucifix" he wrote in French as well as 
 in English ; and in recognition of their especial merit, 
 and of the worth of his books in general, the French 
 Academy a few years ago awarded him a prize of 
 one thousand francs, an honor as unique as it was 
 well merited. 
 
 Mr. Crawford has not yet reached the maturity of 
 his powers, and we may fairly expect him to do much 
 better work than he has yet done. His progress in 
 art has been marked, and the past three years es 
 pecially have shown a great advance over what he 
 has done before. He produces at a rate that would 
 
 His future. ke ruinous to one of less fertile mind and 
 vigorous frame, but though his writing 
 sometimes shows marks of haste, it is never raw 
 and crude. He takes time to work out his concep 
 tions thoroughly before he puts pen to paper, and 
 where that is done comparative rates of composi 
 tion are rather significant of idiosyncrasies of char 
 acter than tests of relative excellence. The best 
 work is not infrequently done at furious speed, while 
 that over which toilful hours are spent has often not 
 life enough in it to save it from putrefaction. Still, 
 
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 157 
 
 Mr. Crawford s books lack the perfection of form 
 that seldom is reached without long and loving labor. 
 Let us hope that he may yet learn Michelangelo s 
 secret that trifles make perfection, though perfection 
 is no trifle. He is a man of genius, beyond question, 
 and he has but to continue the progress he has 
 already made to produce work that the world will 
 never willingly let die. 
 
IX. 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 
 
 HAVE we, then, no women who are worthy of 
 mention in the goodly company of American 
 writers of to-day? the reader of these papers may 
 ask. Yea, verily. Place aux dames! They have 
 been kept waiting far too long. The order of these 
 studies is not intended to be taken as a judgment 
 of comparative merit. The practice of classifying 
 authors and ticketing them with their relative rank 
 Unprofitable * s doubtless amusing to those who do it, 
 criticism. an( j mav p OSS ib]y k e instructive to others 
 
 though in a very different way from that intended 
 by the ticketers but it is scarcely more conclusive 
 than debate on the ancient question, " Which is pre 
 ferable, summer or winter?" It is a sort of criti 
 cism that tells much more about the critic than 
 about the authors criticised, and should be eschewed 
 in self-protection. 
 
 I. 
 
 PROBABLY nobody will dispute Mrs. Burnett s right 
 to a high place among American writers on the ground 
 that she is of English birth. Though a native of 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 159 
 
 Manchester, and familiar with life in Lancashire, 
 her parents came to this country while she was "a 
 slip of a girl." before her character had 
 
 ... , . English born, 
 
 taken form. Thus, while her early recol 
 lections have supplied her with literary material of 
 which she has made good use, in sympathies and con 
 victions she is genuinely American, perhaps more 
 ardent in her patriotism than many an " heir of all 
 the ages, in the foremost files of time," the 
 proper description of a native American. American 
 Whether exacting foreign critics admit bred 
 that she is truly "American" may be doubted, 
 since she neither spells phonetically, nor deals in 
 broad, exaggerated humor. We who have lived 
 here all our lives, and are consequently so blinded 
 by proximity to things American that we do not 
 really see them as they are, may be pardoned for 
 insisting that Mrs. Burnett is one of us. 
 
 That Miss Hodgson should become an author 
 seems to have been ordained from the beginning. 
 In that charming autobiography of hers Lispedin 
 which so delightfully entertained the numbers -" 
 readers of "Scribner s Magazine," under the title 
 of "The One I Knew Best of All," she tells us 
 that from her earliest recollection she lived in an 
 ideal world, and was an unconscious playwright 
 and romancer even in the nursery. She could not 
 see anybody who impressed her at all without 
 making him or her a character in these dramas and 
 romances, and inventing all sorts of deliciously 
 
160 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 impossible adventures for them. To set these on 
 paper was no great exploit when she became a little 
 older, and she scribbled tales and verses for her 
 own amusement, with no thought of doing anything 
 remarkable. Her mother was sensible enough, 
 even when impressed by the talent of the child s 
 performance, to suppress signs of gratification, so 
 that the budding author escaped the conceit with 
 which the ordinary infant phenomenon is eaten up. 
 While she was still in her "teens" Miss Hodgson 
 began to write stories for publication, moved thereto 
 by desire for fame perhaps, but still more, one con 
 jectures, by the prosaic desire to put money in her 
 purse. In 1867 there were few periodicals to which 
 a young writer could send stories with any prospect 
 of payment, and when payment was received it was 
 a sum that in these days would be considered ridi 
 culously small. It happened that "Peterson s 
 Magazine " was the first to accept and print one of 
 Miss Hodgson s stories, and thereafter she was for 
 several years a quite regular contributor to that 
 periodical. 
 
 II. 
 
 ONE of the chief objects that the founders of 
 "Scribner s Monthly" proposed to themselves was 
 
 Discovered by tne encouragement of American litera- 
 scribner s. ture ^ ari amon g ^ e most notable of their 
 
 discoveries must be placed Mrs. Burnett. In 1872 
 her first story appeared in the magazine, " Surly 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. l6l 
 
 Tim s Troubles," and it proved that the young 
 author had become master of her powers, and was 
 ready to do better work than the simple stories she 
 had hitherto produced. A somewhat prolonged 
 silence followed this publication, however, for 
 another love had come to divide Frances Hodgson s 
 affection for literature. In 1873 she was married 
 to Luan M. Burnett, M.D., then a rising physician 
 of Knoxville, Tenn. Since 1875 their home has 
 been in Washington, where Dr. Burnett has won an 
 enviable reputation and practice as a specialist in 
 diseases of the eye. He is in no danger, therefore, 
 of being known to the world only as " the husband 
 of Mrs. Burnett, the famous novelist, you know," 
 which of all fates must be the most detestable to a 
 man of any spirit or brains. 
 
 Mrs. Burnett s pen was not idle while she was 
 making trial of her new vocation of wife and 
 mother; for in 1877 appeared "That Lass That Lasso , 
 o Lowrie s," having first had an honorable Lowrie>s - 
 career as a serial in "Scribner s Monthly." This 
 gave the author her first real taste of fame, and the 
 book was so great a success that more substantial 
 reward was hers at once. From that time on the 
 world has gone well with her, if a large bank 
 account and the praise of men can make a woman 
 happy. As each of her books has appeared, it has 
 been greeted with a chorus of approbation, and even 
 when the critics have doubted, as critics sometimes 
 will, the public has stood by its favorite and bought 
 
 11 
 
1 62 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 without a qualm of doubt. The later novels from 
 her pen have been: " Haworth s" (1879), 
 
 Later novels* 
 
 "Louisiana" (1880), "A Fair Barbarian 
 (1881), and "Through One Administration" (1883). 
 Popular as all these have been, none of them has 
 quite equalled "That Lass o Lowrie s" in the 
 favor of the reading public. This has run through 
 edition after edition, and still has a sale little 
 diminished by the lapse of time. It well deserves 
 this perennial favor. There is about the story a 
 freshness, a keenness of observation, an accuracy of 
 character-drawing almost photographic, and a charm 
 of style that have been equalled in few American 
 novels, and perhaps surpassed in none. The scene 
 is in that Lancashire which was familiar to the 
 author in her childhood, and therefore this is 
 in a sense the least American of all her stories. In 
 spite of this, the book took fast hold of American 
 readers, and their first verdict is not likely ever to 
 be reversed. 
 
 Without being a partisan of any school of art, 
 Mrs. Burnett was in this story a realist of the 
 Realist by straitest sect, unconsciously so in part, 
 instinct. no doubt, for one cannot credit her with 
 
 having a theory to serve. She set out to tell a 
 story true to the life she had herself observed, and 
 she peopled her book with such men and women as 
 she had actually known. She tells us, in the auto 
 biography to which reference has already been 
 made, how the heroine was suggested to her, the 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 163 
 
 face of a girl whom she once met and of whom she 
 knew nothing, haunting her for years, and irre 
 sistibly suggesting a train of adventures that must 
 at some time get themselves written down. But 
 while fancy thus supplied the warp of the tale, 
 actual minute observation formed its woof. The 
 people of this book are real people; they have been 
 studied from life by one who has a wonderful faculty 
 of close observation, an indelible memory, and an 
 exceptional power of conveying to her readers what 
 she has seen. 
 
 Mrs. Burnett also showed in this book she had 
 given us glimpses of the fact before that she is 
 one of the chosen few who have the H er g iftof 
 innate faculty of expression. It is as style 
 impossible to say in what consists the gift of style 
 as to define the perfume of the rose or the har 
 monies of Beethoven. It is incommunicable, it 
 defies analysis, it can only be felt and enjoyed. It 
 is not essential to the making of a successful or 
 even a great novelist, witness Dickens, Reade, 
 and Collins, men of great gifts as writers of fiction, 
 differing wonderfully in method and effect, but 
 alike in that none of them was ever able to write a 
 page that one would read a second time for its 
 charm, while they became insufferable whenever 
 they tried to do a bit of really fine writing. But 
 whatever Mrs. Burnett writes is worth reading, 
 quite apart from its matter, for the manner in 
 which she says things. Her books would be enjoy- 
 
1 64 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 able in a way, if they violated every canon of the art 
 of fiction. Though she were to "write nonsense we 
 should still read, merely to see how delightfully it 
 is possible for a writer to say foolish nothings. But 
 she does not write nonsense, quite the contrary. 
 The praise she has received has not disturbed hsr 
 mental equilibrium, and has never betrayed her 
 into a display of illusory omniscience. Womanly 
 as ever, painstaking in her art, not concealing her 
 natural pleasure at her success, but not unduly 
 elated by it, she has gone on with her work, each 
 year enlarging her fame and gaining fresh laurels. 
 For if the critic agree with the verdict of the 
 public, that on the whole she has never surpassed 
 and perhaps never equalled her first great success, 
 each subsequent volume has shown her mastery of 
 the art of fiction, and has displayed it in a different 
 field, adding to the first triumph a series of lesser 
 conquests, and demonstrating the breadth of her 
 knowledge, her sympathy, her humanity. 
 
 III. 
 
 A GREATER triumph than she had won in her 
 books for grown-up people was in store for Mrs. 
 Burnett when she began to write for the little folks. 
 Little Lord The exploits and sayings of one of her 
 Fauntieroy. Qwn k ovs SU gg es ted to her the story of 
 "Little Lord Fauntieroy" (1886), which was, with 
 out question, the most successful book for children 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 165 
 
 ever written by an American. It extended the 
 author s fame more than another sort of book could 
 have spread it, for in capturing the hearts of the 
 little ones she won those of fathers and mothers 
 the whole country over; and thousands who would 
 never have heard of the author of "That Lass o 
 Lowrie s " feel themselves on terms of familiar 
 acquaintance with the author of " Little Lord 
 Fauntleroy. " 
 
 On the whole, the book must be "pronounced more 
 successful as an article of commerce than as a 
 work of art. It has but one defect, to Faultily fault- 
 be sure, but that is most serious, abso- less 
 lutely fatal in fact, the hero of the tale is too 
 faultily faultless. There surely never was a live 
 boy, since boys first were, so absolutely perfect as 
 Fauntleroy. The best boy in the world sometimes 
 tears his clothes, musses his hair, has fits of ill- 
 temper, and fails of perfect obedience and unsel 
 fishness. But Fauntleroy is without any of these 
 failings; he is always irreproachably dressed, ex 
 quisitely polite, and his conduct is without a flaw. 
 He reminds one of that nursery heroine, the little 
 girl who 
 
 " When she was good she was very, very good, 
 And when she was bad she was horrid ; " 
 
 only, he reminds us solely of the first half of her 
 character, for he is never bad by any chance or 
 mischance. He is so very, very good, indeed, that 
 
1 66 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 he is not quite human. We must take him, not for 
 a picture of a real boy, but for the author s ideal of 
 what a boy ought to be. Masculine critics may, 
 perhaps, be pardoned for saying that the ideal 
 lacks something. Fauntleroy is far too much of a 
 mamma s darling; he just comes short of being a 
 prig, comes short by so narrow a space that it may 
 be questioned if he does not sometimes overstep the 
 line. In spite of her faculty of observation, her 
 sympathetic quality as an artist, and her experience 
 of motherhood, Mrs. Burnett has not quite plucked 
 the heart out of the mystery of boy nature, and a 
 little dash of masculine roughness, a soupgon of 
 naughtiness, would have made Fauntleroy more 
 human. And though this might have lessened his 
 attractiveness to fond mammas, the not less fond 
 papas would have had less difficulty in recognizing 
 the picture. 
 
 It is not to be considered remarkable that, from the 
 appearance of the first instalment of this story in 
 Adored by the "St. Nicholas " to its publication in book 
 chiid.en. ornlj the i nterest O f readers should have 
 
 been continuous and even increasing. The story is 
 told with the perfection of art; the author s charm 
 of style was never more apparent than in this book. 
 The children, who were her chief readers at first, 
 might not have been fully conscious of this charm, 
 though they doubtless felt its power, but their 
 elders were more intelligently, yet hardly more 
 heartily, appreciative. Since then Mrs. Burnett 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 167 
 
 has been sure of her audience among either old or 
 young in America whenever she cared to break 
 silence. Several books for children have succeeded 
 the story of Fauntleroy, such as "Sarah other books 
 
 J for young 
 
 Crewe," "Little Saint Elizabeth" and aders. 
 other stories, and "Giovanni and the Other." Had 
 these books not been obliged to undergo comparison 
 with her first extraordinary success, they might have 
 been pronounced excellent; under the circumstances 
 they have probably been something of a disappoint 
 ment to her public. The public always expects 
 that an author, having once struck twelve, should 
 go on striking twelve indefinitely, and even lazily 
 wonders why he does not strike thirteen. The 
 demand is unreasonable, but since it exists authors 
 must submit to be judged by readers who have this 
 prepossession. One must either go on record, like 
 "Single-speech Hamilton," as the writer of one 
 brilliantly successful book, or be content to have 
 all subsequent writings declared to be inferior to 
 that by which he first gained reputation. It will 
 be a generation or two hence before just notions are 
 entertained, not merely regarding the relative rank 
 of living authors, but the relative value and signifi 
 cance of each writer s books. This at least is to be 
 said now for Mrs. Burnett s later children s books: 
 they are, from the artist s point of view, superior 
 to the more popular Fauntleroy, because truer to 
 life. She understands girls, and her girls are much 
 more human than her impossible boy hero. This is 
 
1 68 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 not the popular verdict, but one is persuaded that it 
 will be the ultimate judgment alike of readers and 
 of critics. 
 
 IV. 
 
 COMPARATIVELY few of our American writers of 
 fiction, as has already been noted, have won success 
 A dramatic on tne stage. How far Mrs. Burnett has 
 had the assistance of more experienced 
 playwrights, one cannot say, but such collaboration 
 could in no case have extended beyond those techni 
 calities that are pitfalls for the unwary. Her plays 
 have been adaptations of her most successful stories, 
 and their stage success has equalled, perhaps sur 
 passed, their vogue in print. This has been due in 
 the main to their intrinsic merits, but in one case 
 an extraordinary "run" was due to the fortunate 
 production of the play. One refers, of course, to 
 the dramatization of Fauntleroy s story. By good 
 chance the manager who produced the play lighted 
 upon a very bright and charming little girl, of phe 
 nomenal dramatic gifts, to take the leading part in 
 the play. She dressed and acted the part of 
 Fauntleroy to perfection, and succeeded in divest 
 ing the character of that unreal air which mars the 
 perfection of the story. The living Fauntleroy 
 seemed more human, less priggish; the art of the 
 little actress was convincing, where the art of the 
 novelist had failed to convince. 
 
 No doubt this dramatic success has been gratify- 
 
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 169 
 
 ing to the author, because it brought her a wider 
 and well-deserved fame, and still more because it 
 has made her, comparatively speaking, Itsreward 
 a rich woman. The rewards of author 
 ship are not excessive, even in the case of the most 
 fortunate; lawyers or physicians of medium abilities 
 may be named by the score, in any one of our great 
 cities, whose yearly income far surpasses that of 
 the best paid man of letters in the United States. 
 When any one of the profession, therefore, gets 
 something like his due reward, it is cause for 
 general rejoicing in the craft, not for jealousy and 
 gnashing of teeth. Every such success brings nearer 
 the day when the profession of letters will be as 
 well paid, for work of the same grade, as the pro 
 fessions of medicine or the law; when the salary of 
 a millionnaire s cook will not exceed the copyright 
 value of a work that from the day of its publication 
 takes its place among American classics. 
 
 Mrs. Burnett s dramatic success had one result 
 for which all who favor pure and innocent amuse 
 ments may well be grateful. Many people 
 
 One sequel. 
 
 who had never entered a theatre in their 
 lives went to see Fauntleroy, overcome by the per 
 suasion of their children, and " snatched a fearful 
 joy " in the playhouse, half-persuaded still that they 
 were committing a deadly sin. They were shown 
 by the most effective of object lessons that the 
 stage is not necessarily the corrupt and corrupting 
 thing they had been taught to believe it to be, 
 
170 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 that it may be made, not merely innocent and amus 
 ing, but elevating and ennobling. If good people 
 applied to books the logic they apply to the stage, 
 if they refused to read any books because so many 
 bad books are printed, there would soon be no 
 readers but the vicious and the vile, and so in a 
 little while only bad books would be made. Mrs. 
 Burnett s little play was a missionary force that did 
 wonders in the breaking down of almost invincible 
 prejudice founded on ignorance and misinformation. 
 It is a curious fact that though she lived for ten 
 years, ten years of the most impressionable part of 
 Her ignoring of ner ^ e m Tennessee, the work of Mrs. 
 Tennessee. Burnett bears almost no trace of this ex 
 perience. One would think that she must know the 
 Tennessee folk as well as Miss Murfree, but her 
 books are concerned almost wholly with the Lan 
 cashire of her childhood, or the American cities in 
 which her maturer years have been spent. One 
 can hardly account for her ignoring of this rich 
 material, for she was in the field and had made a 
 name for herself before Miss Murfree, and there 
 was no question of another s priority to hold her in 
 check. It may be, for Mrs. Burnett should have 
 many years of literary work before her, that in 
 some future romance this mine may be worked by 
 her, and that we shall be made richer by acquaint 
 ance with some Joan of Tennessee. At any rate, 
 we are warranted in expecting from her greater 
 things than she has yet done. 
 
X. 
 
 CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 VETERAN readers of the "Atlantic," when 
 they cut the leaves of the number for May, 
 1878, had a fresh sensation. In the "Contents" 
 on the familiar yellow cover they read, " The Dancin 
 Party at Harrison s Cove, by Charles Egbert Crad- 
 dock." The title and the name suggested Thefirststory 
 little, the name was absolutely new to 
 every reader, but those who read the story found 
 that the writer had opened an entirely fresh vein in 
 American literature. Harrison s Cove, it turned out, 
 was a settlement among the mountains of Tennessee, 
 now first made known to the world at large; and 
 the story was concerned with the fortunes of a type 
 of mankind quite new to literature. 
 
 From time to time other stories appeared from 
 the same writer. Their merit was recognized, and 
 the name of Craddock was enrolled on the list of 
 our rising authors. Finally, in 1884, eight of 
 these tales were gathered into a volume iu the Ten- 
 
 nessee Moun- 
 
 inscribed with the title, " In the Ten- tains, 
 nessee Mountains." On a copy of this book, printed 
 in 1892, one finds the legend, dear to the heart of 
 
172 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 authors, "Twenty-second edition." To be sure, 
 "edition" means little or much in the American 
 trade, but in this case it is understood to mean one 
 thousand copies. The author whose first book sells 
 at this rate evidently has the game in his hands. 
 
 So far, singularly little was known of the writer 
 of these tales. The fact became public after a 
 Themysteri- while thatCharles Egbert Craddock was 
 ous author. a p Seu d O nym, and that the writer s real 
 name was M. N. Murfree, but this was just enough 
 light to make the darkness visible. Neither editor 
 nor publisher had any acquaintance with him save 
 by letter. No other American author knew any 
 thing about him. His post-office address was St. 
 Louis, and it was evident that he must at some 
 time have lived among the folk and the scenes that 
 he described so graphically; but beyond this 
 nobody had any information. Handwriting, accord 
 ing to Poe and others, is an infallible index of 
 character. Mr. Craddock s chirography would have 
 indicated to any interpreter a bold, masculine, 
 adventurous nature, it was so free, so decided, so 
 heavy. Indeed, the expenditure of ink is so lavish 
 as to suggest that the writer used the sharp end of 
 a stick, a la John Chinaman, instead of a pen, for 
 no goose ever hatched, one would think, could 
 furnish a quill capable of such execution. Mr. 
 Aldrich, then editor of the "Atlantic," used to 
 crack his jokes on this peculiarity. "I wonder," 
 he remarked one day, " if Craddock has laid in his 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 173 
 
 winter s ink; perhaps we could get a serial from 
 him." 
 
 What was the sensation one spring day in 1885 
 when there walked into the editorial office of the 
 " Atlantic " a demure young woman who The mystery 
 announced herself as Charles Egbert Crad- disclosed 
 dock ! The proverbial feather would have knocked 
 down everybody, from editor-in-chief to office 
 cat. A Southern girl in her twenties had fooled 
 the cuteness of all Yankeedom, and brought to 
 naught the critics with their boasted insight, and 
 their wonderful gift of determining all sorts of 
 obscure matters by internal evidence. Beginning 
 with Mr. Aldrich, or even with Mr. Howells before 
 him, and going on down to the smallest newspaper 
 scribbler, they were all her victims. Not one of 
 them had divined that Charles Egbert Craddock was 
 other than he seemed. 
 
 This was a more notable achievement than appears 
 on the face of the facts. One of the best kept 
 literary secrets of the century was the authorship 
 of " Scenes of Clerical Life " and " Adam surpasses 
 Bede." Special pains were taken to keep Geor g eEliot - 
 the public in the dark. For some time even Mr. 
 John Blackwood, the editor who accepted the tales 
 for his magazine, and the publisher who afterwards 
 issued them in book form, was as much mystified 
 as anybody. He was so completely taken in by the 
 pseudonym that he addressed letters to the author, 
 under care of Lewes, as " My dear George. " To 
 
1/4 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 be sure, Mr. Aldrich with his " My dear Craddock," 
 quite duplicated this performance; but from the 
 very first there were those who divined the secret 
 of George Eliot, though, of course, they could not 
 accurately fix the personality. When the first story 
 appeared, Dickens suspected the author to be a 
 woman, while Thackeray and Mrs. Oliphant were 
 certain that such was the case. But no happy 
 instinct led anybody to guess the secret of Charles 
 Egbert Craddock. The name was not even sus 
 pected of being a pseudonym until this was con 
 fessed, and when so much was admitted, nobody 
 suspected that anything remained to be cleared up. 
 The author had no need of lying, as the author of 
 " Waverley " had, to silence prying questioners, 
 there were none, since Mr. Craddock-Murfree was 
 accepted everywhere at his own valuation. A fur 
 ther element of triumph consisted in the fact that 
 George Eliot s hand was forced by a rival claimant 
 to the authorship of her books, else the attempt to 
 keep the secret might have continued ; but the author 
 of the Craddock tales made her incognito good until 
 she no longer cared to conceal her identity, and 
 she chose her own time and place for a dramatic 
 denouement. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE story was, of course, too good to keep, and 
 the identity of the already popular author was made 
 known to the world. From that time, though the 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 175 
 
 pseudonym still appears on title-pages and in cata 
 logues, the author has been best known under her 
 own proper cognomen. With the transpiring of the 
 secret a few biographical details were also made 
 public, though they are rather scanty. 
 
 Mary Noailles Murfree comes of the best Ameri 
 can stock. Her great-grandfather, Hardy Murfree, 
 was a native of North Carolina, and a 
 gallant soldier in the War of the Revolu 
 tion. He was a subordinate of Mad Anthony 
 Wayne at the storming of Stony Point, the most 
 brilliant action of the whole war, on either side, 
 and bore himself honorably in many another con 
 test, rising to the rank of colonel before peace was 
 declared. In 1807 he emigrated to the new State 
 of Tennessee, and settled near the present town of 
 Murfreesboro, which was named in his honor. Miss 
 Murfree was born at the family estate, Grantlands, 
 near Murfreesboro. It is said that while quite 
 young she suffered the misfortune of a stroke of 
 paralysis, which rendered her lame for life. She 
 was thus debarred from the active life and open-air 
 sports of other children, and turned for consolation 
 to books, becoming an eager student and omni 
 vorous reader. The Civil War reduced the family 
 fortunes, and shortly after its close her father re 
 moved to St. Louis, where he engaged in the 
 practice of law. 
 
 This is about all that is known to the public of 
 this author s life; for the rest we are dependent 
 
AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 chiefly on conjecture and the internal evidence 
 afforded by her books. It is, perhaps, a fair infer 
 ence that a desire for the emoluments of literature, 
 rather than for its fame, influenced Miss Murfree 
 in her first efforts. Dr. Johnson once said some 
 thing to the effect that nobody but a fool ever wrote 
 anything except for pay, but this is not one of the 
 wisest sayings of old Ursa Major. Doubtless the 
 need of bread and butter has, in modern times at 
 least, produced more literature than ambition, but 
 if that were the only motive it would be a bread- 
 Aconsden- and-butter literature that would be pro- 
 tious worker. duced< Though Johnson s saying was 
 obviously a hasty generalization founded on imper 
 fect induction, and is not to be taken au pied de 
 lettre, it contains more than a modicum of truth. 
 What Miss Murfree s books warrant us in conclud 
 ing is that, from whatever motive she began her 
 writing, she has continued because she loves her 
 calling, and takes honest pride in doing her work 
 well, irrespective of the reward. Conscientious 
 workmanship can never be mistaken, and its signi 
 ficance is great. No merely mercenary writer can 
 be an artist in words. There is no reason why he 
 should be. The annals of modern literature are full 
 of instances of sudden reputation won, and great 
 gains made by men and women who were no more 
 novelists than a negro kalsominer is a painter. If 
 one writes to make money only or chiefly, the thing 
 to do is to set up a literary mill and grind out books 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 177 
 
 by the bushel, like but every instructed reader 
 can name half a dozen such without hesitation. 
 
 Miss Murfree s workmanship is admirable, in the 
 first instance, because she writes from adequate 
 knowledge of her subject. She knows the Thorough 
 Tennessee mountains and the Tennessee knowled s e - 
 people thoroughly. She has not merely mastered 
 their surface peculiarities, such as their dialect, 
 their dress, their mode of life, but she has seen to 
 the bottom of their souls, and knows their inner 
 life as well as the outer. She has not only seen, 
 she has analyzed, combined, classified, interpreted 
 her facts until she fully comprehends them in all 
 their relations. If she had been a devotee of real 
 ism she might have ended with seeing and describ 
 ing ; as it is, while truly realistic, with a sharpness 
 of detail almost photographic, in her fidelity to fact 
 she does not forget the higher truth of being, and 
 so she both understands her people and makes us 
 understand them likewise. 
 
 But this knowledge is not enough for a novelist, 
 or, rather, it is not possible without the previous 
 acquisition of other knowledge, or, still D ep thofin- 
 again, if its acquirement is possible, it sight- 
 cannot be successfully communicated to others ; its 
 real nature cannot even be grasped fully by one other 
 wise untutored. There are scores in the Tennessee 
 mountains who know all that Miss Murfree could 
 see there, know it more completely, perhaps, and 
 have made it much more a part of themselves, but 
 
178 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY 
 
 they could never tell it to the world; in a sense, 
 and a very real sense, they may be said not actually 
 to know it, for they do not know it in relation to 
 other knowledges. Miss Murfree brought with her 
 to the mountains and the mountain folk, the power 
 of seeing more than an ordinary observer could find 
 in either. She brought a cultivated mind, made 
 impressible by natural and spiritual beauty through 
 the study of nature, of literature, of life. Those 
 long early years of reading and meditation had not 
 been in vain. None see so deeply into the heart of 
 things as those who have been in a measure secluded 
 from the world, and have had as the instructors of 
 their working hours and their companions in idle 
 ness the choicest minds of all ages. 
 
 II. 
 
 Miss MURFREE began her work, we have already 
 seen, as a writer of short stories, but her continu 
 ance in this province was brief. Since 
 the publication of "In the Tennessee 
 Mountains," if one remembers correctly, she has 
 never tried this kind of writing again. Probably 
 we owe her early tales to the same cause that im 
 pelled the disguise of a pseudonym, a lack of 
 confidence in her powers, and a wish to make 
 experiment in a modest way before attempting an 
 ambitious enterprise. Her instinct must have told 
 her very soon, however, that she had nothing to 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. I/O 
 
 fear, and also must have assured her that she was 
 wasting her material in the composition of these 
 tales. " Several of them, though they seem at first 
 reading to reach the height of excellence just as 
 they are, on analysis disclose the fact that they are 
 not so much complete tales as abbreviated novels. 
 This is especially true of " Drifting Down Lost 
 Creek," into which enough of plot and character is 
 crowded to furnish forth a novel of full length. 
 The skeleton is there complete, and only needs to 
 be clothed with flesh, that is to say, with dialogue 
 and description, to make a book equal in interest 
 and power to any of the author s later writing. In 
 the perfect short story the length of the tale is 
 exactly proportioned to its content, and to expand 
 it to the dimensions of a novel would make of it an 
 intolerable wishy-washy dilution. Though we find 
 a defect in some of these stories, it must be 
 admitted that it is a fault that leans to virtue s 
 side. Not much literary work, in these days, can 
 be called imperfect because of its excess of riches. 
 
 It did seem, however, on her first trial of a longer 
 flight, that a good writer of tales had been spoiled 
 to make a poor novelist. Not that there V er y iikea 
 were no good points in " Where the Battle failure> 
 was Fought" (Boston, 1884); Miss Murfree could 
 not, if she tried, write a book without solid merits. 
 The book simply was not so good as we had a right 
 to expect. Her tales had been as vigorous, as 
 sinewy, as wholesome as her mountaineers. This 
 
ISO AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 was a novel of the conventional sort, with a plot of 
 the well-worn type, and lacked the characteristic 
 Craddock flavor. A wish to show that she could 
 write about something else than the mountain 
 people may have caused the author to make this 
 mis step. Doubtless she can write about many 
 other things, but doubtless she can write of nothing 
 about which her public would so willingly hear. 
 The scenes and types of her stories brought the 
 piquant and titillating flavor of absolute novelty to 
 the jaded palate of the novel reader; and though 
 the taste is now familiar, it has lost none of its 
 savor. Still less was there danger ten years ago 
 that the public would quickly tire of the mountains 
 and their quaint men and women. 
 
 Miss Murfree is not one of those who cannot 
 learn in the school of experience, and she has never 
 repeated that mistake. From that time on, in 
 regular succession her books have come from the 
 press showing a steady growth in artistic power. 
 First came " Down the Ravine " (1885), fol- 
 
 Her books. V J 
 
 lowed in the same year by "The Prophet 
 of the Great Smoky Mountains," and at slightly 
 longer intervals by "In the Clouds" (1886), "The 
 Story of Keedon Bluffs" (1887), "The Despot of 
 Brownsedge Cove" (1888), and "In the Stranger 
 People s Country" (New York, 1891). This is 
 pretty rapid production, but not too rapid for good 
 workmanship, as the books themselves prove, and 
 as is proved by the example of numerous other 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. l8l 
 
 novelists, American and foreign. Slow composi 
 tion does not necessarily produce work of a high 
 quality; comparative rates of production are a test 
 of temperament and industry rather than of excel 
 lence. There is no "scamped" work in Miss 
 Murfree s books. She produces rapidly but not 
 hurriedly, and no signs of slipshod or careless per 
 formance are traceable in any of her writing. So 
 long as she keeps up to the mark she has set for 
 herself, and thus far reached without one failure 
 for "Where the Battle was Fought," so far as it may 
 be called a failure, failed because of an unwise 
 choice of theme, not by lack of faithful labor the 
 more books she gives her readers the more she will 
 gratify the most critical among them. 
 
 III. 
 
 FOUR things go to the making of a good novel : 
 plot, dialogue, description, style. There may be 
 other things, but these are the chief, and novelists 
 differ from each other mainly in the relative impor 
 tance they assign to these four elements and their 
 relative skill in the use ot them. Few writers are 
 really great in more than two of these four things, 
 and are fortunate not to fall below mediocrity in 
 one or more of them. 
 
 Miss Murfree is not remarkable for the strength 
 or interest of her plots; the best we can say of 
 them is that they answer her purposes, and do not 
 
1 82 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 impress the reader as unpleasantly weak. She is 
 to be praised in that, not having a genius for in 
 vention, she has risen above the temp- 
 
 Plot. 
 
 tation to strain after effects she could not 
 gain. It is a rare grace in a writer to be content 
 to remain simply natural, and that grace she has. 
 
 In the matter of dialogue, also, the critic must 
 give Miss Murfree a curiously qualified commenda 
 tion: she both reaches and falls short of 
 the highest excellence. Here, too, she 
 is found to be natural, which in a sense is the 
 highest praise that could be spoken of any writer. 
 But her characters are uncultivated people; they 
 come of a race distinguished for rugged strength 
 rather than for grace; to endow them with wit and 
 humor, save of the primitive kind, with reflect 
 iveness, with philosophic insight, would have been 
 to make them caricatures of the rugged and uncouth 
 mountaineer. By the nature of her subject-matter 
 the author precluded herself from brilliancy of 
 dialogue. Keen dialect, the fine play of fancy, 
 lambent humor, scintillating wit, quotation and 
 allusion, all the mental charms we associate with 
 high culture, are out of the question in her books. 
 For these we must go to Howells, or James, or 
 Crawford. It is a necessity of the situation, and 
 by the deliberate restraint Miss Murfree has put 
 upon herself in this matter she shows an art far 
 higher than she would have shown by yielding to 
 the temptation to display her abilities. 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 183 
 
 It is in description alone that the author has 
 been free to give full scope to her literary skill. 
 In the first story of the " Atlantic " series 
 
 Description. 
 
 there was a taste of her quality, in this 
 picture of an August sky: "An early moon was 
 riding, clear and full, over this wild spur of the 
 Alleghanies; the stars were few and very faint; 
 even the great Scorpio lurked, vaguely outlined, 
 above the wooded ranges; and the white mist, that 
 filled the long, deep, narrow valley between the 
 parallel lines of mountains, shimmered with opal 
 escent gleams." Miss Murfree has gone on culti 
 vating her gift, until in her last books it comes 
 very near absolute perfection. She accomplishes 
 some feats that are almost incredible. Who would 
 have believed it possible, for instance, that the 
 fleeting effects of light and shade caused by the 
 passage of a cloud could be expressed in anything 
 save the colors of a painter s palette, if he had not 
 read this: "His eyes were on the stretch of barley, 
 bending and swaying as the wind swept through its 
 pliant blades, and shoaling from an argentine glister 
 to green, and from green again to elusive silver 
 glintings what time the cove below was dark and 
 purple and blurred, as a great white cloud hung, 
 dazzling and opaque, high, high in the sky, and, as 
 it passed, the valley grew gradually into distinct 
 ness again, with the privilege of the sunshine and 
 the freedom of the wind, and all its land-marks 
 asserted anew." Here is a scene equally fine: "He 
 
184 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 turned and looked at the gorge, as if he expected to 
 see there the pearly disk among the dark obscure- 
 ments of the night-shadowed mountains. It was 
 instead a vista of many gleaming lights; the sun 
 shine on the river, and the differing lustre of the 
 water in the shadow; the fine crystalline green of 
 the cataract, and the dazzling white of the foam and 
 the spray; the luminous azure of the far-away peaks, 
 and the enamelled glister of the blue sky, all 
 showing between the gloomy, sombre ranges close 
 at hand." 
 
 Pages of such bits might be extracted from 
 these later books. And yet it should not be in 
 ferred that the author has fallen a victim to her 
 acquired facility, and bores her reader with passages 
 inserted for mere display. Few writers show a 
 better appreciation of the shrewd saying of the 
 sententious Hobbes: "For words are wise men s 
 counters, they do but reckon by them ; but they 
 NO purple are t ^ ie monev of fools. " In every case, 
 patches. these bits Q i an dscape are fitted into the 
 
 story so deftly as to be an inseparable part of it; 
 they accompany and explain the acts and moods of 
 the characters so as to justify their place in the 
 text, and are no purple patches clumsily stitched 
 on as an afterthought. Surely, such writing as 
 the above bits fairly represent is entitled to the 
 much-abused and sadly vulgarized phrase "word- 
 painting." 
 
 It is no violent transition, certainly, to a general 
 
CHARLES EGBERT CR AD DOCK. 1 8$ 
 
 consideration of Miss Murfree s style. Simplicity, 
 
 correctness, and grace are its character- 
 style. 
 istics. It is true that these adjectives 
 
 apply only when the author has not her dialect fit 
 on; mountainese and pure English are necessarily 
 incompatible. But it must be said, in justice to 
 her, that her dialect is quite as clever as her 
 ordinary English style; it is not exaggerated or 
 overdone, and the conventional orthography is not 
 unnecessarily mangled. There are strange muta 
 tions in writing as well as in dress, and literary 
 fashions change with quite as much bewildering 
 rapidity and quite as little reasonableness as the 
 fashions in millinery. The rationale of fashion is 
 a deep subject, if one may predicate rationality 
 of anything whose origin seems to be in utter 
 mental vacuousness, and we are concerned at 
 present only with its phenomena. An unreason 
 ing vogue of dialect a few years ago has been suc 
 ceeded by a prejudice against dialect, that would 
 be quite as unreasonable had not the reading public 
 been surfeited by the deluge of dialect stories pro 
 duced by its first eager patronage. But there is 
 dialect and dialect. Miss Murfree s is of the best; 
 and, in any case, it is hard to see how she could 
 have written of her mountaineers on any other 
 terms. Certainly, if she was to represent them as 
 they are, she must set them before us with their 
 peculiar speech. The only question that can fairly 
 be raised in this case is whether it was worth while 
 
1 86 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 for Miss Murfree to write stories about the Tennessee 
 mountains at all. As to that, but one verdict can 
 be expected of her readers. If there are any who 
 think otherwise, the world of letters is all before 
 them where to choose. 
 
 We could ill spare Miss Murfree s contribution 
 to fiction. It is racy of the soil. The most exact 
 ing among our British censors will not venture to 
 deny to her books the right to the distinctive 
 epithet, American. 
 
XI. 
 
 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 
 
 LOItD BYRON once said, in describing the sudden 
 fame that came to him from the publication of 
 the first part of " Childe Harold s Pilgrimage," " I 
 awoke next morning and found myself famous." 
 There was almost as much truth as hyperbole in the 
 saying, and the same remark might have been made 
 by the author of " The Gates Ajar." When that book 
 first appeared, more than twenty-five years ago, it 
 attained a popularity of the most extensive and im 
 pressive sort. There were some weeks, according 
 to the story told of it by its publisher, when the 
 fate of the book seemed trembling in the 
 
 Sudden fame. 
 
 balance ; then all at once the sales showed 
 a phenomenal increase, and advanced by leaps and 
 bounds. Twenty editions were sold within a single 
 year. The book was on every table, and its discussion 
 was on every lip. The furore it caused was even 
 greater than that provoked recently by the publication 
 of " Robert Elsmere." The theology underlying the 
 book was ardently defended by some and fiercely 
 criticised by others. Long articles were written against 
 it in the religious newspapers, and ministers made it 
 
1 88 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 the theme of sermons, mostly minatory and anathema- 
 breathing, and dreadful things were said of the author s 
 heterodoxy. It was, in short, one of the notable 
 literary successes of our time ; and whatever one may 
 think of the book, now that a quarter-century has 
 passed away, and the time for a cool judgment has 
 come, it still remains a literary success of the first 
 magnitude. 
 
 Now, notwithstanding Dogberry s obiter dictum 
 that " reading and writing come by nature," nothing 
 is more certain than the fact that a book of this kind 
 does not get itself written by accident. Elizabeth 
 Stuart Phelps, when she wrote " The Gates Ajar," 
 had served an apprenticeship of some length in litera 
 ture. She began to write for the press at 
 
 A born author. 
 
 thirteen years of age, and was already the 
 author of a dozen volumes, stories for children mostly, 
 of the usual Sunday-school type no, of an unusual 
 type. She was the daughter of Austin Phelps, the 
 instructor of Andover theologues for forty years in 
 sacred rhetoric, and the writer of a small library of 
 books whose brilliant and pungent style has been 
 admired by two generations of readers. Her mother 
 was Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of Moses Stuart, 
 another name inseparably connected with the history 
 of Andover, herself the author of many books, 
 mostly fiction with a religious motive. Miss Phelps 
 
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 189 
 
 thus breathed the atmosphere of letters from her in 
 fancy, and alike by inherited instinct and by careful 
 training was fitted for a literary career. That she 
 should begin one was to be expected ; that she should 
 be successful it was perhaps equally safe to prophesy ; 
 what nobody could have foreseen, herself least of all 
 probably, was that when she had barely arrived at the 
 dignity of young-ladyhood she should become one of 
 the most famous of American authors. This was in 
 part, to be sure, the result of good fortune, but it was 
 also the reward of earnest endeavor and conscientious 
 literary workmanship. 
 
 It is something of a puzzle to one who now reads 
 " The Gates Ajar " for the first time, and even to one 
 who re-reads it after many years, to understand the 
 secret of its immediate and wide and enduring popu 
 larity. It is not a novel, and it is not a The Gates 
 religious treatise, but something half-way 
 between the two. It might be described as a sort of 
 prose " In Memoriam " with a thread of story. In the 
 form of a diary it gives the meditations and expe 
 riences of a young woman who has lately lost a 
 brother to whom she was tenderly attached. The 
 divine purposes in the affliction of men, the discipline 
 of sorrow, the grounds of faith in immortality, the 
 nature of the future life, especially the latter, are the 
 themes to which attention is chiefly directed. These 
 are not subjects that might be expected to rouse 
 general interest. The a priori reasoner would have 
 been likely to forecast disaster, or at best a very 
 
AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 moderate success, for any book that discussed ques 
 tions of this nature; and in the present day he might 
 be right. The conditions were different, however, 
 twenty-five years ago. As is the case with all greatly 
 successful books, " The Gates Ajar " struck a chord 
 in the people s hearts that only needed the touch of a 
 its appeal to master s hand to respond. It appeared soon 
 the heart. after the Q^J Wafj w h en j n almost every 
 
 household there was still mourning for some loved 
 and lost one. Tens of thousands of sore hearts were 
 asking themselves just the questions that the supposi 
 titious writer of this book kept asking. If Miss Phelps 
 did not give a final reply to these questionings, she 
 helped many to a stronger faith in the reality and 
 blessedness of the future life, and a hope of reunion 
 with the lost, a reunion that should be conscious, 
 intelligent, and blissful, as well as unending. She 
 essayed, and with much success, 
 
 " To pluck the amaranthine flower 
 Of faith, and round the sufferer s temples bind 
 Wreaths that endure affliction s heaviest shower, 
 And do not shrink from sorrow s keenest wind." 
 
 No wonder, therefore, the book found readers; the 
 seed fell into good soil, already prepared for it, and 
 that it should germinate and fructify was in the ordi 
 nary course of nature. 
 
 But the book owed its great vogue to another cause, 
 that no longer exists. In the sixties what passed for 
 orthodox theology was practically silent about the 
 
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. \g\ 
 
 future life. Beyond maintaining with great energy 
 the immortality of the soul and the eternal Glimpses of the 
 punishment of the wicked, it practically Slientworld 
 ignored all the questions that cluster about the word 
 " eschatology." Not only was theology silent on these 
 themes, but the pulpit was likewise dumb. Yet the 
 people were anxiously questioning and doubting, and 
 from the source to which they might naturally have 
 turned for light they met with chilling silence or stern 
 rebuke. " The Gates Ajar " boldly attacked problems 
 that the pulpits and theological chairs feared or 
 ignored, and while it did not say the last word on 
 any of them, it did in many cases say what was to 
 most people the first word of comfort they had ever 
 heard. 
 
 These papers are not theological disquisitions, and 
 it is not necessary, therefore, to discuss the grave 
 question whether this book is, as has been so often 
 charged, " tainted with Swedenborgianism." Its sweden- 
 What is taken for Swedenborgianism in bor s ianisms -" 
 the book of Miss Phelps, by those who interpret every 
 thing with absolute literalism, is probably nothing 
 more than a speaking in parables on her part. When 
 she says, for instance, that the saints will have pianos 
 in heaven, only the literal-minded will mistake her 
 meaning, such people as cannot appreciate humor 
 and need to have all their poetry translated into bald 
 prose before it is level to their intellects. In the 
 Revelation we read of harps in heaven, and if the harp 
 of the first century, why not the pianoforte of the 
 
AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 nineteenth? Things like this mystified some readers 
 and disquieted others, but it is not likely that many 
 were stumbled by them. At all events, whatever 
 incidental harm might have been done by trifles of 
 this sort was largely overbalanced by the great and 
 positive good accomplished through the book. 
 
 II. 
 
 MlSS PHELPS deserved her suddenly gained fame, 
 but if it had rested on no other basis than this one 
 book it would have proved evanescent. " The Gates 
 Ajar " is even now, one fears, mainly of historic inter 
 est. Though it still is a good selling book, it is not 
 so completely in touch with the spiritual needs of the 
 
 Not a sin le ^ me as w ^ en ^ was ^ rst printed, and by 
 success. t h e t j me a thjj.j generation of readers has 
 
 come on the stage it promises to be outgrown. This 
 is the fate of books that address themselves to reli 
 gious emotion and one phase of religious thought. 
 It was an open question in her case whether she would 
 be content with this fame, or would strive after higher 
 things. A first great triumph like this may have 
 either of two effects on the writer, especially on a 
 young and impressionable writer : it may be a stimulus, 
 or a paralysis. In far too many cases one great stroke 
 of fortune either puffs a writer up with conceit or ter 
 rifies him by its very greatness, so that he is never fit 
 for a higher flight. The writer who has in him the 
 
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 193 
 
 true stuff, while grateful for the praise and apprecia 
 tion that he has won, is spurred on to greater industry 
 and more concentrated effort. It was so with Miss 
 Phelps. She was neither spoiled nor frightened, but 
 girded herself for other and better work. For fifteen 
 years she abandoned the theme through which she 
 first gained the ear of the public, and devoted herself 
 to fiction, averaging a book a year during this time. 
 The culmination of this series of books was " The 
 Story of Avis," which, in the minds of most readers, 
 will long continue to be the favorite, though one or 
 two others may press it rather closely. 
 
 Miss Phelps is equally successful as a writer of 
 short stories and in longer tales. She has become a 
 thorough literary workman, and she never slights her 
 work. Her plots are fairly good, though never com 
 plicated, and she peoples her books with persons 
 whom it is good to know. Her knowledge of human 
 nature is respectably wide and deep ; and though it 
 does not impress one as exhaustive, it is satisfactory 
 as far as it goes. From her books one gets 
 
 Her short tales. 
 
 the impression that she has lived a rather 
 shut-in life, circumscribed by conditions of health and 
 of family duty that have made it difficult to see more 
 than a small part of the world. But Miss Phelps cer 
 tainly knows her New England well ; she knows the 
 dialect, the customs, the ways of thinking, the spiritual 
 needs of the Yankee, especially the Yankee girl and 
 woman, with a comprehensiveness and accuracy that 
 none of our American writers surpasses. It is per- 
 
 13 
 
194 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 haps in this spiritual knowledge that she excels, for 
 
 she is 
 
 " One in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
 A passionate intuition." 
 
 All her stories are evidently from the same hand 
 that produced " The Gates Ajar; " she could be con 
 victed of their authorship on internal evidence alone. 
 The conscience of the woman descended from the 
 Puritans, sensitive and introspective to morbidness, is 
 incarnate in her books. In them all one reads the 
 conviction that she has a message to souls diseased or 
 disquieted, a message of peace and comfort, and this 
 message she has managed to convey through her fic 
 tions not less plainly and perhaps more effectively to 
 many than in her avowedly didactic books. It is to 
 her praise that she has done this without any sacrifice 
 of artistic purpose and method. She has never 
 stooped to the writing of those sermons sugar-coated 
 with fiction, that have brought equal discredit on two 
 arts, both worthy of high honor, each in its own 
 sphere, the arts, namely, of story-telling and of 
 preaching. 
 
 III. 
 
 IT would be remarkable, indeed, if such a writer 
 had had nothing to say on other than religious 
 questions. In a biographical dictionary of some pre 
 tensions it is said of Miss Phelps : " Most of her life 
 has been devoted to benevolent work in her native 
 
ELIZABETH STUART P HELPS. 195 
 
 town, to the advancement of women, and to temper 
 ance and kindred topics." The statement may not be 
 precisely accurate, yet it indicates sufficiently both the 
 breadth of her sympathies and the practical form in 
 which they have been manifested. She ha." written 
 no great bulk of matter on temperance, 
 but a book of hers, " Jack the Fisherman " 
 (1887), is one of the most impressive temperance 
 sermons ever preached, all the more effective be 
 cause there is no offensive attempt to point a moral. 
 Without constituting herself a common literary scold, 
 her pen has always been at the service of any good 
 cause, and she has been prompt to defend the op 
 pressed and the friendless ; and if she does not actually 
 enjoy taking the unpopular side, at least she never 
 shrinks from it. 
 
 Much of this sort of writing has been done for the 
 newspapers. Miss Phelps has been almost as in 
 veterate a newspaper contributor as her father, and 
 both have been nearly worthy of the appellation of 
 journalists. In years past a number of " the Inde 
 pendent " that did not contain an article, a A gentle . 
 story, or a poem from her pen was rather woman s style> 
 anomalous. These articles were and are invariably 
 timely and readable, whatever their other character 
 istics may be. Miss Phelps could not be her 
 father s daughter and write bad English, but style 
 is hardly a transmissible endowment, and hers is 
 original. One can describe it no better than by 
 saying that it is the proper style of a gentlewoman, 
 
196 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 refined, reflecting thought and study without pedan 
 try, occasionally sparkling with wit, oftener glowing 
 with gentle humor, brilliant and vivacious at times, 
 well-bred and urbane always. Mrs. Burnett s style 
 one calls charming, Miss Phelps s might be described 
 as interesting, not thereby implying that the one 
 lacks charm or the other interest, but in each case 
 indicating the dominant quality. 
 
 Miss Phelps could hardly have failed to write on 
 the perennial " woman question," born as she was at 
 a time and in a society in which the emancipation of 
 woman was a burning question. It is noteworthy 
 and refreshing to mark her way of treating it, in 
 contrast with the method of another New England 
 woman of letters, " Gail Hamilton." Miss Dodge is 
 a writer who may be compendiously described as 
 "spicy." -She excels in vivacity and wit. In sar 
 casm and invective she has hardly a peer among 
 American authors. She is incisive, even combative, 
 by nature, and thoroughly enjoys a good hot old- 
 fashioned controversy, and is seldom worsted in a 
 The woman verbal encounter. Her championship of 
 her sex and its cause has been aggres 
 sive, defiant, one might add blustering if she were 
 a man. She has produced essays by the volume on 
 this theme, all thoroughly enjoyable and perhaps 
 none of them convincing. Miss Phelps is a far less 
 pungent writer, the difference is like the difference 
 between allspice and cayenne pepper, and she has 
 made fewer formal preachments on the subject. Her 
 
ELIZABETH STUART P HELPS. 
 
 most characteristic utterances she has chosen to put 
 in the garb of fiction, and her say on the woman 
 question may be found in " An Old Maid s Para- 
 dise" (1879), and its sequel, " Burglars in Paradise" 
 (1886), and "Dr. Zay" (1884). The latter story 
 shows the more power. The author evidently holds 
 fast by two fundamental principles. The first is that 
 woman has the same right to the higher education 
 and an independent career as man, provided she 
 wishes it and evidences the capacity for it. The 
 second is that for the majority of women love and 
 marriage are predestined, and the struggle against 
 this manifest destiny for a separate career usually 
 ends in surrender. It is not indiscreet, one hopes, 
 to add that the author showed her faith in this teach 
 ing by her works, when in 1889 she became the wife 
 of Mr. Herbert D. Ward, son of the veteran editor of 
 " The Independent." We are not informed whether 
 Dr. Zay continued her practice after marriage, 
 but Miss Phelps (as an author she will always be 
 known by that name) has continued her work. 
 There was a brief attempt at collaboration on the 
 part of Mr. and Mrs. Ward, which produced " The 
 Master of the Magicians" (1890), and "Come 
 Forth" (1891). This experiment can hardly be 
 called happy, and probably the authors themselves 
 have so concluded, for their recent work has been 
 done independently. A successful literary partner 
 ship is one of the rarest things in literature. 
 
1 98 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE industry of Miss Phelps she is the author 
 of more than thirty volumes, the first of which was 
 published in 1864, which is an average of more than 
 a volume a year would be remarkable in any case, 
 but is astonishing in the case of one who has had to 
 contend with ill-health, irritable nerves, and insomnia. 
 She has never made any plaint, never asked for pub 
 lic sympathy, or made a claim for kinder 
 
 Industry. . 
 
 judgment on this score, but has gone on 
 quietly with her work. It is impossible not to ad 
 mire this self-respecting reticence, and the indomi 
 table will that has made so much of achievement 
 possible. The fact would not have been referred 
 to at all, in spite of its having become public prop 
 erty long ago, but that it affords a clue to the better 
 understanding of her work. There is in her books 
 not a trace of the morbidness that sometimes accom 
 panies a state of partial invalidism, but it is not fanci 
 ful to ascribe to that source a deep thoughtfulness, a 
 spiritual fervor akin to mysticism, a rapt assurance of 
 faith that only those know who have been made to 
 pass through deep waters, and have lived much alone 
 with themselves and God. 
 
 If there is a touch of melancholy in any of Miss 
 Phelps s writings it is in her verse. Two volumes 
 have been issued: "Poetic Studies" (1875), and 
 "Songs of the Silent World" (1884). It is, per- 
 
ELIZABETH STUART P HELPS. 199 
 
 haps, not quite just to speak of any of these verses 
 as melancholy; the themes are generally solemn, 
 occasionally sombre, but the treatment of them is 
 not gloomy. The verse is stately, sober, intense, 
 but not frigid. There is a tone of religious fervor, 
 of unswerving faith and hope, that redeems all her 
 poems from dismalness. Those who glance through 
 these volumes for the first time will per- 
 
 Her verse. 
 
 haps be surprised at finding so large a 
 proportion of amatory verse. They might, indeed, 
 be entitled " Poems of Passion " if that would not 
 provoke comparison with another collection of verse 
 bearing that title. The passion in these, poems is of 
 the genuine kind, strong, sincere, thrilling, not simu 
 lated and theatrical. It does not demand for its 
 expression language that borders on indecency, but 
 flows 
 
 "In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong." 
 
 The substance of her verse is so solid, her work 
 manship is so conscientious always and so exquisite 
 frequently, that Miss Phelps should be better known 
 as a poet. And yet, if intelligent readers were asked 
 to make a list of living American poets probably few 
 of the lists would contain the name of Miss Phelps. 
 This is presumably due largely to the character of 
 the subjects she has chosen to treat, to the prevail 
 ing religious tone of her verse, and to the almost 
 total absence of playfulness, of wit and humor, and 
 of that // // that catches the popular ear and gains 
 
200 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 currency for work otherwise very indifferent. Her 
 poems are of a kind that only the cultivated, the 
 thoughtful, the Christian reader, can fully compre 
 hend, and this necessarily implies a limited audience. 
 
 Of all our American women of letters Miss Phelps 
 impresses one as the most intense, the most high- 
 purposed, the most conscientious in her art. Litera 
 ture is with her something more dignified than a 
 means of livelihood, or a path to fame ; it is the high 
 calling of God to glorify him and to serve her fellow- 
 man. She is entitled to the praise of having faith 
 fully tried to fulfil this noble ideal. The world is not 
 worse, but better, for every line she has written. 
 
XII. 
 
 ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 FEW writers of stories have a larger circle of 
 admirers than Mrs. Whitney, and though her 
 books are chiefly about young people and for young 
 people, she has found no lack of appreciative readers 
 among adults. There is in her books, in truth, a 
 knowledge of men and women, a philosophy of life, 
 a humor, that cannot be fully appreciated by imma 
 ture minds, though they may feel the charm of these 
 as well as be fascinated by other qualities that lie 
 closer to the surface. Much as she has written, 
 there is very little to be found in the way of criti 
 cism of Mrs. Whitney s work, apart from H er C om- 
 ephemeral and usually rather perfunctory P lete " works 
 notices in newspapers and periodicals of her books 
 as they have appeared. The appearance of a new 
 uniform edition of her writings, in the tasteful style 
 for which the Riverside Press is justly famous, of 
 fered a favorable opportunity for a critical study of 
 their contents. A somewhat formidable row they 
 make, these seventeen volumes gowned in green, 
 witnessing to the writer s diligence and putting that 
 of the critic to a considerable test, unless he happen 
 to have read most of them before. 
 
2O2 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 ADELINE BUTTON TRAIN is a native of Boston, 
 and spent her early life in that city. Her father, 
 Enoch Train, was a successful man of business, the 
 founder of a line of packet-ships between Boston and 
 Liverpool, in the palmy days when the American 
 Abriefbiog- clipper was the queen of the seas. The 
 raphy. brilliant, eccentric, erratic George Francis 
 
 Train is her brother. The vein of mysticism in the 
 writings of the sister has cropped out into something 
 very like insanity in the brother, but the native men 
 tal gifts of both were far above the common and also 
 out of the common. 
 
 No doubt some of Mrs. Whitney s stories contain 
 a large element of autobiography, but only she and 
 her nearest friends could tell where history ends and 
 fiction begins in her Faith Gartneys and Leslie Gold- 
 thwaites. It would be perilous to attempt disentan 
 gling the two during her lifetime ; but in after years 
 the " higher critic " may disport himself in recon 
 structing the story of her girlhood from the internal 
 evidence afforded by her writings. What we now 
 know certainly is, that before her girlhood was well 
 passed, at the age of nineteen in fact, Miss Train 
 became the wife of Seth D. Whitney, of Milton, 
 Mass., and has lived a quiet home life in that town 
 ever since. Mrs. Whitney has, it would appear, stu 
 diously avoided putting her personality in evidence 
 
ADELINE >. T. WHITNEY. 2O3 
 
 before the public. She has virtually said, " My 
 books belong to the world, my life belongs to my 
 self, my family, my friends." It is the duty of the 
 critic to respect this reticence, and to inquire no fur 
 ther into the personality of the writer than the writ 
 ings themselves fairly warrant one in going. What 
 of herself she has put into print is ours to know and 
 to discuss. The rest belongs to the privacy of a 
 gentlewoman, that nobody has a right to invade. 
 
 II. 
 
 AT the very outset one is tempted to break one s 
 good resolution not to go behind the facts of record, 
 because the first fact arouses a curiosity that is not 
 altogether impertinent. Mrs. Whitney s first recorded 
 publication is a poem, " Footsteps on the B e g anasa 
 Seas" (Boston, 1857). As she has per- poet - 
 mitted the date of her birth to become part of her 
 public record, it cannot be indiscreet to remark that 
 the writer of this poem was already in her thirties, 
 and to add that most of our American men and 
 women of letters have shown the symptoms of the 
 pen-and-ink disease at a much earlier period. Hence 
 one s curiosity : did Mrs. Whitney have literary am 
 bitions, and do the usual preparatory scribbling in 
 her early years; or did she (as we know was the case 
 with " H. H.") make her first real essays in literature 
 after she had reached middle life? This first publi 
 cation of Mrs. Whitney s, few of her admirers have 
 
204 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 ever seen, and it is not included in this last edition 
 of her works, from which one might be justified in 
 inferring a fixed intention to disown this bantling, 
 were not four other volumes of her verses also 
 omitted. 
 
 The second book published by her still holds the 
 field, " Mother Goose for Grown Folks" (New York, 
 1860), and is deservedly a favorite with all her 
 readers. In a revised, enlarged, and glorified form 
 illustrated, that is to say, by Augustus Hoppin 
 it has a place in the latest edition of her 
 
 Mother Goose. 
 
 writings. It is really a very clever book. 
 In the main aspiring to be nothing more than ajeu 
 d* esprit, not professing to possess high poetic merit, 
 and somewhat careless as to workmanship, its play 
 fulness and wit mask a good deal of serious purpose. 
 For example, these stanzas suggested by the familiar 
 " Rockaby baby " : 
 
 " O golden gift of childhood ! 
 
 That, with its kingly touch, 
 Transforms to more than royalty 
 
 The thing it loveth much ! 
 O second sight, bestowed alone 
 
 Upon the baby seer, 
 That the glory held in Heaven s reserve 
 
 Discerneth even here ! 
 
 " O golden gift of childhood ! 
 If the talisman might last, 
 How dull the Present still should gleam 
 With the glory of the Past. 
 
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 2O$ 
 
 But the things of earth about us 
 
 Fade and dwindle as we go, 
 And the long perspective of our life 
 
 Is truth, and not a show ! " 
 
 Very amusing is " Brahmic," her parody on Emer 
 son s celebrated " Brahma," which she ingeniously 
 turns into praise of Mother Goose : 
 
 " If a great poet think he sings, 
 
 Or if the poem think it s sung, 
 They do but sport the scattered plumes 
 That Mother Goose aside hath flung. 
 
 " Far or forgot to me is near : 
 
 Shakespeare and Punch are all the same ; 
 The vanished thoughts do reappear, 
 And shape themselves to fun or fame." 
 
 In later years Mrs. Whitney has published four 
 small collections of verse : " Pansies " (1872), " Holy- 
 tides" (1886), and "Bird Talk" and "Daffodils" 
 (1887). None of these is included in the present 
 collection of her writings. Of her verse as a whole, 
 it is not unjust to say that the public is right in not 
 esteeming it as her chief title to fame. It shows 
 talents that, devoted exclusively to this kind of com 
 position, might have given her high rank among the 
 poets of America, since the conception of her poems 
 is usually much above the formal embodiment of it. 
 Most of her verse is contemplative, religious, with a 
 tinge of mysticism. Her tendency is to see the 
 hidden meaning, not in some things, but in every 
 thing 
 
206 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 " As the Swedish seer contends, 
 All things comprise an inner sense." 
 
 This, which doubtless constitutes the charm of her 
 verses to readers like-minded, is rather a bar to the 
 appreciation of them by the many. 
 
 III. 
 
 IT was not until the publication of " Boys at Che- 
 quasset," in 1862, that Mrs. Whitney really found her 
 vocation. She has done much better work since, but 
 Finding her that story is still as fresh and pleasing as 
 vocation. w hen it was written. Her portrait of 
 " Johnnie," the careless, slovenly, hurry-scurry boy, 
 is true to the life, and the process of his reformation 
 is ingeniously worked out, without too great a draft 
 on one s credulity or the making of him into a hate 
 ful prig. Five books then followed in quick succes 
 sion, of which to this day many of the author s readers 
 do not know which is their favorite : " Faith Gart- 
 ney s Girlhood" (1863); " The Gayworthys" (1865); 
 "A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite s Life" (1866); 
 " Patience Strong s Outings" (1868); and " Hitherto" 
 (1869). Mrs. Whitney may have done as good work 
 since, opinions might conceivably differ as to that, 
 but probably nobody will affirm that she has done 
 better work than in these five stories. They mark 
 the summit of her achievement in fiction, and by 
 them the quality and value of that achievement may 
 be fairly tested. 
 
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 2O? 
 
 The first and most vivid impression made by these 
 books is that their author knows how to tell a story. 
 This is not so common a faculty as might be sup 
 posed. Some of the greatest novelists have lacked it. 
 Some have been destitute of it altogether, 
 
 , , , . . i A story-teller. 
 
 and are great nevertheless, but their ad 
 mirers are comparatively few. A writer with some 
 thing of Scott s gift of story-telling can win the hearts 
 of his readers though he fail in pretty much every 
 thing else, while one who has this talent in small 
 measure must have shining gifts indeed to compen 
 sate for its absence. Mrs. Whitney gets the reader s 
 attention at the outset and holds it by the interest of 
 her story. But this is by no means her only hold on 
 the reader; she has the power of characterization, of 
 making us believe in the solid reality of the person 
 ages with whom she peoples her books. Scott s 
 books are fascinating for their stories, but could 
 anything be more shadowy and unsubstantial than 
 his Ivanhoes and Quentin Durwards, his Peverils 
 and Guy Mannerings? Who ever thinks of them as 
 he thinks of Falstafif and Hamlet, and in a less degree 
 of Faith Gartney and Patience Strong? Mrs. Whit 
 ney s readers have been known to hold long discus 
 sions regarding the people of her stories, in which 
 their actions and characters were canvassed and com 
 pared, and such discussions sometimes have waxed 
 warm. People do not work themselves into a state 
 of high moral indignation over personages of a novel, 
 unless the author has a large measure of creative 
 
208 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-LAY. 
 
 power, and so makes her pen-and-ink men and 
 women as real as flesh and blood to her readers. 
 
 The power of these books is largely due to their 
 style. How Mrs. Whitney might write if she at 
 tempted something in prose outside of fiction, one can 
 only guess. In that case her work might or might 
 not deserve to be commended for its literary graces. 
 The quality of her style that gives it savor and effec 
 tiveness in her stories is its homeliness. 
 
 Her homely 
 
 style. c^ does not disdain the vocabulary of 
 
 ordinary every-day life, the English that New England 
 people use when they are not trying to be elegant 
 and to " speak good grammar." She writes as 
 simply, unaffectedly, and directly as people talk, 
 and this naturalness goes a long way towards nc i 
 merely explaining but justifying her popularity. 
 Her young readers feel the value of this quality 
 without being sufficiently analytic to tell what it is ; 
 and her older readers, enjoying it more understand- 
 ingly, know it to be a gift that only a few American 
 writers possess. The bane of modern literature is 
 self-consciousness and affectation ; if Mrs. Whitney s 
 unconsciousness of self is the result of study and 
 labor, she has indeed mastered that last secret of 
 art, apparent artlessness. 
 
 Lively sallies of wit are not so common in these 
 
 stories as that quiet, rather dry humor, born of native 
 
 shrewdness and close observation, which 
 
 distinguishes the Yankee. Emery Ann 
 
 is nearly as keen as the more famous Mrs. Poyser, 
 
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 2OQ 
 
 and a good deal more droll ; and there are other 
 characters nearly her equal. She lacks the poetic 
 insight, the touch of genius, that Mr. Lowell has 
 infused into Hosea Biglow, but in other traits she 
 is his literary twin-sister. Genuine humor is a rare 
 quality in women who write novels, and one ought 
 to be proportionately grateful when he finds it so 
 plentiful and of so high quality as in Mrs. Whitney s 
 books. 
 
 This leaves for mention at the very last, what many 
 would put first of all, the religious tone of these and 
 other stories by Mrs. Whitney. Some 
 
 Religious tone. 
 
 readers do not value this part of her 
 work so highly, for several reasons. One is that 
 the writer too often makes her books and even her 
 characters " preachy." This is always bad art, but 
 it is also bad from the moralist s point of view, be 
 cause it is comparatively ineffective. The only moral 
 worth inculcating in a work of fiction is one that does 
 not need to be inculcated, the impression that the 
 simple telling of the story, the mere working out of 
 character, the unavoidable results of wrong-doing 
 and the equally certain reward of goodness, make 
 upon the reader without the author s comment. It 
 is only the crude beginner in art who needs to put 
 beneath his picture, " This is a horse," and there is 
 something wrong about a story if its moral must be 
 impressed on the reader by little preachments, whether 
 the author s own or put into the mouths of her char 
 acters. Many sayings in Mrs. Whitney s books that 
 
210 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 would be admirable in a book of moral maxims, or in 
 a collection of religious meditations, are better fitted 
 to provoke the scoffer than to comfort and strengthen 
 the saint, in their present location. 
 
 Another fact that lessens the appreciation of some 
 for the religious element of these stories has already 
 been mentioned in another connection, their fre- 
 Hermysti- quent, not to say prevailing, tone of mys 
 ticism. The trail of Emanuel Swedenborg 
 is over them all. Swedenborg is the one great re 
 ligious writer one calls him great in deference to 
 the opinions of others from whom many would 
 confess without shame that they have never been 
 able to extract the least profit, and barely the sem 
 blance of an idea. It is difficult to have patience 
 with anybody who pretends to understand him, or 
 to extract profound truths from his chaos of words. 
 His mysticism seems only one degree more intellec 
 tually respectable than theosophy. There are mul 
 titudes of readers of Mrs. Whitney in such case. It 
 may argue a defect of mind or of soul in them that 
 they are unable to see the thing that is not, let 
 us grant this to be the case; but because of this 
 defect they cannot find in a considerable part of 
 Mrs. Whitney s religious teachings the comfort 
 and inspiration that some profess to derive from 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney s books for many years showed a 
 growing artistic power. The " preachy " tone she 
 
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 211 
 
 outgrew in good part, and with experience in author 
 ship her touch became more sure, her mastery of her 
 materials more complete. Her last books, A growing 
 if they have not greatly surpassed the power - 
 others, have at least shown no waning of her powers ; 
 and in some of them she has shown her ability to 
 write about and for others than young people. Pre 
 dictions regarding the future rank of the authors of 
 our own day are about as valuable as the " oldest 
 inhabitant s" confident remarks about to-morrow s 
 weather, but there seems to be no good reason to 
 question that Mrs. Whitney s books will continue to 
 instruct and delight more than one generation of 
 Americans after all her present readers are gathered 
 to their fathers. 
 
XIII. 
 
 BRET HARTE. 
 
 NOTHING in the history of this Western world 
 is more romantic than the story of California. 
 Though it was early settled by Spaniards, it had 
 little part in the life of this continent, until the 
 revolutionary action of "The Pathfinder" secured 
 its addition to the Union. Even then its develop- 
 The Argonauts ment would have becm slow, in the 
 of>49< natural course of events, but events did 
 
 not take their natural course. The discovery of 
 gold precipitated upon the Pacific coast a horde of 
 adventurous spirits, and California advanced by 
 great leaps towards civilization and Statehood. In 
 a single generation the work of centuries was 
 accomplished. Cities sprang up as if built by the 
 slaves of Aladdin s lamp. Forests were hewn 
 down, and what forests ! Vast engineering enter 
 prises were undertaken and accomplished; railways 
 were built, mountains were tunnelled, rivers were 
 bridged, streams were turned from their beds to do 
 the bidding of man. Those who made this new 
 commonwealth out of a wilderness were no weak 
 lings. The difficulties of the overland trail and of 
 
BRET HARTE. 21$ 
 
 the Cape Horn voyage produced a natural selection 
 of the fittest. As their best historian tells us: 
 "The faith, courage, vigor, youth, and capacity for 
 adventure necessary to this emigration produced a 
 body of men as strongly distinctive as the com 
 panions of Jason. Unlike most pioneers, the 
 majority were men of profession and education; 
 all were young, and all had staked their fortune in 
 the enterprise. . . . Eastern magazines and current 
 Eastern literature formed their literary recreation, 
 and the sale of the better class of periodicals was 
 singularly great. . . . The author records that he 
 has experienced more difficulty in procuring a copy 
 of Punch in an English provincial town than was 
 his fortune at Red Dog or One-Horse Gulch. " 
 Thrown upon their own resources altogether, 
 separated by almost the breadth of a continent from 
 civilization, these new-comers rapidly developed 
 social and moral standards of their own, improvised 
 laws for their government, and executed these laws 
 with such celerity, impartiality, and substantial 
 equity as civilized jurisprudence may envy but can 
 hardly hope to surpass. Though the A picturesque 
 majority of these Argonauts were men era< 
 of education and conscience, there was a strong 
 sprinkling of the vicious, the degraded, the crimi 
 nal classes among them. Freed from artificial 
 restraints, and from the softening influences of 
 womankind, the natural man showed himself in 
 this pioneer life, and made of it something wilder, 
 
214 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 more picturesque, more individual in flavor than 
 has been known elsewhere on this continent, the 
 like of which has, indeed, seldom been seen any 
 where. It was altogether fitting that this pioneer 
 life, with its vices and its virtues, should be em 
 balmed in literature; and the man for the times 
 was found in a young printer of San Francisco. 
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE he has of late years 
 dropped the first of these names, presumably given 
 Birth and boy- nim bv nis sponsors in baptism was 
 hooA born in Albany, August 25, 1839. His 
 
 father was a teacher in the Female Seminary of 
 that city, which was then one of the noted schools 
 of the State. He was a man of culture and taste, 
 but died when his son was a mere lad, leaving his 
 family unprovided for. Why his widow should 
 have gone to California in 1854 is not recorded, 
 and such a course on her part baffles conjecture; 
 but go she did, and the youthful Bret went with 
 her, to his own ultimate good fortune, and the 
 greater fortune of American literature. The boy, 
 under these circumstances, was unusually lucky 
 to get even the common-school education that we 
 are assured he received; and at no advanced age, 
 we may be sure, he was compelled to look out for 
 himself. His first experiment in this line is said 
 to have been in his father s footsteps; he walked 
 
BRET HARTE. 215 
 
 from San Francisco to Sonora and opened a school. 
 This enterprise was unsuccessful, not, we may 
 be sure, owing to lack of push and zeal in the 
 teacher, and he next turned his attention to min 
 ing. Failing in this also, he thereupon obtained 
 employment in a printing-office and became a 
 compositor. 
 
 From type-setting to literature is but a short 
 step, and Bret Harte was not long in taking it. In 
 a lately printed newspaper " interview " he has told 
 us of a still earlier literary venture of his, a 
 poem called "Autumn Musings." He remarks that 
 " it was written at the mature age of eleven. It 
 was satirical in character, and cast upon the fading 
 year the cynical light of my repressed dis- First attempt 
 satisfaction with things in general. I atwritin s- 
 addressed the envelope to the New York Sunday 
 Atlas, at that time a journal of some literary 
 repute in New York, where I was then living. 
 
 "I was not quite certain how the family would 
 regard this venture on my part, and I posted the 
 missive with the utmost secrecy. After that I 
 waited for over a week in a state of suspense that 
 entirely absorbed me. Sunday came, and with it 
 the newspapers. These were displayed on a stand 
 on the street near our house, and held in their 
 places I shall never forget them with stones. 
 With an unmoved face, but a beating heart, I 
 scanned the topmost copy of the Atlas. To my 
 dying day I shall remember the thrill that came 
 
2l6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 from seeing Autumn Musings, a poem, on the 
 first page. I don t know that the headline type 
 was any larger than usual, but to me it was colossal. 
 It had something of the tremendousness of a three- 
 sheet poster. I bought the paper and took it home. 
 I exhibited it to the family by slow and cautious 
 /stages. My hopes sank lower and lower. At last 
 { realized the enormity of my offence. The lamen 
 tation was general. It was unanimously conceded 
 that I was lost, and I fully believed it. My idea 
 of a poet it was the family s idea also was the 
 Hogarthian one, born of a book of Hogarth s draw 
 ings belonging to my father. In the lean and 
 miserable and helpless guise of The Distressed 
 Poet, as therein pictured, I saw, aided by the 
 family, my probable future. It was a terrible 
 experience. I sometimes wonder that I ever wrote 
 another line of verse." 
 
 Budding genius is not to be so lightly repressed, 
 however, and Harte had not set type long before he 
 had aspirations after the higher walks of journalism. 
 His first articles were composed at the case, with 
 out the intervention of a manuscript, and these con 
 tributions apparently found favor with his superiors, 
 for during the absence of the editor he was some 
 what rashly put in charge of the paper. The sub 
 scribers were largely miners, and some of the young 
 editor s squibs so seriously offended them that 
 there was a hasty return of the editor and an abrupt 
 termination of the young man s editorial experi- 
 
BRET HARTE. 21? 
 
 ence. He had however, found his vocation, though, 
 for a time, he was himself but half-conscious of the 
 fact. 
 
 II. 
 
 DRIFTING back to San Francisco, Mr. Harte found 
 employment as a compositor on the "Golden Era." 
 A young author who has once seen himself in print, 
 is no more to be restrained from gratify- From case " 
 ing his passion than a young tiger who todesk> 
 has for the first time tasted blood. There began to 
 appear in the " Golden Era " anonymous sketches 
 of frontier and mining life, and the conductors of 
 the paper were not long in making inquiries about 
 their authorship. When the young type-setter was 
 discovered to be the guilty man, he was invited to 
 lay down his "stick" ajid take up the pen. His 
 editorial experience here was not long, however, 
 for we find him soon after in charge of a literary 
 weekly, called the "San Francisco Californian." 
 It was in this paper that his clever " Condensed 
 Novels " first made their appearance. 
 
 However cultivated Californians may have been 
 in the sixties, and however well they may have 
 patronized the literary periodicals of the East, and 
 even of Europe, they do not appear to have appre 
 ciated their home product. "The Californian" 
 lived for a time at a poor dying rate, and at length 
 ceased to live at all. Mr. Harte then secured, in 
 1864, an appointment as secretary of the United 
 
2l8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 States Mint in San Francisco, a post that he con 
 tinued to hold for six years, with satisfaction to 
 himself and his superior officers. His duties were 
 not so onerous that he was unable to continue his 
 literary labors; on the contrary, he wrote steadily, 
 if not profusely, and laid the foundations 
 
 Writes poems. 
 
 of his reputation as a poet. "John Burns 
 of Gettysburg," justly esteemed one of his best 
 poems, belongs to this period; so does "The Society 
 upon the Stanislaus," one of the best known and 
 most frequently quoted of his humorous poems. 
 There are few, even of those inveterate newspaper 
 readers that seldom look into a book, who have not 
 heard of the animated debate provoked in that grave 
 society by Mr. Brown s discovery of some fossil 
 bones, or the sad fate of one man, when 
 
 " A chunk of old red sandstone, took him in the abdomen, 
 And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the 
 
 floor, 
 And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more." 
 
 These poems were first published in the San Fran 
 cisco newspapers, but they caught the public fancy 
 and were widely copied, giving the author his first 
 taste of a continental fame. 
 
 It is a curious fact, and one on which Mr. Harte 
 himself dwells with bitter philosophy, that his 
 without honor efforts to portray the pioneer life that he 
 
 in his own 
 
 country. knew so well, whether in prose or verse, 
 
 met with little local reward. Of reward in the 
 shape of hard cash, we are justified in believing 
 
BRET HARTE. 2IQ 
 
 that they received nothing at all. Of praise they 
 received only just enough to keep the author from 
 throwing down his pen in despair. The educated 
 men of California had been trained in a different 
 school of literature; their taste had been formed on 
 the English and American classics. Shakespeare 
 they knew, and Wordsworth, and Bryant, and Poe, 
 but who was this upstart, with his mixture of local 
 slang and queer morals, to deserve their admiration ? 
 Once more a prophet had appeared to make good 
 the ancient saying; and it was not until the plaudits 
 of the cultured East greeted Bret Harte as the 
 rising star of a new literature that he found honor 
 in his own country. By that time he had shaken 
 the dust of California from his feet forever. 
 
 This is, however, to anticipate our story some 
 what. In July, 1868, was begun the publication of 
 "The Overland Monthly," a somewhat Aneditor 
 ambitious periodical that aspired to be 
 for the Pacific coast what "The Atlantic Monthly" 
 had become for the East. Mr. Harte had so far 
 established his reputation that he was indicated to 
 the publisher as the best man to conduct the edi 
 torial part of the new enterprise. It seemed to the 
 editor to be a defect in the first number published 
 that it contained no romance distinctively Cali- 
 fornian; and accordingly he set himself to work to 
 remedy the defect. " The Luck of Roaring Camp " 
 was the result of his labors. Having sent the 
 manuscript to the printer, the editor-author was 
 
220 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY 
 
 fairly entitled to consider his work ended, but it 
 turned out to be just begun. One who reads the 
 story now can hardly credit the account of the row 
 that was raised over its publication. The trouble 
 was begun by the proof-reader, and the printer took 
 the extraordinary course of returning the proofs, 
 not to the editor, but to the publisher, with the 
 emphatic declaration that the matter was "so in 
 decent, irreligious, and improper," that his reader 
 (a young woman) had with difficulty been induced 
 to continue its perusal. One can hardly credit, 
 also, that such a characterization of the story 
 received the least attention from the publisher, 
 still less that it produced an acute editorial crisis. 
 Such, however, we are assured by Mr. Harte, was 
 the fact Ultimately the publisher decided to stand 
 by the literary judgment of his editor, and not to 
 have his magazine edited by the printer and proof 
 reader, but it was with fear and trembling that he 
 saw the number go out. Its reception in California 
 must have confirmed his worst misgivings, but the 
 An immediate verdict of the East was different. The 
 success. return mail brought a letter to the author 
 
 from the publishers of the "Atlantic Monthly," 
 requesting, on the most flattering terms, a story for 
 that magazine similar to " The Luck of Roaring 
 Camp." Mr. Harte tells us that when he placed 
 this letter in the hands of his publisher, he felt his 
 compensation to be complete. He had caught the 
 ear of the public at last. He had discovered the 
 
BRET HARTE. 221 
 
 vein that he could profitably spend the rest of his 
 life in working. 
 
 From this time, during the brief continuance of 
 his California life, stories and poems flowed rapidly 
 from Bret Harte s pen. "The Outcasts of Poker 
 Flat" deepened the impression made by his first 
 tale, and is considered by many to be his finest 
 story. "Higgles," "Tennessee s Partner," and 
 other stories came in quick succession, and the 
 crowning touch was given to his popularity by 
 the appearance in the number of the "Overland 
 Monthly" for September, 1870, of "Plain Language 
 from Truthful James," the well-known T he -Heathen 
 verses about Ah Sin, the Heathen Chinee. Chlnee -" 
 This poem is of slight literary value, compared 
 with some of Mr. Harte s other work in verse, but 
 it is a clever skit enough, and it happened to appear 
 just at the time to meet with the heartiest welcome. 
 Lines and phrases of it became household words all 
 over the United States, and in spite of being now 
 familiar even to triteness, they are still quoted by 
 newspapers and public speakers as the word most 
 pat to the occasion when John Chinaman is dis 
 cussed. The satire of the poem exposed better, 
 perhaps, than sober argument could, the shallow- 
 ness of the grounds on which the cry, " The Chinese 
 must go," was raised. One questions whether some 
 of the author s unpopularity in California may not 
 be due to this championship of oppressed and mal 
 treated John. 
 
222 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 III. 
 
 IN the year following the publication of this 
 poem Bret Harte left California, and has never 
 Leaves Call- returned. He had won a public for him- 
 fornia - self, but not on the Pacific Coast; there 
 
 his recognition was slight from the first, and is still 
 anything but general or fervid. Even now there 
 are Californians who assert very positively that 
 Bret Harte is not a representative Californian 
 writer; that he has resided so long abroad as to 
 lose his connection with the State, and that his 
 books portray a condition of society that has long 
 ceased to exist. Something very like antipathy is 
 felt towards him now on the Pacific coast, instead 
 of the cold indifference with which his first work 
 was received there. Before he left, however, he 
 had won recognition of a certain sort from those 
 who were qualified to appreciate good work, as is 
 shown by the fact that in 1870 he was appointed 
 Professor of Recent Literature in the University 
 of California. It does not appear that he ever did 
 any work in connection with this chair, and he 
 could not have held it more than a single year, for 
 in 1871 he came to New York. 
 
 It was a somewhat Bohemian existence that he 
 led in the metropolis, with no certain source of 
 income and no regular occupation. There was at 
 one time some talk of founding a literary periodi- 
 
BRET HARTE. 22$ 
 
 cal in Chicago to be conducted by him, but the 
 capital apparently was not forthcoming; at any 
 rate, nothing came of it. He continued 
 
 Bohemianism. 
 
 to contribute stories to the "Atlantic 
 Monthly," and, we believe, made pot-boilers for 
 New York journals; but perhaps his best known 
 work of this period was his lecture on "The Argo 
 nauts of 49." This lecture was delivered in many 
 places, and must have been a considerable pecuniary 
 success; but Mr. Harte failed to make a deep im 
 pression on the lecture-hearing public and gained 
 no permanent place in the lyceum field. This was 
 perhaps as well for him. Had he been gifted with 
 elocutionary graces that win the favor of ordinary 
 audiences he might have been tempted from his 
 legitimate work. 
 
 It was in 1878 that he left his native country, 
 practically for good, for though he may have made 
 a brief visit or two since then, he has 
 
 . ITT GoeS abr0at *- 
 
 resided most of the time abroad. He 
 was first appointed consul to Crefeld, Germany, 
 by President Hayes, and in 1880 was transferred 
 to Glasgow. In this latter place he remained until 
 a change of administration in 1885 and the exigen 
 cies of politics compelled his retirement. Since 
 that time he has lived for the most part in London. 
 He is a favorite in English society, and appears 
 definitely to have joined that small but select body 
 of Americans who for one reason or another have 
 voluntarily expatriated themselves. From the time 
 
224 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 of his going abroad to the present moment there is 
 little to tell about him, except the titles of the 
 books he has published. These have been quite 
 numerous, and all in the same vein with his " Luck 
 of Roaring Camp" and other early tales. They 
 merely repeat and amplify the picture of life and 
 manners that he drew for us in that first volume. 
 The most indulgent critic can say no more of these 
 later volumes than that they are not unworthy of 
 what he published before 1870. 
 
 IV. 
 
 BRET HARTE is a singular example of the force 
 that lies in narrowness. Speaking broadly, he is 
 able to do just one thing well, and that 
 is to delineate the life with which he 
 became familiar in his early days. He can do that 
 only in one way, through the medium of the short 
 story. No, that is not just; he can also do it 
 through the dialect ballad. There is no better 
 work of the kind than "Dow s Flat" and other 
 poems of a similar tone that he wrote late in the 
 sixties. But in recent years he seems to have 
 abandoned verse as medium of expression, and con 
 fined himself to prose. He has also, with a single 
 exception, confined himself to the short story in 
 his fictions. His "Gabriel Conroy " (Hartford, 
 1876), the one case in which he attempted a full- 
 grown novel, was something very like a failure, 
 
BRET HARTE. 22$ 
 
 as near as a man of genius can come to failure 
 when he attempts something beyond his powers. 
 He was convinced by that experiment that his forte 
 was in another direction, and has had the practical 
 good sense to heed the lesson. This is not a 
 .common thing among authors, who seem to have 
 the same kind of fondness for the works condemned 
 by the world that a mother has for a deformed or 
 feeble-minded child. Milton thought his "Para 
 dise Regained" superior to his "Paradise Lost;" 
 Bunyan could never see that the second p er versity 
 part of "The Pilgrim s Progress" was ofauthors - 
 unequal to the first; and of all his poems Tennyson 
 considered " Maud " the best. Tennyson affords an 
 even more melancholy instance of wilfulness in his 
 persistent writing of dramatic works, the best of 
 which is not above second or third class. Mr. 
 Harte is therefore to be credited with unusual 
 intelligence in the perception of what he could do 
 best, and uncommon self-control in restricting him 
 self to that kind of work. There is an advantage 
 not to be lightly esteemed* in thus restricting one s 
 sphere. Breadth is very well when it does not 
 mean shallowness, but with narrowness commonly 
 goes a certain depth and force. None of our 
 American writers has been narrower in range 
 than Hawthorne and Poe, and of all our writers 
 they are the most intense. 
 
 Much objection has been raised to some of Bret 
 Harte s stories on the ground of their supposed 
 
226 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 immoral tendency. It must be admitted by his 
 most ardent admirers that he decidedly prefers as 
 Alleged immo- heroes and heroines of his tales people 
 
 of shady antecedents, social outcasts 
 preferred, but anybody who is in the habit of daily 
 shattering a few of the commandments will answer 
 his purpose. It is a remarkable fact, however, that 
 the depravity of his characters is little more than 
 skin deep; the worst of them are capable on occa 
 sion of transcendent deeds of heroism and self- 
 sacrifice. His villains are, in truth, not very 
 villanous, for their failings have a strong leaning 
 to virtue s side. One suspects that their wicked, 
 ness is only a quality imputed to them by the 
 author to make them more interesting. It must 
 be confessed that he has some justification for this 
 course. Simple goodness, as material for fiction, 
 is not very available; it is so often simple dulness. 
 After all, from the strict moralist s point of view 
 there can be no objection to the villain in fiction 
 per se, else he must condemn " Paradise Lost " and 
 " Othello " as immoral ^vorks. It is the moral 
 lesson that the author teaches which justifies or 
 condemns his choice of a villain as a hero. Bret 
 Harte makes a spirited, and, one must think, a 
 conclusive reply to the charge of immorality made 
 
 against him on the ground that he has 
 
 His reply. 
 
 shown too much mercy to the wicked: 
 "When it shall be proven to him that commu 
 nities are degraded and brought to guilt and crime, 
 
BRET HARTE. 22; 
 
 suffering or destitution, from a predominance of this 
 quality; when he shall see pardoned ticket-of-leave 
 men elbowing men of austere lives out of situation 
 and position, and the repentant Magdalen supplant 
 ing the blameless virgin in society, then he will 
 lay aside his pen and extend his hand to the new 
 Draconian discipline in fiction. But until then he 
 will, without claiming to be a religious man or a 
 moralist, but simply as an artist, reverently and 
 humbly conform to the rules laid down by a Great 
 Poet, who created the parable of the Prodigal Son 
 and the Good Samaritan, whose works have lasted 
 eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the 
 present writer and his generation are forgotten." 
 
 The real objection to Bret Harte s stories does 
 not rest on moral, but on artistic grounds. The 
 trouble with his villains is not that they The real objec . 
 are too bad, but that they are not bad tion 
 enough, that is to say, they are not real. Such 
 villains never were on sea or land outside of his 
 stories, unless we except the Bowery stage in the 
 melodrama of "ye olden time." There is a glare 
 of the footlights, an atmosphere of the theatre, 
 about too many of these tales, not the best of 
 them, for the best work of Mr. Harte is free from 
 this defect, and ranks among the choicest in recent 
 American literature. Another artistic defect in 
 these tales is that their sentiment does not ring 
 true; it often flats into sentimentality. More than 
 any of our other American writers of fiction, Mr. 
 
228 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Harte is a disciple of Dickens, and he unfortunately 
 often falls into the mawkishness of his master. 
 He does not attempt the tender-pathetic with any 
 "Little Nells" and "Paul Dombeys," but he 
 preaches to satiety the duty of charity to the pub 
 lican and the sinner. We tire of it, precisely as 
 we tire of the sentimental gush of Dickens about 
 Christmas, and for the same reason, not merely 
 that there is too much of it, but that it does not 
 seem to be quite the genuine thing. 
 
 In his verse Bret Harte has shown a somewhat 
 wider range. He does to perfection the humorous 
 dialect rhymes in which his favorite Californians 
 figure, but he strikes other and higher keys. Of 
 these his "John Burns," as already noted, is one 
 fine example, and others are "Dickens in Camp," 
 "Twenty Years," "Telemachus and his Mentor," 
 "Half an Hour before Supper," "To the Pliocene 
 Skull," and "Mrs. Judge Jenkins." Each of these 
 represents a different manner, and each is of high 
 excellence in its way. Had Mr. Harte been able to 
 devote himself more exclusively to verse, one is 
 warranted in believing that his name would have 
 ranked high among American poets. 
 
 It is a fact not to be passed by, that Bret Harte 
 is one of the few American authors whose popu- 
 Popuiarity larity is even greater abroad than at 
 abroad. home. Our English kin have a standard 
 
 of literary excellence much like our own, but they 
 have also an ideal peculiar to themselves of what is 
 
BRET HARTE, 22Q 
 
 or should be American, and they are very exacting 
 critics in this regard. They will not admit any 
 thing to be distinctively American unless it has 
 some flavor of wildness, some garb of uncouthness. 
 It is the same tendency of mind that makes the 
 cockney tourist look about the streets of New York 
 for the aborigines in paint and feathers that he has 
 taught himself to expect, and to be vastly surprised 
 at being told that he cannot hunt buffaloes and 
 other big game in the immediate vicinity of our 
 great cities. It is the good fortune of Bret Harte 
 and one or two other American writers to have 
 profited by this peculiarity of the reading Briton. 
 Nobody will envy him his good fortune. One 
 could wish, however, that the Briton might learn 
 to admire, not with less of heartiness, but with 
 more of intelligent discrimination, the literary work 
 of the American Cousin. 
 
XIV. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 
 
 VERSATILITY is too common a trait in 
 Americans to be regarded as characteristic 
 of any individual, and American men of letters 
 are by no means lacking in this national idiosyn 
 crasy. There is here and there one among the 
 knights of the quill, nevertheless, who realizes so 
 fully the traditional accomplishments of the admir 
 able Crichton as to become a constant wonder to 
 his brother workers and a positive marvel to the 
 general. Reaching supreme excellence 
 
 Versatility. 
 
 in no one thing, perhaps, but only just 
 missing it in several things, and doing half a score 
 as only the picked men of his generation can do 
 them, if there were an "all around" champion 
 ship in literature as there is in athletics it would 
 surely fall to a man of this type. Such a man was 
 Lowell; such a man was Oliver Wendell Holmes; 
 but perhaps of all the American writers of our day 
 the one who excels in this "all around" work is 
 Edward Everett Hale. He has raised versatility 
 to the th power, and covered with ignominy the 
 hoary old proverb, for while he might be called a 
 Jack at all trades, he is master of all. Nihil tetigit 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 
 
 the saying is something musty, but as applied to 
 him its truth redeems it from triteness and gives 
 it fresh currency. He has done much to give the 
 world innocent amusement ; he has done even more 
 to make the world better. 
 
 SOME witty but not very reverent American has 
 remarked that a man who is fortunate enough to be 
 born in Boston does not need to be born 
 again. This felicity was Mr. Kale s in 
 1822. His ancestry was no less fortunate than his 
 birthplace. The founder of the family was the 
 Rev. John Hale, a divine of some repute in the 
 Salem witchcraft days. The reverend John was a 
 believer in witchcraft at the first, as we learn from 
 his treatise, "A Modest Inquiry into the Nature of 
 Witchcraft," published in 1697, but he afterwards 
 came to a more rational view of the matter. Curi 
 ously enough, he was the only minister in the 
 family for several generations, all his descendants 
 becoming either physicians or journalists. The 
 literary bent in the family has always been strong, 
 especially so in the immediate family of Dr. Hale. 
 The father was a journalist; an elder brother, 
 Nathan, followed in his footsteps; and a sister, 
 Lucretia P., is a well-known writer for the maga 
 zines and author of books. They all took to liter 
 ature as naturally as if ink and not blood was the 
 
232 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 circulating fluid in their veins. Of his early Boston 
 days Dr. Hale has lately given us a series of very 
 interesting reminiscences, called " Recollections of 
 a New England Boyhood." The book lacks the hu 
 mor of Warner and Aldrich, and the keen observa 
 tion of Howells, but it supplements their boyhood 
 autobiographies very pleasantly. 
 
 Dr. Hale s education was gained in the Boston 
 
 Latin School and at Harvard College, where he 
 
 was graduated in 1839. The next two 
 
 Education. 
 
 years were spent in teaching and the 
 study of theology, and in 1842 he was licensed. 
 For several years he did not have a settled charge, 
 but preached in various Unitarian churches. In 
 1846 he was pastor at Worcester, but the settlement 
 was a brief one, for the following year he received 
 a call from the South Congregational church, of 
 Boston. This church, one notes by the way, has 
 never abandoned its orthodox name, though it gave 
 up its orthodox faith early in the great Unitarian 
 defection. Here for nearly half a century he has 
 been the conscientious and hard-working pastor of 
 a great city parish, and his pulpit has been a 
 recognized force in the religious life of Boston 
 during all those years. 
 
 Dr. Hale is so much better known to the general 
 public as a man of letters than as a Christian min 
 ister, one may be pardoned for dwelling 
 a little on this feature of his work. He 
 is not a theologian. By that one does not mean 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 233 
 
 that he may not be learned in the history of dogma, 
 and well versed in current theological speculation, 
 or even an original thinker on the great problems 
 of religion, but merely that he has not chosen to 
 give the results of his study and thought to the 
 world in formal theological treatises. He is not a 
 great pulpit orator. There was a time when no 
 visitor to the metropolis was thought to have seen 
 the great show properly until he "went to hear 
 Beecher. " Dr. Hale has never been a part of 
 Boston s show in that way. There have been sensa 
 tionalists like the late "Adirondack" Murray, and 
 genuine Christian preachers like Phillips Brooks, 
 who have been more prominent in the public prints 
 and have caught the popular ear more successfully, 
 but this sort of popularity is no real measure of a 
 preacher s influence. Dr. Hale, without being a 
 great orator, is a preacher of originality, freshness, 
 pungency, practicality. Moreover, he does not 
 preach negations, he does not engage in dialectic 
 duels with orthodoxy or agnosticism, but faithfully 
 preaches the positive truth as he understands it. 
 He does not preach morals, he preaches religion. 
 And therefore, while there have been other men, 
 now this one and now that, who have temporarily 
 seemed to have more vogue with the people of 
 Boston than he, there has been no more powerful 
 and constant religious force in that city during 
 the past half century than the pulpit of the South 
 Church. 
 
234 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Nor has he been a preacher and writer so exclu 
 sively as to seclude himself from his people and 
 hold himself exempt from the duties of a 
 pastor. He has faithfully shepherded 
 the flock. There has been a well-trodden path 
 between his study door and the homes of his people, 
 and none have gone to him in vain for sympathy, 
 for consolation, for help. He has not frittered away 
 his time in making social, gossipy calls on his 
 parishioners, which is the ideal of pastoral visita 
 tion that widely obtains among both ministers and 
 laymen, but he has not spared his time or strength 
 wherever he could be of real service in ministering 
 to the sick or the afflicted. In his case charity 
 has begun at home, though it has not ended there. 
 
 II. 
 
 DR. HALE first won public recognition as a man 
 of letters through the "Atlantic Monthly." In 
 one of the early numbers of that magazine his " My 
 Double, and How he Undid me " almost immediately 
 became widely known and highly appreciated. This 
 success was repeated and intensified by other con 
 tributions to the same periodical, that placed him 
 at once in the front rank of story-writers. The 
 most famous of these stories, of course, is " The 
 Man Without a Country," and it strik- 
 
 Philip Nolan. * . 
 
 ingly illustrates the author s chief char 
 acteristic as a story-writer. This is a power, such 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 235 
 
 as perhaps no writer since Defoe has so fully 
 possessed, of surrounding his tales with an atmos 
 phere of verisimilitude. In reading many authors 
 stories we say, "That might have happened," but 
 after reading Kale s stories we say, "That did 
 happen precisely as it is written." This story of 
 Philip Nolan, though of imagination all compact, 
 has been believed to be historical by thousands of 
 readers, " thousands " is no exaggeration in this 
 case, but rather an understatement, and people of 
 vivid imagination and vague ideas of veracity have 
 even been known to assert that they had seen 
 Philip Nolan and knew him to be no myth. 
 Greater tribute than this to a writer s power could 
 not well be paid. 
 
 "The Skeleton in the Closet," like "My Double," 
 is an example of whimsical humor superadded to 
 this gift of lifelike narration. There are charactem- 
 some American humorists whose stories 
 are very funny, but are so marked by exaggeration 
 of traits that we feel at once, though we may not 
 say, " Nobody could possibly be such a fool ; " and 
 there are other stories whose incidents are so 
 absurd that they could never by any possibility 
 have happened. But when Mr Hale tells us how 
 a hoop-skirt destroyed the Southern Confederacy, 
 while the fundamental idea is deliciously absurd, 
 every link in the chain of fact he forges bears the 
 weight of any test of credibility, it all might have 
 happened just so, and while we read we have no 
 
236 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 doubt that it did so happen, though, of course, we 
 know it did n t. In this power to invent and tell a 
 story bearing all the marks of history, Dr. Hale is 
 without a peer among American writers. 
 
 He is not so successful, however, in dealing with 
 a theme that demands larger treatment. Few 
 
 Novels less writers, indeed, are equally successful 
 successful. in dealmg with the tale and the nov ei. 
 
 The two species of composition demand gifts quite 
 different and not often combined in one person. 
 In a short story incident is everything; there can 
 be no elaborate studies of character; everything 
 must be sketched with a few bold strokes, and 
 there must be no halting by the way. In the 
 novel, on the contrary, the effect is produced by 
 a multitude of details; digressions from the main 
 purpose, if not too frequent or too long, are per 
 missible; and the study of character is far more 
 important than incident. Books like " Ups and 
 Downs " and " Gone to Texas " cannot be called 
 much more than short stories spun out so as to fill 
 a volume. This is merely to say, however, that 
 even so versatile a man of letters as Dr. Hale, 
 while he fails in nothing that he undertakes, does 
 not reach an equal height of excellence in every 
 thing. If his short stories were not of a quality so 
 superlative, his novels might, perhaps, have met 
 with a higher appreciation. What would be bril 
 liant success in another, we count but moderate 
 achievement in him. 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 2$? 
 
 III. 
 
 As a writer of fiction, Dr. Hale has been fairly 
 prolific, but this is only one of the departments of 
 literature cultivated by him. If all his Historian 
 fictions, short and long, were blotted out, 
 he would still have a title to grateful remembrance 
 as a writer of history. Besides being a valued con 
 tributor to many works that do not bear his name, 
 like Winsor s " History of Boston," his name 
 appears on the titlepage of some twelve historical 
 writings. A number of these are "popular" books, 
 the author merely taking his materials from stan 
 dard works and telling the facts in an effective 
 way. "Stories of Discovery" is a good specimen 
 of this kind of work. In other books Dr. Hale has 
 made original and important contributions to his 
 toric knowledge. Witness his paper before the 
 American Antiquarian Society, in which he re 
 counts his discovery of how the State of California 
 received its name; also his volume of "Original 
 Documents from the State Paper Office," in which 
 the true history of Sir Walter Raleigh s first 
 American colony and the colony at Jamestown was 
 first accurately told. 
 
 Had Dr. Hale chosen to devote his energies to 
 the writing of history, he might, without doubt, 
 have taken rank among the greatest historians. 
 The same faculty of life-like narration, of making 
 
238 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 men and events seem intensely real to the reader, 
 that is so great a power in his fictions, would 
 The histories nave t> een a wondrous gift in the writer of 
 " popular -" sober history. This faculty is manifest 
 in the historical writing Dr. Hale has actually 
 given us, but not to the degree one might wish. 
 Indeed, though it seems ungracious to say it, these 
 historical books are less satisfactory to one who 
 studies them critically than the author s other writ 
 ings. They are unsatisfactory mainly because they 
 manifestly fall so far short of what he was and is 
 capable of accomplishing. They are superficial, in 
 many cases, in their treatment of the material. A 
 "popular" book need not be uncritical and un- 
 scholarly; beneath the text should be solid attain 
 ment and careful study, though processes are kept 
 out of sight and only results are given to the reader, 
 as the skeleton gives form and strength to the 
 body, though invisible. Dr. Kale s "popular" 
 books, moreover, are often as slipshod in style as 
 they are superficial in scholarship. They betray 
 marks of haste in composition. They are clever 
 first drafts rather than carefully finished works. 
 This is the penalty of the versatility so remarkable, 
 and the industry not less remarkable, that mark the 
 literary career of Dr. Hale. Nevertheless, when 
 all possible deductions are made, there are but one 
 or two living historians who might not have been 
 proud to write these twelve volumes that bear his 
 name. 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 239 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE most distinguished member of a family of 
 journalists, it was to be expected on general prin 
 ciples that Dr. Hale would, at some time 
 
 Editor. 
 
 of his life, become an editor. He has 
 not merely realized this reasonable expectation, but 
 has had a longer and a more diversified editorial 
 experience than falls to the lot of most men who 
 choose this as their sole calling. He began his 
 apprenticeship to journalism as a mere boy, learn 
 ing to set type in his father s printing-office. It is 
 said of him, and one can easily believe it to be 
 true, that at one time or another he has served in 
 every capacity on the Boston "Advertiser," from 
 reporter up to editor-in-chief. The magazines and 
 weekly newspapers that he has edited would make 
 a respectable catalogue by themselves, and include 
 the "Christian Examiner," "Old and New," "Lend 
 a Hand," and "The New England Magazine." 
 Several periodicals which he has been chiefly in 
 strumental in founding, and edited for a time, 
 either maintain a prosperous existence still or 
 have been absorbed into other ventures still more 
 successful. 
 
 Dr. Hale has always made an admirable editor. 
 He is industrious, methodical, enterprising; he 
 writes well himself, and he is a good judge of 
 others work; he knows what the people will read, 
 
240 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 and at the same time has a high ideal of what they 
 ought to read; and he has the faculty of gathering 
 about him a corps of contributors, and inspiring 
 them with his own enthusiastic purposes. Had he 
 chosen to devote himself fully to daily journalism, 
 what an editor he would have been ! He would 
 have preserved all the best traditions of the Greeley 
 and Raymond school, adding to them a scholarship 
 and a culture that the men of that school too often 
 lacked, and bringing to his work a tone of high- 
 mindedness and Christian principle, without the 
 cant of religion, that daily journalism sorely 
 needs. 
 
 V. 
 
 MANY would regard Dr. Hale s work as a philan 
 thropist as the crown of a busy and diversified 
 career, though it has been incidental, 
 
 Philanthropist. .... 
 
 almost accidental, in his work as a man 
 of letters. It is not an uncommon thing for the 
 publication of a book to become the occasion of a 
 doctrinal propaganda. Rousseau s " Le Contrat 
 Social " is a classic instance, and in our own day 
 Mr. Henry George s "Progress and Poverty," and 
 Mr. Edward Bellamy s "Looking Backward " have 
 furnished other illustrations. It is not by any means 
 so common for a book to give rise to a practical 
 philanthropic movement based on the highest Chris 
 tian morality. Dr. Hale s "Ten Times One is 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 241 
 
 Ten " (Boston, 1870), had this unusual good fortune, 
 thus achieving a success that its author undoubtedly 
 places far above any commercial success attained 
 by his stories. The hero of this tale, Harry Wads- 
 worth, had for his motto : " Look up and not down ; 
 look forward and not back ; look out and not in ; 
 and lend a hand." These clubs of ten, whose for 
 mation and method of work were suggested by this 
 book, have very generally been called " Harry 
 Wadsworth clubs," but, under whatever name, they 
 have extended pretty much around the globe, hav 
 ing representatives not merely on this continent 
 and in Europe, where we might reasonably expect 
 them, but in Asia and Africa and the islands of the 
 Pacific. This was the first successful attempt to 
 enlist young people in Christian work, and was 
 the parent idea to which may be traced the later 
 success of other organizations, like the King s 
 Daughters, and the Young People s Society of 
 Christian Endeavor. The idea of the " Ten " as 
 the unit of organization in the King s Daughters 
 was borrowed directly from Dr. Hale; while its 
 distinctive motto was probably suggested by the 
 publication of another of his stories, "In His 
 Name" (Boston, 1874), a tale of the Waldenses. 
 There seems to be but one reason why these clubs 
 did not have the same rapid growth in membership 
 that the later organizations have had, namely, a 
 prejudice against them in " orthodox " circles, owing 
 to the fact that the clubs originated among Unita- 
 
 16 
 
242 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 rians, a very unworthy feeling, no doubt, but one 
 quite inevitable in the present division of Pro 
 testant Christianity into a multitude of warring 
 sects. Even with this drawback, in a little more 
 than five years after the beginning of the movement 
 these clubs counted a membership of fifty thousand. 
 
 Dr. Hale was a pioneer also in another hopeful 
 cause, the enlistment of young children in religious 
 enterprises. The " Look-up Legion " that he was 
 instrumental in organizing among the children of 
 the Sunday-schools, has had its counterpart in 
 " Band of Hope " temperance societies, in the 
 "Junior Societies" of Christian Endeavor, and in 
 the still more recent "Boys Brigade." All of 
 these organizations, though each proceeds on lines 
 of its own, rest on the principle, to which Dr. 
 Hale was among the first to give outward expres 
 sion, that formation is better than reformation, 
 that we may far easier mould character aright 
 during its plastic stage than remake it when it has 
 hardened into an immoral and un-Christian shape. 
 
 One must not fail to record Dr. Hale s enthusi 
 astic and intelligent championship of popular edu 
 cation. He was one of the earliest and 
 
 Chautauqua. . . , f . , 
 
 has been one of the most constant friends 
 of the Chautauquan idea. From his pen have come 
 some of the most enticing text -books of the Chau 
 tauqua courses, though one must, in good con 
 science, add that they have not always been equal, 
 in accuracy of detail, to the spirit in which they 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 243 
 
 were conceived. He has been a favorite lecturer 
 at the summer school that meets yearly in the 
 Chautauqua assembly. Not only in connection 
 with this movement, but throughout all his career, 
 by voice and pen he has stood for the American 
 idea of popular sovereignty, but the sovereignty 
 of a people trained in the fear of God and in the 
 knowledge of God s world. 
 
 It is probable, nay, morally certain, that this 
 account of Dr. Hale s protean activity fails to do 
 him more than approximate justice. He has lived 
 so full a life, that only an official biographer, with 
 access to his papers and documents, can do more 
 than vaguely outline the scope of his activities. 
 The injunction of Scripture, " Whatsoever thy hand 
 findeth to do, do it with thy might," he has fulfilled 
 more completely than most men, and his hands 
 have found so many things to do! Such a life 
 reminds one of the Indian proverb, quoted by Sir 
 William Jones, "Words are the daughters of earth, 
 and deeds are the sons of heaven." 
 
 VI. 
 
 IT may seem to some readers somewhat incon 
 gruous to assign so much space, in an essay osten 
 sibly devoted to literary criticism, to the 
 
 . f t 
 
 non-literary undertakings of a man like 
 
 Dr. Hale. Yet the procedure has its justification. 
 To know any man s books it is a great help, if not 
 
244 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 an indispensable requisite, to know the man. It 
 is also necessary, to judge the books properly, to 
 know what has been accomplished through them. 
 There are American authors who have written books 
 more perfect in form than those of Dr. Hale; but 
 his books, as the history of many of them has 
 proved, have a power such as few American authors 
 have shown. A marble statue may be more per 
 fect, in the artist s judgment, than a living man; 
 but the living man, capable of conceiving and 
 achieving great things, is worth more to the world 
 than the lifeless marble with all its perfections. 
 Dr. Kale s books may not live in the literature of 
 the future, that is, some of them may not, but 
 they will survive through all generations in the 
 characters of men and women made nobler and 
 stronger through their influence. 
 
 A still further apology may be made for any 
 shortcomings in this account of the purely literary 
 work of Dr. Hale. It is so appallingly voluminous 
 Voluminous- ^ n extent. He has written and published 
 fifty volumes; a complete bibliography 
 would make the number rather over than under the 
 half-hundred mark. It would be manifestly absurd, 
 with such a row of books staring him in the face, 
 for a critic to attempt anything like a detailed 
 examination of them in less space than an entire 
 volume. The most that can be done is to select 
 representatives of each class, and thus give a fairly 
 comprehensive account of the work as a whole, 
 
EDWARD EVEKETT HALE. 24$ 
 
 without attempting exhaustive completeness. This 
 is what has been attempted in this paper, and 
 only a few things remain to be said by way of 
 summing up. 
 
 Dr. Hale, in nearly all that he has written, has 
 had a higher purpose than merely to amuse; in 
 spirit and aim he has always been the A iwa y sthe 
 preacher, whatever he may have been preacher 
 doing. To say this will be to pronounce his con 
 demnation, in the judgment of some narrow theo 
 rists, who prate of "art for art s sake," as if all 
 truth had been finally committed to their hands for 
 exposition and defence. But if Dr. Hale has always 
 been preacher, as man of letters he has always been 
 artist. His professional fondness for homiletics 
 has never confused in his mind the distinction 
 between sermon and story. Hence, while his fic 
 tion always preaches, it is never "preachy." He 
 has learned the secret of teaching without didac 
 ticism. He never wrote a novel without purpose, 
 and he never wrote a novel with a pur- butnot 
 pose. This is paradox: it is also truth. "P reach y-" 
 He so tells a story that it makes its own impression, 
 and a word of formal preaching would mar the effect. 
 The fictitious history of "The Man Without a 
 Country" is an excellent example of his achieve 
 ment in this line. It was published during the 
 throes of our civil war, at a time when its author 
 wished to make the strongest plea in his power for 
 loyalty to our country and its flag. It made a 
 
246 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 profound impression, and it is hardly an exaggera 
 tion to say that the story of Philip Nolan was 
 worth as much to the Union cause, in its effect on 
 the morale of the people at a critical time, as a 
 victory won by our armies. Only those who put 
 bullet above brain, and mortars before morals, will 
 belittle the effect of such a story. Great as it is, 
 judged purely by literary standards as a piece of 
 composition, it is greater as a sermon. 
 
 One thing is remarkable in all of Dr. Hale s 
 writing, and that is his cheerful optimism. One 
 can recall nothing in his books at variance with 
 this dominant "note." He does not, indeed, go to 
 the extreme of maintaining that this is the best of 
 all possible worlds, and that whatever is is right; 
 but his heart ever sings with Pippa, 
 
 " God s in his heaven 
 All s right with the world ! " 
 
 He believes, in every drop of his blood, in the 
 fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man. It is 
 a short creed, but there is none better; and on the 
 practical side of it, we are assured on excellent 
 authority, hang all the law and the prophets. 
 Thus believing, Dr. Hale holds that the 
 amelioration of the race is hopeful, and 
 the strength of this hope is in the possibility 
 of leading men to recognize their divine sonship. 
 It is a levelling up, therefore, not a levelling down, 
 toward which he directs his energies and his hopes. 
 
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 247 
 
 "You are my brother," says Tolstoi, to the poor 
 and degraded, "and therefore I will live with you 
 and be dirty." "You are my brother," says Dr. 
 Hale, "therefore live with me and be clean." This 
 brief apologue illustrates two very different modes 
 of approaching current problems relating to man 
 kind and its social advancement. Much not all, 
 but much of that which passes under the name of 
 socialism belongs to the first category. Who of us 
 will hesitate to proclaim his belief that Dr. Hale 
 has found the more excellent way? 
 
 One takes leave of the Boston preacher, author, 
 and philanthropist with regret. His is a nature 
 cast in a large mould, a mind broad and hospitable 
 to all truth, a soul instinct with faith, hope, and 
 charity. Such a man, write he never so much, will 
 necessarily be greater than any or all of his works. 
 He cannot be measured by the standards of mathe 
 matics, for in him the whole is indefinitely greater 
 than the sum of all its parts. 
 
XV. 
 
 EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 
 A VERY interesting essay might be written on the 
 advantages of ill-health to men of letters. 
 Whether by accident or in obedience to some law of 
 human nature, it has happened in the history of liter 
 ature that some of the greatest achievements have been 
 due to men of infirm body. Ancient literature pro 
 duced no more industrious and eminent man of letters 
 than Cicero, yet nearly all his life he struggled with 
 The triumph ill-health. Calvin wrote a whole library of 
 books, and he, too, lived in a chronic state 
 of invalidism. Pascal, though the volume of his work 
 is comparatively small, made some of the choicest 
 contributions to French literature, and his life was one 
 long disease. In American literature, we may cap 
 these instances with the names of Francis Parkman 
 and Edward Eggleston. What Mr. Parkman achieved, 
 in spite of afflictions and discouragements that would 
 have crippled a man of ordinary industry and firmness 
 of will, is a tale that has been often told without losing 
 any of its romance. The story of Dr. Eggleston s life 
 is hardly less striking ; and though no single achieve 
 ment of his can be said to surpass, or perhaps to 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON. 249 
 
 equal Mr. Parkman s work, in the sum it is proof of 
 unsurpassed industry, dogged perseverance, and un 
 flagging purpose. 
 
 I. 
 
 EDWARD EGGLESTON was born at Vevay, Ind., 
 December 10, 1837. His father was a lawyer by 
 profession and a Virginian by birth. He died, how 
 ever, when his son was a lad of nine. From the day 
 of his birth young Eggleston enjoyed poor health, as 
 they say in New England. He was a delicate boy, 
 whose very continuance in life seemed at 
 
 His youth. 
 
 times most uncertain ; and because of this 
 delicacy he was not only unable to join in the hearty 
 out-door sports of other boys, but was prohibited 
 from pursuing any systematic course of education. 
 He spent hardly more months in school than Abraham 
 Lincoln, and, like the more famous Hoosier boy, was 
 almost entirely self-educated. In 1856 his health was 
 so delicate that his life was despaired of, and he spent 
 four months in Minnesota in an attempt to restore it. 
 Returning somewhat stronger, he became a Methodist 
 circuit rider. 
 
 The circuit rider of those days was an institution 
 peculiar to the time and the country. There have 
 been circuit riders elsewhere, but none of 
 
 A circuit nder. 
 
 the precise type that the far West pro 
 duced in its pioneer days. These men of faith, car 
 rying their library as well as their wardrobe in their 
 saddle-bags, preached the gospel through the entire 
 
25O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 frontier region of America. Their houses of worship 
 were God s own temples, the woods. They lived in 
 the plainest manner, sharing all the hardships of the 
 pioneer people, making hazardous journeys, in fre 
 quent danger from floods, from wild beasts, and from 
 men even more savage. The circuit preacher had a 
 parish that, as one of them said, " took in one half of 
 creation, for it had no boundary on the West." In 
 many cases he was hardly more literate than his hear 
 ers, and these were fortunate, indeed, if they could 
 read their Bibles and write their names; yet these 
 uncouth preachers led multitudes of men to Christ, 
 built churches, and laid denominational foundations 
 deep and broad throughout all the great West. The 
 present generation has entered into their labors with 
 far too little comprehension of the tribulation and 
 self-denials that those labors entailed. 
 
 Mr. Eggleston was, undoubtedly, a better educated 
 man than many of the circuit preachers, as well as a 
 man of greater native force of mind. He would never 
 have been an ordinary or even an uncultivated man, 
 His self- wherever his lot might have been cast. 
 culture. With a hunger for knowledge, he was cer 
 
 tain to gratify this craving in some manner under any 
 circumstances. Those who have read his writings 
 know how much of an education in human nature this 
 experience was to him, and what a great part it had 
 in making the broad-minded, tolerant man that he 
 became. The severity of these labors, in spite of the 
 healthfulness of the out-of-door life, compelled him 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON, 251 
 
 from time to time to desist and finally to abandon his 
 calling altogether. 
 
 Just when Mr. Eggleston began to have leanings 
 toward literary work it is not possible, with the light 
 we now have, to say. What is certain is, that the 
 outward beginnings of his literary career Journalist 
 may be found in his removal in 1866 to 
 Evanston, 111., and his acceptance of a position on the 
 editorial staff of the " Little Corporal," one of the first 
 and most popular of American periodicals for the 
 young. During his connection with it the quality of 
 this paper was very much bettered, and up to the 
 time of its sale to the newly established " St. Nicholas " 
 it was, on the whole, the best periodical of its class. 
 This journalistic experience in the West was extended 
 by several years service on the staff of the " Sunday- 
 school Teacher " in Chicago, during which time the 
 circulation leaped from five thousand to thirty-five 
 thousand copies, an emphatic testimony to the 
 faithfulness and ability of his work. 
 
 In 1870 Dr. Eggleston came to New York. He 
 was at first the literary editor of the " Independent," 
 and for a time succeeded Theodore Tilton as editor of 
 that newspaper. In 1871 he was editor of " Hearth 
 and Home," and with his resignation of this comesto 
 
 . . New York. 
 
 post two years later his editorial labors 
 ceased. He showed in all the positions that he filled 
 that he had the true journalistic gift, and, had his 
 health permitted the severe and unintermitting appli 
 cation that the calling requires, he would, without 
 
252 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 question, have been one of the most brilliant of 
 American journalists. 
 
 From 1874 to 1879 Dr. Eggleston was pastor of 
 
 the Church of Christian Endeavor, Brooklyn. This 
 
 church was as independent in its ecclesiastical relations 
 
 as Dr. Eggleston himself has always been 
 
 Pastor. 
 
 in his thinking and ways of work. Never, 
 perhaps, a popular preacher in the accepted sense of 
 that term, he was one to whom multitudes of men and 
 women belonging to the unchurched classes naturally 
 gravitated. He had a message for many uneasy and 
 hungry souls that find it difficult to be satisfied with 
 the rigid creeds and the orthodox sermonizing of the 
 ordinary evangelical churches. That this class is at 
 present a large one in our great cities no one who is 
 familiar with the facts will question, and Dr. Eggleston, 
 during these five years, was received by many people 
 of this type as a prophet of God. They were in 
 structed, and, best of all, they were stimulated to holy 
 living and good works by his preaching. His church 
 was known as eminently a working church, a practical 
 church. Some of his methods for reaching and hold 
 ing young men scandalized the staid orthodox people 
 of Brooklyn ; but if they did not accomplish all the 
 good that he expected, it does not appear that they 
 ever did any serious harm. 
 
 Since his retirement from this pastorate, Dr. Eggles 
 ton has devoted himself entirely to literary work. 
 His residence for half the year is still in Brooklyn, 
 but during the other half-year he lives at Owls Nest, 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON. 2$$ 
 
 a picturesque cottage, beautifully situated on the 
 shore of Lake George. Here he keeps his library, a 
 collection of some four thousand volumes, the greater 
 part relating to colonial history, and here he does 
 his writing. 
 
 II. 
 
 DR. EGGLESTON S first venture in pure literature, 
 as distinguished from ephemeral journalistic writing, 
 was " The Hoosier Schoolmaster." This story was 
 published as a serial in " Hearth and Home " during 
 the opening year of his editorship of that periodi 
 cal, and was written in the midst of ab- 
 
 First story. 
 
 sorbing labors of all sorts, such as fall to 
 the lot of every editor. The publication as a serial 
 was begun before the story was more than well planned, 
 and throughout its continuance the author was com 
 pelled to labor almost literally with the " devil " at his 
 elbow. The novel made a sensation from the outset ; 
 indeed, how could it be otherwise? Not only had it 
 great merits as a story, but it was so evidently written 
 out of the author s heart and experience that no reader 
 could fail to be impressed by its truth to life. It was 
 a tale of great freshness, too. The pioneer preacher 
 had become a pioneer in fiction. At that time (1871) 
 few American writers had begun to suspect what a 
 wealth of material existed for the novelist in our own 
 country, especially in the West and South. The sea 
 board States had been exploited to some extent, 
 
254 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 though the material was by no means exhausted, and 
 the fame of Bret Harte was already abroad in the 
 land ; but in dealing with pioneer life in the newer 
 West Dr. Eggleston was breaking soil as virgin as 
 that of its own prairies. 
 
 There followed in due time several other books of 
 the same general character, even better in literary 
 finish and of similar flavor: "The Circuit Rider" 
 (1874), "Roxy" (1878), "The Hoosier Schoolboy" 
 (1883), and "The Graysons " (1887). "Roxy" and 
 " The Graysons " were first published as serials in 
 " The Century," and made the author known 
 
 Other books. J 
 
 to a wider circle of readers than he had 
 before possessed, and also gave to his writings the 
 stamp of critical approval so highly valued by some. 
 Before this time certain critics and readers had affected 
 to look on Eggleston as an undisciplined product of 
 the Wild West, hardly to be ranked alongside of the 
 more cultured writers of the East. When he was 
 taken up by one of the foremost periodicals of the 
 world, it was necessary to revise this provincial judg 
 ment and award him his due place among our chief 
 writers of fiction. 
 
 Of late years Dr. Eggleston has written less fiction, 
 and in what he has written he has confined himself less 
 closely to Hoosierdom. He has lived long enough 
 now in the East to know it as well as he knows the 
 
 West, better perhaps than he knows the 
 
 Later writings. ^^ Q{ , ^^ and he proba bly judged 
 
 wisely in giving more of scope and variety to his work. 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON. 255 
 
 "The Faith Doctor," with its study of Christian 
 Science and faith cure, was remarkable not only for 
 its up-to-date,^ de sttcle treatment of current specu 
 lation and social phenomena, but for its very accu 
 rate local color. It was quite distinctly the novel of 
 the season when published. Rumor has it that Dr. 
 Eggleston will write no more fiction, but will devote 
 his remaining days to his labors as a historian. 
 
 It would be easy to analyze Dr. Eggleston s fictions, 
 and to show in detail their literary excellence, but the 
 task is in his case as superfluous as it might be tedious, 
 for his chief excellence is not literary. He The man 
 
 greater than 
 
 is, to be sure, a conscientious and artistic theartist - 
 writer, and in the technicalities of his craft he has 
 nothing to fear from a comparison with others. What 
 is meant in saying that his chief excellence is not liter 
 ary is, that in him the artist is subordinate to the man. 
 It does not require an intimate acquaintance with him 
 to convince one that his is a personality that 
 
 " Shows a heart within blood- tinctured, of a veined humanity." 
 
 His closest friends describe him as a born philanthro 
 pist, whose house, wherever he may dwell, is thronged 
 with those who stand in need of material or spiritual 
 comfort, and who never depart unclothed and unfed. 
 These ministrations are never professional and per 
 functory, but are rendered in the spirit of Christian 
 brotherhood. It is the throb of this warm and true 
 heart, with its love for all humankind, its sympathy 
 with human sorrows, its pity for human weakness, 
 
256 AMERICAN WAITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 its tolerance of human errors, that one feels in Dr. 
 Eggleston s books, and in this his peculiar charm and 
 power must be sought. 
 
 III. 
 
 DR. EGGLESTON S determination to give us no 
 more novels, in spite of the high rank he has won 
 as a writer of fiction, is understood to be due to his 
 absorption in historical study. This is in no sense a 
 sudden change of purpose, a transference of interest 
 from one branch of the literary profession 
 
 Historian. 
 
 to another, such as sometimes results from 
 whim or ennui. One could comprehend how a popu 
 lar novelist might become unspeakably weary of pro 
 ducing his novel a year, and how in sheer desperation 
 and poverty of soul he might turn to other work for 
 relief. So far as appears, Dr. Eggleston does not 
 cease to write fiction because he is tired of it, and 
 certainly he does not cease because the public is 
 tired of him. He has a conviction, however, that he 
 can do work of higher quality, of more lasting value, 
 as a writer of history. Probably this conviction is 
 well founded, and at any rate he is quite right to 
 refuse to do what his conscience tells him is not the best 
 of which he is capable, whether for the present the 
 world agrees with him or no. It is more than likely 
 that the world will disagree with him, for it loves to 
 be amused and hates to be instructed. 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 
 The study of history, and the writing of it too, is, 
 as has been intimated, not a recent pursuit of Dr. 
 Eggleston s. It has more or less employed him 
 throughout his busy career, and in these latter years 
 may fairly be called the passion of his life. Long 
 years ago he began to collect books relating to the 
 colonial period of American history. This labor of 
 love he has continued until he is said to have a 
 collection of volumes, old and new, of every con 
 ceivable date, style, and condition, such as it would 
 be hard to duplicate outside of our great Diligence in 
 public libraries, if it could be duplicated research - 
 even there. The libraries and book-stalls of Europe, 
 as well as those of America, have been ransacked for 
 the making of this collection. Besides, he has ac 
 cumulated a mass of old prints, casts, manuscripts, 
 autographs, curios, and relics of all sorts, that are 
 something more than mere rarities to be gazed at, 
 and are invaluable for illustrating his text. This 
 reproducing to the eye the features of colonial life 
 is something that has never before been attempted 
 in a serious and systematic way, and its value can 
 not be overestimated. No one who is familiar with 
 Knight s "Pictorial History of England," or with the 
 illustrated edition of Green, will be disposed to un 
 dervalue the worth of a like service performed by a 
 competent scholar, with rare industry and accuracy, 
 for our own history. 
 
 Dr. Eggleston s first contributions to American 
 history took the form of biographies of celebrated 
 
258 AMERICAN WRITERS OF 7V-DAY 
 
 Indians. First came " Tecumseh " (1878), followed 
 speedily by " Pocahontas and Powhattan " (1879), 
 " Brant and Red Jacket " (same year), " Montezuma 
 and the Conquest of Mexico" (1880). With the 
 exception of the last-named book, these 
 
 Biographies. _ . n i i ^11 
 
 biographies still nave the field pretty 
 much to themselves, and are likely to hold it for 
 some time to come. Though these worthies figure 
 of necessity in every history of America, most his 
 torians content themselves with giving them a para 
 graph, or at most a page, each. Dr. Eggleston 
 found abundant materials for full-length biographies ; 
 and the freshness of the subjects and the complete 
 ness of the research on which the books were 
 founded, recommended them to popular favor hardly 
 less than the animated style in which they were 
 written. 
 
 In 1888 was published a "History of the United 
 States," in two single-volume editions, one for school 
 use, the other for general reading, and so appropri 
 ately called a " Household edition." It was by no 
 means a waste of his time or talents for an author 
 like Dr. Eggleston to undertake such a work, for to 
 History of the produce a really good popular history is 
 united states. an enc j wort hy o f an y ma n s ambition. 
 
 This history is ideally good, thanks to the writer s 
 skill and the publishers liberality. The house of 
 Appletons is justly famous for its illustrated books ; 
 but though it has issued volumes far more costly and 
 of greater significance as works of art, its imprint has 
 
EDWARD EGGLESTON. 259 
 
 never been placed on a book in which art has been 
 more successfully made the handmaid of history. 
 The illustrations were selected and have been exe 
 cuted with the purpose of combining artistic excel 
 lence with historic significance, and this mark has 
 been hit with great accuracy. The text is almost 
 as pictorial as the illustrations; the author has caught 
 the secret of presenting our country s history in a 
 manner that may fairly be described as panoramic. 
 Though intended for young readers especially, it 
 has been quite as fully appreciated by their elders, 
 who value it as the best brief history of their country 
 that has yet been published. 
 
 The chef d oeuvre of Dr. Eggleston, the culmina 
 tion of life-long study and many years exclusive toil, 
 is a history of the American people. The title has 
 been announced in various forms, such as " History of 
 Life in the United States," and " Life in the His<: ^ 
 Thirteen Colonies," or, perhaps, the latter d oeuvre 
 is only a sub-section of a larger work. Chapters of 
 this work have already appeared in " The Century," 
 and have aroused expectation to a very high pitch. 
 Compared with the form in which it will ultimately 
 appear, this serial publication may be regarded as, 
 in a sense, only the first rough draft; and this being 
 the case, we are warranted in expecting that the 
 completed form will be one of the most important 
 historic books of our century. 
 
 That this is no exaggerated estimate will appear 
 from a critical examination of what has already been 
 
26O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 printed. There are histories of the United States in 
 great plenty, and many of them have extraordinary 
 Life of the merit. There is no history, however, that 
 people. adequately records the facts of, and traces 
 
 the development in, the life of the people. It would 
 be uncritical to depreciate the value of those histories 
 that devote themselves chiefly to a record of events ; 
 that follow the rise, growth, and decay of political 
 parties, or thread the mazes of diplomacy ; that de 
 scribe great campaigns and the single battles which 
 have decided the destiny of the continent ; that trace 
 the marvellous development of industry and com 
 merce. All of these things are important, instruc 
 tive, and interesting, but they are not the history of 
 the people. We still wish to know what manner of 
 men and women our forefathers were, how and what 
 they ate and drank and wherewithal they were clothed, 
 what houses they lived in, and what other creature 
 comforts they enjoyed. We wish to understand their 
 social customs, to penetrate the secret of their re 
 ligious life, even to hear their daily gossip. It is not 
 beneath the dignity of history to concern itself about 
 such things, and we cannot say that we have mastered 
 any period until we have gained such knowledge of it. 
 That Dr. Eggleston is capable of doing this sort of 
 work incomparably well he has already given proof. 
 He has now spent a decade, in almost entire exclu 
 sion of other labors, on this work; and when the 
 stately volumes appear, they cannot fail fitly to crown 
 a long, a varied, a useful, a highly honorable life. 
 
XVI. 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 
 
 ONE hesitates whether to call Mr. Cable a 
 representative Southern writer, for such a 
 characterization might give offence. And yet, con 
 sidering the writings by which he is chiefly known 
 and on which his fame must hereafter rest, one 
 does not know what other description would suit 
 the case. If a man born and bred in the South, of 
 an old Southern family, whose fictions are saturated 
 with the South and reflect its life with photographic 
 accuracy, if such a man may not be said to be a 
 representative Southern writer, to whom HOW far a 
 
 Southern 
 
 may that phrase be applied? It is true writer. 
 that of late years Mr. Cable has become out of favor 
 in the South, that his name is rarely spoken there 
 without some adjective of condemnation or execra 
 tion, but this state of things has no connection with 
 literature proper. It is not because of his novels, 
 but because of certain political writings of his, that 
 Mr. Cable has thus lost the favor of those among 
 whom he was born and bred, for whom he shed his 
 blood, and with whom he has spent the greater part 
 of his life. The son and grandson of slaveholders, 
 
262 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 he has dared to plead the cause of the ex-slave, dared 
 to oppose the dominant idea of his native State, 
 dared to speak the truth as he sees it, though in a 
 minority of one. This is his sin, and the South has 
 pronounced it to be unpardonable. Leaving for the 
 present this political question wholly to one side, 
 let us consider the purely literary part of Mr. 
 Cable s work. Most of this was produced before 
 his political heresies were promulgated, and has 
 been neither bettered nor spoiled by those heresies. 
 It has, therefore, a double claim on our impartial 
 consideration. Even those who condemn most 
 strongly the treason of Benedict Arnold do not 
 withhold their praise of his services at Quebec, 
 Lake Champlain, and Saratoga. In like manner 
 even they who regard Mr. Cable as a traitor to his 
 race, his State, and his party, may without incon 
 sistency, and should in justice, consider his earlier 
 writings apart from his later. 
 
 I. 
 
 MR. CABLE was born in New Orleans, October 
 12, 1844. Through his father he is descended from 
 a Virginia family of German origin. His mother 
 was a New Englander, and from her the novelist 
 derives that strain of Puritanism so evident in his 
 character as in his work. 
 
 It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his 
 youth, to have his sinews toughened and his will 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 263 
 
 braced by a struggle with poverty, provided he 
 really is a man and not a weakling. The elder 
 Cable was a prosperous man of business Atoi i some 
 until 1849, when he failed. After his youth - 
 death in 1859, at an age when most boys have noth 
 ing to think of but books and play, young Cable was 
 compelled to share the support of the family. He 
 never grumbled, though he was a studious lad who 
 would have liked and profited by a liberal education. 
 He had a liberal education indeed, not in any col 
 lege, but in the school of adversity, and it made of 
 him a man thoroughly trained, completely equipped, 
 able to hold his own with any. 
 
 Hardly had young Cable begun a mercantile 
 career as clerk in a New Orleans house when the 
 Civil War broke out. He was too young confederate 
 to serve in the army at first, though his soldien 
 sympathies were naturally with his State and the 
 South; but in 1863 he enlisted in the Fourth 
 Mississippi Cavalry, and remained in the service 
 till the close of the war. He was a good soldier, 
 and bears some honorable scars to testify to his 
 valor. After the war he had a somewhat checkered 
 life, now a clerk, afterwards a member of a sur 
 veying and exploring party; in which latter work 
 he contracted a severe malarial fever, from which 
 he was two years in recovering. This was by no 
 means lost time, however, for in these years he 
 accumulated much of the material of which later he 
 made so good use. 
 
264 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 II. 
 
 MR. CABLE, like many other American writers, 
 
 made his first literary venture in journalism. He 
 
 began as an occasional contributor to the 
 
 TouTDilism. 
 
 "New Orleans Picayune," and as his com 
 munications found favor he increased their frequency 
 until he came to be regarded as a member of the 
 staff. The story has been told that his connection 
 with the paper was abruptly severed by his refusal, 
 on conscientious grounds, to write a theatrical criti 
 cism that had been assigned him, but his own 
 version is much more prosaic: "The true cause of 
 my dismissal was simply that as a reporter I was a 
 failure." After this he sought and obtained em 
 ployment as clerk in a cotton-broker s office, and 
 found a more profitable market for his writings at 
 the North. It was about this time that "Scribner s 
 Monthly " began to publish short tales of Creole life 
 by Mr. Cable. From the first these received a 
 warm welcome, which was due solely to their 
 merits, for the writer was unheralded and unknown. 
 They were something entirely new in literature. 
 
 Nobody, with knowledge of the theme 
 
 First stories. 
 
 and ability to treat it, had seriously 
 attempted to depict the Creole in fiction, and Mr. 
 Cable was therefore fortunate enough to offer the 
 novel-reader that which he dearly loves, an entirely 
 new sensation. The true epicure does not welcome 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 26$ 
 
 with more enthusiasm a cook who has invented a 
 new and delicious sauce, than the devotee of the 
 novel shows in the reception of a writer who 
 transports him into the midst of hitherto unknown 
 types of character and a strange social atmosphere. 
 
 These stories were written under difficulties that 
 would have discouraged most men. The author s 
 clerical employment filled the ordinary working 
 hours of the day, and he was compelled to do his 
 work in minutes snatched from what time most 
 young men give to sleep or social relaxation. It 
 was his habit to rise at four o clock and write before 
 breakfast, and some of his best work was done in 
 these early morning hours. Those who maintain 
 that if a young man has any genius in him it will 
 somehow find expression under the most unfavor 
 able circumstances, will find much to support their 
 thesis in the life of Mr. Cable. After all, we 
 probably waste our sentiment on the "mute, inglo 
 rious Miltons" and those "who die with all their 
 music in them " of whom poets sing so pathetically. 
 Mute, inglorious Miltons and voiceless singers they 
 would doubtless have remained had they Peraspera 
 been born with golden spoons in their adastra 
 mouths. But such application as Mr. Cable s is 
 trying to nerve and muscle, and we need not wonder 
 that this constant brain and pen work caused more 
 than one break-down in health. It was fortunate 
 for him that the death of the head of his house in 
 1879 again left him without employment, and in a 
 
266 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 way forced him to take the bold step of devoting 
 himself to literature. It was a great risk; for 
 though he had won a place for himself as a magazine 
 writer, he had yet to show that he had staying 
 power or was capable of something really great. 
 Only one of a thousand succeeds in such an experi 
 ment, but Mr. Cable proceeded to prove that he 
 was one of a thousand. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE same year that marked the beginning of a 
 purely literary life saw the publication of Mr. 
 Creole life Cable s first volume, "Old Creole Days," 
 in fiction. a co u ect i on O f seven stories of Creole 
 life. They had not only the good fortune already 
 mentioned, of freshness of substance, but the addi 
 tional advantage of novelty of form. Mr. Cable 
 was one of the pioneers in the dialect tale, and 
 dialect was not reckoned in those days as something 
 to be forgiven an author, but as one of his titles 
 to distinction, provided it were skilfully managed. 
 The "New Orleans Picayune" was at that time 
 proud of the fledgling it had shoved out from the 
 nest to try his wings in literature, and not afraid to 
 speak the truth about him; so it said: "The careful 
 rendering of the Creole dialect reveals patient study 
 of living models; and to any reader whose ear is 
 accustomed to the broken English as heard in the 
 parts of our city every day, its truth to nature is 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 267 
 
 striking." It hardly needed testimony of this kind 
 to establish the accuracy of Mr. Cable s literary 
 methods, for his stories are self -evidencing, and 
 anybody who should challenge their faithfulness 
 would have a large fund of incredulity to overcome. 
 The adequacy of his representations of Creole life 
 has, indeed, been challenged by authorities worthy 
 of respect. It is one thing to maintain that his 
 work is faithful as far as it goes, and another to 
 hold that it is exhaustive. Mr. Cable has never 
 made this absurd claim, and no friend has made it 
 on his behalf. 
 
 These stories established their author s right to 
 be numbered with the greatest artists of American 
 literature. It has appeared from his his- 
 
 Great artist. 
 
 tory that he is mainly a self-educated 
 man, with no literary atmosphere, no association 
 with men of letters, to influence his development. 
 So far as can be judged, until he was able to buy 
 for himself, his access to books was very limited. 
 A natural aptitude for literature, an innate gift of 
 expression, improved by much practice and severe 
 self-criticism, gave him command of a style almost 
 perfect for his purposes. It is a style of limpid 
 clearness, of easy grace, not much given to orna 
 mentation, and pleasingly destitute of mannerisms; 
 a style of pure English, instinct with life and 
 passion, sometimes reaching the borderland of 
 poetry, but still oftener delighting by its delicate 
 humor. In these stories laughter and tears lie near 
 
268 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 together, their pathos and even tragedy being as 
 true and moving as their humor. It is seldom 
 given to any author to sweep the whole gamut of 
 human emotions with a touch so sure, yet so light 
 and easeful, as that of Mr. Cable. 
 
 This first volume, delightful as it was, did not 
 
 prove that the author had the constructive power 
 
 necessary to the writing of a novel. He 
 
 Novels. * 
 
 might easily have been such an one as 
 Bret Harte, a writer of unsurpassed short stories 
 who loses his cunning when he undertakes to fill in 
 a large canvas. A painter would say of a writer of 
 this type that his drawing and coloring are good, 
 but that he cannot compose. Mr. Cable set all 
 doubts of his quality at rest by immediately pro 
 ducing "The Grandissimes," which, after running 
 as a serial in "Scribner s," was published in book 
 form in 1880. This was followed in 1881 by 
 "Madame Delphine," and in 1883 by "Dr. Sevier." 
 Here is a trio of books not easily equalled in re 
 cent American literature, and probably never sur 
 passed, certainly not among fictions distinctively 
 "American." For not the most fastidious of for 
 eign critics can withhold that adjective from Mr. 
 Cable s work, it is so obviously autochthonous, 
 it could by no possibility have been written by 
 any one but an American who had studied the 
 Creole character from the life, and had known from 
 boyhood the scenes among which his characters 
 move. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 269 
 
 Since the publication of these books Mr. Cable 
 has produced no more novels, though he has written 
 a number of stories that might be called 
 
 Later writings. 
 
 novelettes. Three of these Grande 
 Pointe," " Carancro," and " Au Large " have been 
 included in one volume under the general title of 
 " Bonaventure " (1887). This book, one is justified 
 in saying, is not so much a novel as a collection of 
 novelettes. A still more recent book, " Strange 
 True Stories of Louisiana," is rather compiled and 
 revised by Mr. Cable than written by him, being 
 composed of manuscripts by various inexperienced 
 writers, that he has retouched. This is a sort of 
 literary collaboration that is likely to cause him 
 more annoyance than it can bring him fame, since 
 some of the original writers have made public 
 accusations of unfair treatment, which, however 
 unfounded they are, must be unpleasant in the 
 extreme. 
 
 It would not be fair to say that in the trio of 
 novels above named Mr. Cable had exhausted his 
 resources, but we are perhaps warranted in con 
 cluding that in them his genius found, for the time 
 at least, its full expression, since in the ten years 
 that succeeded the publication of " Dr. Sevier" he 
 had no other message of the kind to speak to the 
 world. By waiting until "the angel says, Write," 
 he proved that he respects himself, his public, and 
 his art too much to produce his yearly volume, 
 whether it be good or bad. 
 
2/O AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MR. CABLE is remarkable among American novel 
 ists for a rare combination of aesthetic and religious 
 A rare com- endowments. In no other American 
 bination. fiction, unless it be in Hawthorne s, do 
 we find the highest artistic instinct and the pro- 
 foundest moral purpose so wedded. In truth, even 
 the exception of Hawthorne cannot be allowed, for 
 he is psychologic rather than moral, an observer and 
 analyzer of moral problems, and coldly critical, not 
 sympathetic, in his treatment of them. But in Mr. 
 Cable the moral purpose is almost stronger than the 
 aesthetic instinct; rather they exist in his work in 
 a balance so perfect that neither can be said to 
 overtop the other. The worship of the beautiful and 
 the worship of the good are in general unequally 
 yoked together when they are united at all. We 
 have aesthetes in plenty, like Wilde and Pater, who 
 will discourse eloquently on the holiness of beauty; 
 and there is no lack of divines who will discourse 
 with equal eloquence on the beauty of holiness; but 
 not to one man of letters in generations is it given 
 to see and to understand and to embody both. 
 
 It is this unique combination that has embroiled 
 
 Mr. Cable with his former friends and admirers in 
 
 the South. All that he afterwards said 
 
 in "The Silent South" and "The Negro 
 
 Question " is potentially present in his fiction. He 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 2/1 
 
 is, as has been said before, the son of one slave 
 holder and the grandson of another,- of two others, 
 for that matter, but nothing can make one believe 
 that he could ever have been a slave-owner himself, 
 not even if slaves had come to him by inheritance. 
 If this seems too positive an utterance, let the 
 doubter read the history of Bras-Coupe in "The 
 Grandissimes." No abolitionist ever scourged the 
 institution of slavery with words more fiery than 
 those that tell that hideous tale. Yet Southerners 
 tolerated this, if they did not precisely admire it. 
 The reason is plain : slavery was a defunct institu 
 tion, and nothing in this world is deader than a 
 dead political issue. Slavery, that caused the blood 
 iest civil war known to history in 1861, had not a 
 living apologist twenty years later; and where a 
 disrespectful word would once have been another 
 name for suicide, burning sarcasm and piercing 
 irony passed unresented if not quite approved. 
 
 But when Mr. Cable ventured to touch a political 
 question of his day, when he tired of denouncing a 
 dead abuse and dared to drag into the unpopularity 
 light a monstrous living wrong, ah, that m the South * 
 was quite another story. Languid indifference 
 changed with the rapidity of thought to fierce 
 hatred. Toleration gave place to abuse, and would 
 have given place to persecution had not Mr. Cable, 
 fortunately for himself, placed himself beyond the 
 reach of anything but bad language. This outburst 
 of impotent rage was far from creditable to the 
 
2/2 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TODAY. 
 
 South. Mr. Cable may have been wrong, many 
 Northern readers, who might be expected to agree 
 with him, think that he is wrong, or at any rate 
 only partially right, but his courage was worthy 
 of respect, and he should have been answered with 
 fact and argument, not with billingsgate. Even 
 less creditable than their angry replies has been the 
 suggestion by Southern writers of unworthy motives 
 on Mr. Cable s part, that he desired to curry favor 
 with his Northern public, and to do this was willing 
 to turn his pen against his own people. The insinu 
 ation is worse than base, it is silly. Mr. Cable 
 
 Courage that already had the favor of Northern read- 
 deserved ad 
 miration, ers, and he had nothing further to de 
 sire in this direction. He was recognized as the 
 peer of Howells and James and Aldrich, and what 
 ever he might write on political or social questions 
 could not set him higher. Without the possibil 
 ity or the hope of advancing his own fortunes, 
 he deliberately risked his popularity among his 
 own people to tell them what he believed to be the 
 truth. Courage like this deserved the admiration 
 that we of the North do not hesitate to award to 
 the valor of those who fought so well in what we 
 firmly believe to have been a bad cause. 
 
 Perhaps the feeling against Mr. Cable in the 
 South is due not merely to what he has written, 
 
 Residence in ^Ut to tne ^ act that ne naS taken Up his 
 
 the North. residence in the Northt It should be 
 borne in mind, however, that the temptation for a 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE. 2/3 
 
 Southern man of letters to do this is almost over 
 whelming. However proud the South may be of 
 its writers, it does not offer them an adequate sup 
 port. It is Northern capital that publishes the 
 books of Southern writers. Northern enterprise 
 pushes their sale, and Northern readers for the 
 most part buy them. A writer who chooses, as 
 Mr. Cable did for several years, to add to his 
 income by giving public readings from his writings, 
 must look to Northern cities for his audiences. 
 Since this is so, and so long as it continues to be 
 so, a Northern residence must offer great advan 
 tages. It is a convenience for a writer to be near 
 his publishers, for a lecturer to be within easy reach 
 of his audiences, even in these days when telegraph 
 and fast express almost annihilate space. Besides, 
 since when has a man lost the right in free America 
 to live where he chooses and to change his resi 
 dence as often as he pleases? 
 
 The feeling against Mr. Cable will pass away. 
 His political writings are a mere episode in his life, 
 and are necessarily ephemeral. In after years the 
 antiquarian and the historian may curiously peer 
 into their pages, if perchance a copy survives, but 
 his fictions are as imperishable as the language. 
 The South will yet come to a better mind, and will 
 see in Mr. Cable one of her most gifted sons, not 
 infallible, but honest, high-minded, and courageous, 
 possessed, in a word, of the very virtues always 
 
 18 
 
2/4 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 most admired and cherished by his compatriots. 
 And his books will stand forth, while American 
 literature is read, as a perfect picture of a unique 
 civilization, unsurpassed in finish among the work 
 of his time, and inspired by that love of God and 
 one s neighbor which is more than all whole burnt 
 offerings and sacrifices. 
 
XVII. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 " T ITERATURE is a great staff, but a sorry 
 - crutch." That is as true to-day as when 
 Scott said it, and it is true, because, in the words of 
 Mr. Froude, " literature happens to be the only oc 
 cupation in which wages are not given in proportion 
 to the goodness of the work done." It is doubtless a 
 fact that the born writer finds in his labor his highest 
 compensation, but this is no more true of "The times 
 
 are out of 
 
 him than of any other worker who puts i int -" 
 heart and soul into his occupation, and is not a mere 
 hireling. The laborer is worthy of his hire, whatever 
 his labor. Whoever devotes himself to an occupation 
 that has for its result the ennobling of his race, the 
 enrichment of men s minds, the enlargement of their 
 field of mental and moral vision, is fairly entitled to a 
 comfortable living. The world owes at least this to 
 him. And yet, unless he possesses the happy faculty 
 of making his writings salable, unless he is willing to 
 produce merely what men will buy and leave undone 
 the higher work of which he is capable, the writer 
 may starve for all the world cares. The life and 
 work of Mr. Stoddard are a saddening instance 
 
2/6 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 of the short-sightedness of mankind, of the imper 
 fection of our present social order, of the way in 
 which a man may be compelled to waste endow- 
 ments of a high order, that he may wring from a 
 niggard world a bare subsistence. 
 
 MR. STODDARD was born in Hingham, Mass., July 
 2, 1825. He lost his father, a sea-captain, at an early 
 age, and in 1835 his mother, who had married again, 
 removed to New York. Since then his life 
 has been identified with the life of the 
 metropolis. His education, such as it was, he gained 
 in the public schools of the city, but it could not have 
 extended beyond a rather limited course in the ordi 
 nary English branches. While still a mere lad he 
 went to work in an iron foundry, and remained there 
 several years. Had he been just an ordinary, average 
 boy, with a shrewd gift of making a good bargain and 
 a half miserly capacity for saving money, and had he 
 devoted himself with all his soul to the iron business, 
 he might have died many times a millionnaire, envied 
 by all and possibly respected by some. He chose the 
 better part. He preferred lifelong poverty, compara 
 tively speaking, and the culture of mind and heart, to 
 wealth and narrowness. If, as Seneca thinks, the gods 
 are well pleased when they see great men contending 
 with adversity, Mr. Stoddard must have afforded the 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 2/7 
 
 gods much delight, for his life has been one struggle 
 with adverse fortune. 
 
 None of our American authors has begun a literary 
 career with less of outward encouragement or with 
 a more slender stock of endowment. By endow 
 ment, one of course means visible qualification. For 
 one so slightly educated, compelled to S]ight cncour . 
 labor for daily bread, with neither leisure agement> 
 for culture nor friends to encourage and assist him, 
 for such a lad to cherish literary aspirations 
 would have seemed to most people a ridiculous 
 height of presumption. And so it would have been 
 in one less clearly conscious of his calling. " Blessed 
 are they that hunger and thirst after knowledge, for 
 they shall be filled," is a beatitude not written in 
 Scripture, it is true; but it is written in the divine 
 order of the universe, and it was fulfilled in the case 
 of young Stoddard. His evenings were given to the 
 study of the best English authors, and particularly of 
 the poets. Already his soul was fired with the thought 
 that he too would yet be a poet. 
 
 What did more than all else to develop this hope, 
 this aspiration, into a reality was his good fortune in 
 making the acquaintance of other young men of let 
 ters in New York, Bayard Taylor, Edmund Clarence 
 Stedman, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and others. The 
 acquaintance with Taylor was earliest, Budding 
 most intimate, and had the greatest effect authors - 
 on his character. Taylor was fresh from Europe and 
 the publication of his " Views Afoot," which had given 
 
2/8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 him a recognized standing among young authors. 
 Stoddard was his junior only a few months by the 
 calendar, but several years his junior in literary ex 
 perience, and as yet wholly unknown to fame. Both 
 had to give their days to hard toil, Stoddard to his 
 foundry and Taylor to the " Tribune," where he 
 worked fifteen hours a day, scribbling leaders, book- 
 notices, foreign letters, and generally doing the work 
 now assigned to three or four men on the " Tribune " 
 staff. Only their evenings were theirs, and of these 
 but one, Saturday evening, was really free. These 
 Saturday nights were passed in each other s company, 
 and they were in a sense the making of Stoddard. 
 They drew out of him what was latent ; intelligent and 
 sympathetic companionship supplemented the culture 
 he was gaining from books and the practice of com 
 position, and under this genial stimulus his powers 
 rapidly expanded. 
 
 The same year (1849) that witnessed the beginning 
 of this friendship, which was to be broken only by 
 Taylor s untimely death, also saw the pub 
 lication of the youthful poet s first volume 
 of verses, under the title of "Footprints." It was 
 privately printed, and he was so little proud of it that 
 he afterward destroyed the edition. 
 
 " T is pleasant, sure, to see one s name in print ; 
 A book s a book, although there s nothing in V 
 
 Many a young bardling enjoys this pleasure at his 
 own expense, but few have the grace to repent their 
 folly so promptly, and to repair it by the one means 
 
RICHARD HENRY STOOD A RD. 2/9 
 
 in their power. There is hope for such, and their 
 second ventures are likely to be worthier of a better 
 fate. 
 
 Soon after this another great event befell the poet. 
 His friend Taylor went to Europe again. The young 
 poet was lonely, he had a present none too assured, 
 and a future still less certain, so he naturally married. 
 His fortune was better than perhaps so 
 
 Marriage. 
 
 headlong an act deserved, and could 
 hardly have been greater had he acted with the most 
 approved worldly wisdom. Elizabeth Barstow, also 
 of Massachusetts birth, was the exact counterpart of 
 Mr. Stoddard in the other sex. She, too, was and is 
 a poet whose graceful verses are worthy of high praise, 
 but she has taken even higher rank as a novelist. It 
 is really one of the curiosities of literature that her 
 books have not won a wider recognition, a more 
 general admiration, from readers of American fiction. 
 They are high favorites, and have been from the first, 
 of those who are fitted to appreciate work of enduring 
 qualities, and they will continue to be read when cur 
 rent trash has fallen to its real value as junk. There 
 have been some signs of late that tardy fame is about 
 to overtake Mrs. Stoddard, and one hopes that the 
 event may justify this forecast. This union of hearts 
 and labors is almost the one instance of the kind in 
 American literature, at least, it is almost the only 
 one that has endured for an ordinary lifetime all the 
 vicissitudes of fortune, growing more beautiful and 
 more helpful with every passing year. 
 
280 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 II. 
 
 BY 1851 Mr. Stoddard was fairly launched in litera 
 ture. He published that year a second volume of 
 verse, that ranked him at once among the promising 
 young poets ; and this was followed in 1856 by " Songs 
 Songs of f Summer," which set his name still higher 
 on the roll. He found more fame than 
 dollars in poetry, however, and was compelled to turn 
 his hand to work of various kinds to secure a liveli 
 hood. Through Hawthorne s influence, it is said, he 
 obtained in 1853 a clerkship in the New York Custom 
 House, which he held until 1870, after which he held 
 other like positions for periods more or less brief, 
 until in 1879 he plunged into literature once for all, 
 sink or swim. He has never sunk, but one may 
 guess that he has often found it hard swimming. 
 
 It would not be easy to name the other American 
 author who has done so much hard work for so insig 
 nificant pay. Mr. Stoddard has been all his life a 
 most laborious man, working harder than any mechanic 
 in town and receiving wages but little better than 
 those of a clever mechanic. Most of this labor has 
 Pegasus a been mere hack work. One says this in no 
 piough-horse. dis p arag em e nt of Mr. Stoddard, or of the 
 usefulness of what he has done, but in hot indignation 
 of soul that Pegasus should thus be put to the plough. 
 It is we, the public, who are to blame for such a state 
 of things ; we should take shame to ourselves that we 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 28 1 
 
 have allowed such a man to fritter away his powers 
 on work that any penny-a-liner could do, not so 
 well, doubtless, but well enough. Mr. Stoddard has 
 not complained ; he has borne his burden as a brave 
 man should, cheerfully, nobly, but the iron must have 
 entered into his soul. 
 
 The critic will be justified in passing by all of this 
 work with a brief word of praise for its conscientious 
 ness. It was not written to live, but to live by. Mr. 
 Stoddard has written prose because he must; he 
 writes poetry because he cannot help it. His prose 
 writings may be, without any disrespect to them or 
 him, simply labelled " pot boilers " and laid aside. 
 They fulfilled their purpose when they His 
 amused a passing hour, or set afloat again writ[n ^- 
 a half-forgotten piece of standard literature. The 
 author deserves for this part of his labor precisely 
 the praise that a good maker of shoes deserves, 
 he has put his heart and conscience into the task by 
 which he wins his daily bread, and has done it well. 
 But task work it is, and task work it will remain. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE case is totally different, however, when we 
 come to Mr. Stoddard s poetry. We are conscious 
 in a moment of breathing a different atmosphere. 
 In the prose writings we find him a workman, here 
 we find him an artist; in the former he is honest, 
 
282 AMERICAN WRIl^ERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 cultivated, painstaking, conscientious, but in the 
 latter he is a man of genius. 
 
 Besides the volumes of verse already named, he 
 published "The King s Bell" (1863), "The Book 
 Twobooks f tne East" (1871), and a complete 
 of verse. edition of his poetical works in 1880, 
 
 which makes a book of nearly five hundred pages. 
 This is not a remarkably bulky tome, considering 
 the fact that it represents a lifetime s devotion to 
 the muses; but when one also considers the dis 
 tractions and difficulties under which the work has 
 been done, it is a striking proof of what has already 
 been said, that Mr. Stoddard writes poetry because 
 he cannot help doing it. 
 
 The striking characteristic of the earlier poems, 
 included in the edition of 1880, is the passionate 
 love of beauty that inspires them. If one were to 
 pay Mr. Stoddard the insulting compliment of call 
 ing him "The American ," one would instinct 
 ively fill out the blank with the name of 
 
 Keats. r . 
 
 Keats after reading some of these poems. 
 The style is not that of Keats, the resemblance is 
 not verbal and formal, such as results from imita 
 tion; it is only that the youthful American poet 
 was a twin soul of the Briton. If a reader should 
 find such verses, for example, in a collection of 
 extracts from Keats, he would feel no incongruity, 
 though he might say, " From what poem by Keats 
 are these taken ? I do not remember to have seen 
 them before." 
 
RICHARD HENRV STODDARD. 283 
 
 " From earliest infancy my heart was thine, 
 
 With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles ; 
 
 Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, 
 Or if I wept it was with joy divine. 
 By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air, 
 
 I saw thee everywhere. 
 A voice of greeting from the wind was sent, 
 
 The mists enfolded me with soft white arms, 
 The birds did sing to lap me in content, 
 
 The rivers wore their charms, 
 And every little daisy in the grass 
 Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass." 
 
 These lines are taken from a "Hymn to the 
 Beautiful ; " and possibly the form of the stanza and 
 its musical quality, as well as the title, 
 
 Prodigal fancy. 
 
 might suggest to the reader Shelley and 
 his "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty." But whatever 
 poets may have strongly influenced Mr. Stoddard 
 in his earlier years, no one poet dominated him. 
 His was a catholic taste, a universal worship of the 
 beautiful, and he could appreciate what was good or 
 great in every English poet. As his mind matured, 
 these suggestions of other poets disappear from his 
 verse, and his style becomes more distinctive, more 
 individual. The passion for beauty, however, does 
 not become weaker. In the "Songs of Summer," 
 published during the flower of his young manhood, 
 there is almost a tropical luxuriance of feeling, and a 
 prodigality of fancy not always matched by felicity 
 of expression. The emphasis sometimes seems 
 overstrained, and the thought is not always strictly 
 
284 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 coherent. Other American men of letters have 
 amused themselves by parodying this manner, some 
 times with very amusing results. There is, how 
 ever, much verse in this collection that shows full 
 mastery of the poet s art, and some of the gems 
 that one can find here and there are of the first 
 water; for instance, this, 
 
 " The sky is a drinking-cup, 
 
 That was overturned of old, 
 And it pours in the eyes of men 
 Its wine of airy gold. 
 
 " We drink that wine all day, 
 
 Till the last drop is drained up, 
 And we are lighted off to bed 
 By the jewels in the cup ! w 
 
 IV. 
 
 IN his later poems, Mr. Stoddard has essayed 
 some higher flights. Some of his narrative poems 
 are rare examples of the art of telling a story in 
 verse; among which may be named "The King s 
 Bell," "The King s Sentinel," and "The Pearl of 
 the Philippines." This is not a gift that is greatly 
 valued in these days, more s the pity, and the poet 
 who has it is pretty sure to conclude that 
 
 " There s a luck in most things, and in none 
 More than in being born at the right time ; 
 It boots not what the labor to be done, 
 Or feats of arms, or art, or building rhyme. 
 Not that the heavens the little can make great, 
 But many a man has lived an age too late." 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 285 
 
 Of a quality better appreciated by readers, if not 
 more highly praised by critics, are such poems as 
 the Horatian ode on Abraham Lincoln, Odeon 
 which one is much inclined to pronounce Llncoln - 
 not only the best thing Mr. Stoddard has ever 
 written, but the best thing any poet has written on 
 Lincoln, saving only Mr. Lowell s unapproached 
 "Commemoration Ode." There are in it fewer lines 
 felicitously quotable than in Lowell s ode, yet 
 such as the following come little short of that 
 excellence : 
 
 " One of the People ! Born to be 
 Their curious epitome." 
 
 " No hasty fool, of stubborn will, 
 But prudent, cautious, pliant still." 
 
 ..." his genius put to scorn 
 The proudest in the purple born, 
 
 Whose wisdom never grew 
 
 To what, untaught, he knew." 
 
 Quite perfect, both in thought and expression, is 
 the tender poem " Adsum," on the death of Thack 
 eray ; and quite as appreciative, though less tenderly 
 pathetic, are the verses entitled "At Gadshill." 
 One cannot highly commend what are perhaps the 
 most ambitious performances in this edition of 
 1880, "Guests of the State," a centen- Occask)nal 
 nial ode, and "History," a poem in poems> 
 Spenserian stanza read before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 
286 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Society of Harvard. To attempt to write a great 
 poem for a great occasion is to invite failure, and 
 the few who succeed do so by some fortunate acci 
 dent. Occasional poems for the most part, except 
 such witty and familiar verses as the "Autocrat" 
 succeeded in turning off, have added more to the 
 bulk than to the glory of American literature. 
 
 One who goes through this edition of Mr. Stod- 
 dard s verse carefully, checking off only those 
 Popular poems without which American literature 
 
 ignorance. wou id be distinctly poorer, will have a 
 new idea of the extent and value of the work the 
 poet has done. The contemporary fame of authors 
 furnishes some of the most curious puzzles of liter 
 ature. That Southey should ever have been con 
 sidered a great poet while Shelley was practically 
 unknown, is something that we of to-day can never 
 fully comprehend; and the history of literature is 
 full of just such strange facts. Mention the poems 
 of Stoddard to intelligent and well-read friends, 
 who know their Lowell and Bryant, their Stedman 
 and Aldrich, and who know Stoddard the clever 
 magazinist and editor of books, and one is likely 
 to be met by the saying, " Why, I never knew that 
 he wrote any poetry." So astounding ignorance in 
 quarters where knowledge might fairly be expected 
 is inexplicable, unless, indeed, it be due to this, 
 that as prolific essayist and industrious editor, Mr. 
 Stoddard has eclipsed himself as poet. Certainly, 
 for whatever cause, he is less known to Americans, 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 28/ 
 
 even to those who love the literature of their 
 country, than he deserves to be. This cannot 
 always remain true. The man who has a genuine 
 call to write may say with Philip of Spain, " I and 
 time against any two," nay, against the world. 
 
 Much as he merits our praise and admiration for 
 what he has actually done, this is a man who still 
 more should receive our homage for what A priceless 
 he has attempted. It is something in example> 
 these days, when the sordid and selfish pursuit of 
 wealth absorbs so much of what is best in the 
 youth of America, to have this example of unswerv 
 ing choice of the intellectual life. It is some 
 thing, shall we say? It is a priceless thing, should 
 rather be said. The average man of affairs, to 
 whom getting rich is the chief end of man, and 
 poverty the unpardonable sin, can see nothing but 
 the extreme of folly in a life given to literature for 
 the love of the work and not for love of its rewards. 
 To those who know the true values of things there 
 is an element of heroism, of greatness of soul, in 
 such a life. America will never be quite given 
 over to the worship of the Almighty Dollar, she 
 will never be chained to Mammon s chariot wheels, 
 while she has here and there a son who turns his 
 face ever towards "the shining, unveiled face of 
 truth." 
 
XVIII. 
 
 FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 
 
 A MERICAN humor has now a world-wide re- 
 f\ pute, and is enjoyed if not appreciated by an 
 international audience. The goddess of fame has 
 been more lavish than discriminating in the distri 
 bution of her favors to American humorists. It is 
 a single type of humor that has become known to 
 American foreign readers as distinctively American, 
 humor. the type of which Artemus Ward and 
 
 Mark Twain (in a part of his writings) are the best 
 representatives. This humor is broad; it deals 
 largely in exaggeration; it produces gales of merri 
 ment by a fortunate jest; it lacks delicacy, con 
 structive power, and literary form. Foreign critics, 
 who are more distinguished for refined taste than 
 for profound knowledge of things American, seldom 
 speak with much respect of American humor. It 
 may be well adapted, they concede, to tickle the 
 ears of the groundlings, but it makes the judicious 
 grieve. We who are to the manner born know the 
 weak spot in this criticism. We know that America 
 has produced another type of humor, and appreciate 
 at its true value the courtly polish of Irving, the 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON, 289 
 
 catholic and urbane manner of Lowell, the playful, 
 half-bantering earnestness of Warner. To this 
 school belongs the subject of this paper, and he 
 alone would redeem our humorists from the charge 
 of coarseness and want of literary charm. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN he first began writing fantastic tales for 
 children, the author signed them " Frank R. Stock 
 ton," and that name still holds its place 
 on the titlepages of his books. His 
 proper Christian names are, however, Francis 
 Richard, and he was born in Philadelphia, April 
 5, 1834. He had a good education, being gradu 
 ated from the Central high-school of his native city 
 in 1852, but, like many of our successful American 
 authors, he did not have a college training. His 
 first choice of occupation was that of engraver and 
 draughtsman, but his bent was literary rather than 
 artistic, and he found his way into journalism. It 
 would have been rather remarkable had such not 
 been the case, as a marked tendency towards litera 
 ture distinguishes his family. A younger brother 
 was a journalist of distinction ; an elder half- 
 brother was an honored Methodist clergyman and 
 author; and a sister, though she has been somewhat 
 eclipsed by his greater fame, is known as a writer 
 of excellent stories for the magazines, and of several 
 books. Mr. Stockton was connected for brief 
 
 19 
 
2QO AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 periods with various newspapers and periodicals, 
 and on the establishment of " St. Nicholas " became 
 its assistant editor. There is reason to believe that 
 his editorial work was of excellent character; but 
 both his tastes and his gifts were rather for original 
 work, and for nearly or quite twenty years now he 
 has given himself to the writing of stories. As 
 early as 1870 four of his tales for children were 
 issued in book form by a Boston publisher, under 
 the title of "The Ting-a ling Stories," and there 
 after he was known to the initiated as "a promising 
 writer." 
 
 Mr. Stockton first gained the ear of the great 
 public in 1879, when a series of papers with a 
 Rudder slight thread of story appeared serially in 
 
 Grange. " Scribner s Monthly," and later in a 
 
 volume, under the title of " Rudder Grange. " The 
 story of the young couple keeping house in a canal- 
 boat and taking a boarder was irresistibly funny, 
 and the details were worked out with great skill. 
 Euphemia and Pomona became household words at 
 once; their droll sayings and droller doings gave 
 many a pleasant hour of reminiscence, long after 
 the enjoyment of the first reading had been experi 
 enced. The supreme test of the quality of humor 
 is its capacity to yield continuous pleasure. There 
 are things that make one laugh consumedly at first 
 hearing, as if their author 
 
 " Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life." 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 2QI 
 
 But jests of this sort never seem so funny, after 
 the first surprise has been felt. The best humor, 
 like good wine, improves with age, and with each 
 subsequent reading enjoyment grows. " Rudder 
 Grange" bears this test; it is as fresh and charm 
 ing now as when it was first written, and a new 
 reading after it has been half forgotten will be even 
 more relishful than the first. 
 
 Not even this book, well deserved as was its 
 success, gave Mr. Stockton so wide a fame as one 
 of his short stories, "The Lady or the Ladyorthe 
 Tiger?" The artful way in which he Tlger? 
 led his readers up to the crucial problem and then 
 betrayed their confidence by refusing to solve it, 
 cloaking this refusal under a pretext of inability to 
 decide the question he had raised, was a stroke of 
 humor that showed genius. It also showed com 
 mercial shrewdness, and had its reward. Curiosity 
 was piqued, discussion was provoked, and debate on 
 the merits of the question became quite a social 
 "fad." When one thinks on what a slender basis 
 literary fame is sometimes built, how fortuitous the 
 gaining of it generally is, how frequently the public 
 admires an author for that which is not best and 
 most characteristic in his work, the stir that fol 
 lowed the publication of this story becomes more 
 humorous than anything in the story itself. Since 
 that time there has been not only a ready market, 
 but an eager public, for whatever Mr. Stockton 
 might write. He has not been tempted, however, 
 
2Q2 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 to over-production. He has never shaken from the 
 tree the unripe fruits of his imagination merely 
 because they would sell, but has left them to grow 
 and ripen and mellow. 
 
 II. 
 
 As no reader will have failed to infer, Mr. 
 
 Stockton is first of all a clever writer of short 
 
 stories. Collections of his magazine 
 
 Short stories. . 
 
 stories have been made at various times 
 since 1884: "The Lady or the Tiger?" "The 
 Christmas Wreck," "The Bee Man of Orn," "Amos 
 Kilbright," "The Clocks of Rondaine," and "The 
 Watchmaker s Wife," each volume containing, 
 besides the title story, several other tales. These 
 volumes show Mr. Stockton s peculiar powers at their 
 best, and they give him an unquestioned place in 
 the front rank of American story-writers. It is 
 true that these tales of his violate certain conven 
 tions of literary art. They seldom have a plot; 
 they frequently have no dialogue, consisting wholly 
 or mainly of narrative or monologue; there is not 
 much description, and no apparent attempt at effect. 
 One would say that stories constructed on such a 
 plan could hardly fail to be tedious, however brief, 
 since they lack so many of the things that other 
 story-tellers rely upon for effects. Mr. Stockton s 
 method is vindicated by its success, not by its a 
 priori reasonableness. There is such a thing, no 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 293 
 
 doubt, as " good form " in every performance that 
 demands skill ; but, after all, the main point is to do 
 the thing. David s smooth stones from the brook 
 seemed a very ineffective weapon with which to 
 encounter a giant, and every military authority of 
 the age would have pronounced his attempt hope 
 less; but Goliath found, to his cost, that the shep 
 herd s sling was mightier than the warrior s sword 
 and spear. The Western oarsmen who His method 
 
 vindicated by 
 
 rowed by the light of nature, and never- success. 
 theless beat crews trained to row scientifically, 
 explained that theirs was called the "git thar" 
 stroke. Mr. Stockton s method of story-telling 
 may be similarly defined; it succeeds with him, 
 but in another s hands it would very likely be 
 a failure. 
 
 It must not be inferred that these stories lack 
 literary merit. The contrary is the fact, as a 
 critical study of them discloses. Take LUerary 
 one of the purely narrative stories, for ments 
 example, like "A Tale of Negative Gravity." It 
 is told with so much of positive gravity, in so 
 matter-of-fact a style, that one almost swallows it 
 whole, almost, but not quite. Now let one 
 analyze that story, try to imitate its simple style, 
 and however practised he may be in the art of 
 expression he will finish his experiment with a new 
 respect for the author s purely literary gifts. From 
 one point of view Mr. Stockton may almost be said 
 to have no style. There is nothing, one means, in 
 
294 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 the mere turn of his sentences, in his method of 
 expression, that can be seized upon as character 
 istic, and laid away in memory as a sort of trade 
 mark by which the author s other work may be 
 tested, judged, and identified. It is very plain, 
 simple, flowing English, this style of Stockton s, 
 the sort of writing that appears to the inexperienced 
 the easiest thing in the world to do until they 
 have tried. The art that conceals art, until it can 
 pass for nature itself, that, we are continually 
 told, is the highest type, and the secret of that Mr. 
 Stockton has somehow caught. 
 
 These tales stamp their author as one of the most 
 
 original of American writers. Though his style 
 
 lacks mannerism or distinctive flavor, it 
 
 Originality. 
 
 is not so with the substance of his work. 
 That has plenty of flavor, flavor of a kind so pecu 
 liar that his work could never by any accident be 
 mistaken for that of any other writer. It might be 
 not the easiest of tasks to tell whether an anony 
 mous essay or story should be fathered upon Mr. 
 Howells or Mr. Aldrich; but it requires no such 
 nicety of literary taste to recognize a story of Mr. 
 Stockton s. One who has sufficient accuracy of 
 taste to distinguish between a slice of roast beef 
 and a raw potato, so to speak, will know the savor 
 of his work wherever it is met. Other writers may 
 be as original, in the strict sense of that term, but 
 few, if any, are so individual, so unmistakably 
 themselves and nobody else. 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 2$$ 
 
 III. 
 
 MOST writers of short stories sooner or later 
 are tempted to try their wings in the longer 
 flight of a novel. It seems to be just Ve ryiike 
 about an even chance whether they sue failures - 
 ceed or fail, so different are the conditions of the 
 two classes of fiction. One dislikes to use the 
 word failure in connection with any of Mr. Stock 
 ton s work, yet "The Late Mrs. Null" and "The 
 Hundredth Man " fall very far short of the relative 
 excellence of his tales. The plots are very in 
 genious, the mystery surrounding Mrs. Null until 
 the very last being quite worthy of Wilkie Collins; 
 the dialogue is bright and amusing; considerable 
 power of characterization is shown in these novels, 
 a thing almost wholly absent from the tales. Yet 
 withal there is a lack of power, and while the books 
 are clever tours de force they are not work of lasting 
 worth. 
 
 Why this should be is something of a puzzle, 
 since writers of far less originality and force than 
 Mr. Stockton have produced bettennovels. 
 
 ... .. A puzzle. 
 
 The ingenious reader may easily propose 
 to himself several explanations, of which the follow 
 ing may be the most satisfactory, since it seems to 
 fit all the facts known to the public. Mr. Stock 
 ton s peculiar power is best described by the word 
 "droll." He excels in that juxtaposition of incon- 
 
2 96 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 gruities that is the essence of humor. Only, in his 
 case, the incongruity is commonly not of ideas but 
 of acts and situations; the incongruity of ideas is 
 not put into words, as is the wont of most humorists, 
 but suggested to the reader, suggested often with 
 great delicacy and subtlety. The production of 
 this effect on the mind of the reader is one that 
 cannot be prolonged beyond a certain point without 
 wearying him. A joke that a friend takes fifteen 
 minutes to tell us is not likely to have a very sharp 
 point when the end finally comes, and a writer who 
 spins out his drollery to three hundred pages will 
 find it becoming a weariness to the flesh. The 
 very thing that constitutes Mr. Stockton s power 
 in a story that can be read in a half-hour constitutes 
 his weakness in a novel. 
 
 There is one other excellence in his novels for 
 
 which Mr. Stockton has not yet been given credit. 
 
 He has succeeded, at least in his Mrs. Null, in 
 
 giving his story plenty of "local color." 
 
 His local color. & J r J 
 
 He was at one time a resident of Virginia, 
 and the negro dialect and character have seldom 
 been represented with a more sympathetic accuracy 
 than by him. He may not have penetrated so 
 deeply into the very heart of the negro as Mr. Page 
 in his "Marse Chan" and other companion stories, 
 but he has made himself not a bad second to the 
 acknowledged first in this field. 
 
 As might, perhaps, be expected, Mr. Stockton 
 has succeeded better in novelettes. Here he is 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 297 
 
 almost as much at home as in the brief tale. " The 
 Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine " 
 and its sequel, "The Dusantes," reach 
 
 . Novelettes 
 
 pretty nearly, if not quite, the high- 
 water mark of our author. The first named of these 
 stories is one of the best illustrations possible of 
 his peculiar gift. The motive of the tale is the 
 simplest possible : it is to show how two good New 
 England women, bred in a narrow round of duties, 
 and wonted to a certain moral and social standard 
 of action until it had become second nature, would 
 continue to act after their kind in whatever unaccus 
 tomed and startling circumstances they might be 
 placed. The humor of the story consists almost 
 wholly in the incongruity between the incidents of a 
 shipwreck, involving a stay on a desert island, and the 
 ingrained notions and habits of these women. This 
 theme is treated with so much ingenuity, and with 
 a touch so deft as to make of the story one of the 
 most humorous things in literature. A little knowl 
 edge of New England village life is necessary to 
 its fullest appreciation, but the reader is to be 
 pitied whose imagination is not tickled by many of 
 the scenes and incidents of this adventure. 
 
 One notes, in reading this story, what he cannot 
 have failed to observe elsewhere, that the author 
 has caught the trick of lifelike narration. The 
 tale, in its sober, matter-of-fact style and its veri 
 similitude, might have been the work of Defoe or 
 Hale. Neither of these writers is destitute of 
 
2Q8 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 humor, especially Dr. Hale, but neither of them 
 could have supplied the element in Stockton s 
 stories that is their chief charm. The three are 
 alike only in their faculty of telling a story so as 
 to give it, while one is reading at least, all the 
 semblance of the truth itself. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE young folks know a good story-teller by 
 instinct, and Mr. Stockton has from the first been 
 HIS "hive- a prime favorite with them. As we have 
 mles> seen, his first book was composed of 
 stories for children, and he has gone on writing for 
 his youthful readers until his "juveniles" make 
 quite a row, seven or more volumes. The best of 
 these stories show a gift very similar to that which 
 wins the favor of older readers, though it is rather 
 a fantastic imagination than pure humor that in 
 spires the best of them. Children, as a rule, have 
 a quite rudimentary sense of humor, yet they are 
 not incapable of appreciating droll things. They 
 perceive most easily, however, that sort of humor 
 which builders embody in gargoyles and other simi 
 lar ornamentations, grotesque distortions of types 
 with which they are familiar in every-day life. 
 Some of Mr. Stockton s fairy tales show a fertility 
 of imagination that surpasses anything he has done 
 in his other writings, and their whimsical absurdi 
 ties are so gravely set forth that many a staid father 
 
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 299 
 
 while reading them to his children has been half 
 inclined to accept them as veritable histories. It 
 is noteworthy that in these stories the narrow 
 line separating the fanciful from the burlesque is 
 never crossed. Nobody could suspect from the 
 writer s manner that he does not himself firmly 
 believe in the reality of his marvellous creations. 
 A false note here would be fatal, and none would 
 be quicker to detect it than the readers of "St. 
 Nicholas," where most of these tales have first 
 appeared. 
 
 One of these books is of a more conventional 
 sort, "A Jolly Fellowship." It is a very good 
 story, only and this is the worst one could say 
 of it a dozen other men might have written it 
 as well as Mr. Stockton. It so completely lacks 
 his distinctive qualities that, despite its general 
 brightness, it must be ranked among his few fail 
 ures ; or, if that seem too harsh a word, his partial 
 successes. 
 
 Mr. Stockton gives no signs of having exhausted 
 his vein. He has made for himself a place unique 
 and unapproachable in the regard of those who love 
 good literature. Original to the verge of eccen 
 tricity, he provokes no comparisons with any writer. 
 Nobody has ever thought of calling him "The 
 American somebody or other," a title bestowed 
 on his fellow craftsmen, doubtless with an intent 
 to compliment, though it is really the direst insult 
 
300 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 that can be offered to a man of letters, since it 
 accuses him of being the weak echo of some Euro 
 pean celebrity. No, the author of " Rudder Grange " 
 is not " The American Lamb " nor the American 
 anybody else, he is just Frank R. Stockton. 
 
XIX. 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 OF a poet, as well as of a prophet, it is some 
 times true that he is not without honor save 
 in his own country and among his own people. 
 Something very like this might once have been said, 
 perhaps might be said even now, of Joaquin Miller. 
 There have been American men of letters before our 
 day, and there are others in our day, whom our kin 
 across the sea rate higher than we are accustomed 
 ,to rate them in America. In no other case easily re 
 called has an American author s fame in his own land 
 been little more than the pale reflection Hisvogue5n 
 of his transatlantic glory. Twenty years En s land - 
 ago Joaquin Miller was the lion of British society ; 
 he was feted and caressed by the rich and titled ; he 
 was praised by the chorus of irresponsible, indolent 
 reviewers; his books ran through numerous editions 
 in two continents, surely this was fame. The last 
 mark of condescending admiration was bestowed 
 upon him by his English admirers when one called 
 him "The American Byron." The epithet was not 
 wholly undeserved, for there were in his writings, as 
 
302 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Landor said of Byron, " things as strong as poison and 
 as original as sin." The British public has, of course, 
 long since recovered from its Miller "craze;" the 
 critics no longer say that he is the most original 
 and probably the greatest of our American poets; 
 and there are few living authors who are now more 
 utterly forgotten. Not long ago one who had occa 
 sion to purchase his collected poems, searched New 
 York high and low, but not a copy, new or second 
 hand, could he find on sale. Of what other American 
 poet, living or dead, could this be true? The sober 
 critic hardly knows which phenomenon is the more 
 surprising and inexplicable, the suddenness of Mr. 
 Miller s undeserved fame, or the completeness of his 
 equally undeserved oblivion. 
 
 ClNClNNATUS HiNER MILLER oris it Heine, as 
 sometimes written ? the authorities differ was born 
 in the Wabash district of Indiana, November 10, 1841. 
 His parents moved to Oregon in 1854, and he was 
 brought up amid the rough, wild pioneer life of the 
 new territory, surroundings well fitted to nourish 
 a poetic imagination, but affording few opportunities 
 of culture. His education was picked up anyhow or 
 nohow, mostly the latter, one fancies, for 
 schools and books were scarce in Oregon 
 in those days. Long before he reached manhood 
 young Miller seems to have been thrown on his own 
 
JOAQUIN MILLER. 303 
 
 resources, and to have made trial of more than one 
 means of livelihood. He had the inevitable experi 
 ence in mining, and succeeded in it no better than 
 Bret Harte; he studied law for a time; he was an 
 express messenger in Idaho, which meant rough 
 work, small pay, and the daily risk of life, in those 
 days ; he was editor of a paper. This was " seeing 
 life " on a pretty generous scale and in a less harm 
 ful way than is affected by the more or less gilded 
 youth of our cities. 
 
 The journalistic experience to which allusion has 
 been made was very brief. Mr. Miller became editor 
 of the " Democratic Register," of Eugene, Oregon, in 
 1863, but the paper was soon after suppressed by 
 military authority, the editor having been guilty of 
 what were deemed disloyal utterances. From what 
 can be learned, the paper seems to have been a 
 " copperhead " sheet, following the lead of such men 
 as Vallandigham, and it doubtless de 
 served its fate. When we recall, however, 
 that the editor was but twenty-two years of age, and 
 that this was his first venture in politics, his last, too, 
 it would seem, we shall not pass a harsh sentence 
 of condemnation on him. After this conspicuous 
 failure, Mr. Miller won something very like success. 
 He opened a law office in Canon City, and soon 
 gained a fair practice. It was here that one of the 
 most exciting adventures of his career befell him. 
 According to the story, Canon City was invested 
 by hostile Indians, and Miller led an expedition 
 
304 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 against them into their own country; but after a 
 long and bloody campaign, he was finally beaten 
 back, leaving his dead on the field. As this episode 
 is related by the veracious G. Washington Moon, 
 Hon. F. R. S. L., one cannot doubt its literal accu 
 racy. Not long after, the young lawyer and Indian- 
 fighter was made judge of the Grant County court, 
 Lawyer and which office he held from 1866 to 1870. 
 judge. Had he continued in the way he thus 
 
 began, he might have carved out for himself a 
 notable career as jurist and public servant. Men 
 of far less native endowment and force of character 
 have been governors and senators from the new 
 States of the West. But his weird was upon him, 
 as the Scotch say; he was doomed to the pains and 
 penalties, as well as born to the joys, of authorship. 
 
 II. 
 
 MR. MILLER began to write in boyhood, ignorant 
 of the rules of versification and even of English 
 grammar. He wrote because he was irresistibly 
 impelled, and with the least possible encouragement 
 from without; for, though he first published a col 
 lection of his verses in paper covers, 
 modestly calling them " Specimens," and 
 later a volume with the title " Joaquin et al.," it does 
 not appear that he gained more than a local fame as 
 a poet, and not too much even of that. It was hardly 
 to be expected that poetry would find a ready market 
 
JOAQUIN MILLER. 305 
 
 in a new country where every energy was absorbed 
 in the struggle to wring from nature a mere 
 subsistence. 
 
 For many years he diligently availed himself of such 
 means of culture as came within his reach, reading 
 with equal pleasure and profit authors ancient and 
 modern as they came to hand (the former necessarily 
 in translations), and practising his art in secret. He 
 cherished the conviction that he was born to be a 
 poet, and could he but break his birth s invidious bar 
 and grasp the skirts of happy chance, fame and for 
 tune would be his. It was his desire to visit England, 
 where, for some reason, he believed that he would 
 meet with more encouragement than at visits 
 home. The event justified his prescience. En s land - 
 In 1870 he realized his long-cherished desire, and 
 the following year saw the publication in London 
 of his " Songs of the Sierras." The same year the 
 book also appeared in Boston, with the imprint of 
 Roberts Brothers. The name Joaquin, Songsofthe 
 which appeared on the titlepage, and by sierras< 
 which only the poet was known for some years, was 
 a reminiscence of his legal experience. It had once 
 fallen to his lot to defend a Mexican brigand named 
 Joaquin Murietta, and he substituted his client s 
 Christian name for his own, in the belief, doubtless, 
 that it better suited the character of his verse. 
 
 It was the publication of this volume that caused 
 the furore in England that has already been de 
 scribed. This was really one of the great literary 
 
306 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 successes of our generation, so far as immediate and 
 wide popularity and social honors measure success, 
 To be sure, it was founded on British insularity and 
 British ignorance. The English critic, and to 
 
 ignorance. gome degree ^Q English public also, IS 
 
 always on the watch for something original in Ameri 
 can literature, something distinctively national, some 
 thing racy of the soil. He has an ingrained conviction 
 that our literature is, for the most part, a weak echo 
 of his country s, and that few of our authors are truly 
 American. But he fails to distinguish between what 
 is original and what is merely bizarre, and individual 
 affectation frequently imposes itself on him as the 
 true flavor of American life. 
 
 The British admiration of Joaquin Miller was, there 
 fore, based on an entirely erroneous idea of the 
 literary significance of his writings. Except in his 
 themes, few of our American poets have been less 
 The"Ameri- American. His stories, for most of his 
 can Byron." poems are rhymed and versified tales of 
 adventure, as to their details, have the true wild 
 Western savor, but in all other respects his work is 
 purely British. It has already been intimated that 
 the British critic did well to describe him as " The 
 American Byron." That form of description, as has 
 been remarked heretofore, is generally an insult that 
 vainly tries to disguise itself as a compliment. In 
 this case the phrase escapes being insulting by being 
 accurately descriptive. Joaquin Miller is the Ameri 
 can Byron just that, and only that in his " Songs 
 
JOAQUIN MILLER. 307 
 
 of the Sierras." His heroes are Byron s characters 
 masquerading in California costumes; Walker is a 
 Lara in sombrero and scrape, and Kit Carson is 
 Don Juan in the garb of scout and Indian fighter. 
 Byron s influence can be traced in every poem and 
 almost in every line. One is not, perhaps, justified in 
 saying that Joaquin Miller would never have written 
 these songs if he had not soaked his mind in Byron, 
 but he would certainly have written them far differ 
 ently in that case. 
 
 III. 
 
 ONE thing should have saved the British critic from 
 this mistake of his, the lack of artistic merit in this 
 first book of Mr. Miller s. Whatever merits it may 
 be allowed to contain, the merit of good workmanship 
 is certainly absent. The instructed reader should 
 have perceived at once that if here was a poet born, 
 here was not a poet made. The critic might have 
 perceived also, what is certainly there, evidence 
 that this was a poet who had an innate faculty of ex 
 pression, that might be improved by practice and 
 polished by the learning and following of rules, but 
 not without attractiveness in its natural wildness. 
 
 What is bad in this book is bad without disguise, 
 so fatuously bad that one never ceases wondering how 
 an author capable of such stuff could ever 
 
 Extremes meet. 
 
 do anything good. Yet the good, in turn, 
 
 is so strong and so beautiful as to make the reader 
 
308 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 temporarily insensible to irregularities and inequalities 
 of style, as well as to gross defects of taste. That this 
 is no exaggeration let the following lines testify : 
 
 " I lay in my hammock : the air was heavy 
 And hot and threatening ; the very heaven 
 Was holding its breath ; the bees in a bevy 
 Hid under my thatch ; and birds were driven 
 In clouds to the rocks in a hurried whirr 
 As I peer d down by the path for her. 
 She stood like a bronze bent over the river, 
 The proud eyes fix d, the passion unspoken 
 When the heavens broke like a great dyke broken. 
 Then, ere I fairly had time to give her 
 A shout of warning, a rushing of wind 
 And the rolling of clouds and a deafening din 
 And a darkness that had been black to the blind 
 Came down, as I shouted, Come in ! come in ! 
 Come under the roof, come up from the river, 
 As up from a grave come now, or come never ! 
 The tassel d tops of the pines were as weeds, 
 The red-woods rock d like to lake-side reeds, 
 And the world seem d darken d and drown d for ever." 
 
 That is almost incomparably good, not quite per 
 fect in workmanship, but so full of passion and fire as 
 to atone for any defects in form. When one reads 
 that, and some other things in this volume, one can 
 almost pardon the British critic who wrote, fresh from 
 the reading of it: " Of all American poetry in recent 
 years, that of Mr. Joaquin Miller is the freshest. He 
 A British 1S a new P oe ^ m ^ e proper sense of the 
 term. He owes allegiance to no transat 
 lantic masters, and he is no servile imitator of the 
 modern minstrelsy of our own country. In outward 
 
JOAQUIN MILLER. 309 
 
 form in the mechanism of his poetry he of course 
 follows the fashion of the times ; but the spirit is new, 
 the tone is individual and distinct. In his poems for 
 the first time the prairies, the Sierras, and the new 
 and old life of the Far West of America, have been 
 fairly poetized, so to speak." One can almost pardon 
 this, but not quite ; for it is the duty of the critic not 
 to let himself be carried off his feet by his emotions, 
 and to maintain his coolness of judgment when his 
 admiration is most stirred. The trouble with this 
 critic was that he admired not wisely but too well, 
 and that, approaching his author with a preconceived 
 theory of American poetry, he misjudged the facts 
 before him. So absurd, however, did the whole tribe 
 of British critics become, that on the publication of 
 Mr. Miller s second volume, " Songs of the Sun- 
 Lands," we find the " Westminster Review " soberly 
 exhorting the poet after this fashion : " Mr. Miller 
 must be careful that he does not buy ele- M oreofth e 
 gance at too dear a price. We ourselves same sort 
 prefer the roughness of the backwoods of America to 
 all the drawing-room conventionalities of Europe. 
 We prefer Mr. Joaquin Miller s native reed-pipe to 
 any guitar." Now it is about an even chance whether 
 Mr. Miller s " native reed-pipe " (a pretty phrase, is 
 it not?) sends forth music or discord, and this exhor 
 tation not to be too fine, not to condescend too much 
 to the polish of civilization, was, had the critic but 
 known it, the worst advice he could have given to the 
 poet, not to mention that it was wholly wasted, for 
 
3IO AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Joaquin Miller s besetting sin has never been too 
 much regard for the conventional. 
 
 In truth, this second volume showed a marked ad 
 vance in the poetic art. It showed that the poet was 
 gradually acquiring some knowledge of versification, 
 though it also warranted a prediction that he would 
 never become complete master of conventional forms 
 of expression. There is, and to the last there will be 
 something untamed and untutored about his verse ; it 
 is as lawless as the outlaws whom it so often celebrates, 
 but, like them, often unexpectedly reveals elemental 
 traits of strength and beauty. And yet this general 
 characterization of his work is hardly fair ; sweeping 
 statements are seldom quite fair, until they are so 
 qualified with exceptions that the original 
 text is scarcely discernible. Here and 
 there one finds, even in his first volume, a choice bit 
 that could hardly be made more perfect by the most 
 painstaking workmanship. Here is an instance : 
 
 " Life knows no dead so beautiful 
 As is the white cold coffin d past j 
 This I may love nor be betray d : 
 The dead are faithful to the last. 
 I am not spouseless I have wed 
 A memory a life that s dead." 
 
 One can hardly say that in his later volumes these 
 bits occur more frequently, but they do occur, wit 
 ness these stanzas, prefixed to " The Rhyme of the 
 Great River," in " Songs of the Mexican Seas " 
 
MILLER. 
 
 " Rhyme on, rhyme on in reedy flow, 
 O river, rhymer ever sweet ! 
 The story of thy land is meet, 
 The stars stand listening to know. 
 
 " Rhyme on, O river of the earth ! 
 Gray father of the dreadful seas, 
 Rhyme on ! the world upon its knees 
 Shall yet invoke thy wealth and worth. 
 
 " Rhyme on, the reed is at thy mouth, 
 
 kingly minstrel, mighty stream ! 
 Thy Crescent City, like a dream, 
 
 Hangs in the heaven of my South. 
 
 " Rhyme on, rhyme on ! these broken strings 
 Sing sweetest in this warm south wind ; 
 
 1 sit thy willow banks and bind 
 A broken harp that fitful sings." 
 
 As may be inferred from even the brief extracts 
 given above, Mr. Miller is at his best in his lyrics. 
 His longer narrative poems are weak and confused in 
 structure, though they often contain some of his 
 strongest passages. His blank, unrhymed verse, the 
 severest test of a poet, could not well be of poorer 
 quality; it is verbose, spasmodic, bombastic. Quali 
 fication must again be made to these Thelslesof 
 general statements. One of his longer theA " ns - 
 poems, in his "Songs of the Sun-Lands," "The Isles 
 of the Amazons," must be rated as, on the whole, the 
 finest specimen of his work. Into it he has put all his 
 strength, and, as he seems temporarily to have for 
 gotten his affectations and mannerisms, his lines glow 
 
312 AMERICAN WRITERS OF TO-DAY 
 
 with tropical passion, and thrill the reader with the 
 vividness and originality of their imagery and their 
 spontaneous vigor of expression. The lack of propor 
 tion, the sins against good taste, the rawness and 
 crudeness of sentiment that so repel the reader in 
 some of his work, are inconspicuous here. Extracts 
 would do no justice to this noble poem, which must 
 be read and admired as a whole. 
 
 In the dedication of one of his latest volumes, Mr. 
 Miller asks, somewhat plaintively : " And may I not 
 ask in return, now at the last, when the shadows begin 
 to grow long, something of that consideration which, 
 thus far, has been accorded almost entirely by 
 strangers?" If by " consideration" the poet means 
 that fulsome and foolish praise that the English 
 chorussed twenty years ago, his hope is vain. He 
 Lacks critical P r bably took it seriously when the sapient 
 faculty. London critics assured him that he was a 
 
 greater, because a more original, poet than Lowell or 
 Bryant. We may safely infer from his writings that 
 he has little faculty of self-criticism, that all his 
 work appears to him of nearly equal worth, and that 
 he is unconscious of his many and flagrant faults. 
 This alone can account for his lawless trampling on 
 the conventionalities of the poet s art. The fame that 
 he would claim as his right will never be awarded him 
 by the readers of the present day, whatever the readers 
 of the future may say. But Mr. Miller has, neverthe 
 less, just cause of complaint against his countrymen. 
 
JOAQUIN MILLER. 3 1 3 
 
 There has been a natural resentment of the unwise 
 puffery of the London press, and in consequence the 
 poet has never received his true meed of praise. 
 Certain personal eccentricities have also stood between 
 him and a just appreciation of his work. There is so 
 much that is finely imaginative in his verse, so much 
 that is genuine in feeling and powerful in expression, 
 that, in spite of his maddening shortcomings, the 
 perverse wilfulness of his errors, he deserves and 
 should before this have been awarded by general 
 suffrage, an honored place well up on the roll of 
 American poets. 
 
INDEX. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Academy, French, awards prize to 
 Crawford, 156. 
 
 Addison, papers on Milton, 63 ; humor 
 of, 92; essays, 95. 
 
 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, collabo 
 rates with Stedman, 16; birth and 
 childhood, 104 ; " Story of a Bad 
 Boy," ib. ; education cut short, 105 ; 
 business career, 106 ; " Ballad of 
 Baby Bell," ib. ; devotes himself to 
 literature, 107 ; on staff of " Home 
 Journal," 1 08 ; friendships, ib., 277 ; 
 editor of "Every Saturday," 109; 
 "The Dells," no; editor of "The 
 Atlantic," no ; discovery of authors, 
 in; other books, 112; style, ib. ; 
 longer stories, 113 ; treatment of the 
 labor question, 114; verse, a carver 
 of cameos, 115; conscientious art, 
 116; longer poems, 118; dash of 
 cynicism, ib. ; " Mercedes," 119, 120 ; 
 European reputation, 121; reserved 
 power, 122 ; jokes about Craddock s 
 chirography, 172; humor, 232. 
 
 American, false standards of, 138; 
 James hardly an, 75, 86; British 
 ignorance of things, 121; queer 
 British ideas about, 136, 138, 159, 
 229 ; Miss Murfree distinctively, 
 186; Cable, 266; Harte, 229; 
 Miller, how far, 309. 
 
 "Argonauts of 49," 215 ; Harte s lec 
 ture on, 223. 
 
 Arnold, Benedict, 262. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, sweet reasonable 
 ness, 66; style, 85. 
 
 Art, baseness in, satiates, 23 ; neces 
 sarily selective, 52 ; chief function 
 to please, 53 ; no place for vile or 
 trivial in, ib. ; grotesque in, 53, 298 ; 
 Mr. James s mechanical, 79 ; must 
 exclude nothing, 81 ; morals in, 82; 
 Cable s, 267 ; of story telling in verse, 
 284 ; Stoddard s devotion to, 287 ; 
 which conceals art, 294; Joaquin 
 Miller s lack of, 307. 
 
 "Atlantic Monthly," Howells editor 
 of, 49; Aldrich editor of, 113; Crad 
 dock s first story in, 171. 
 
 Autobiography, Howells s, 45; War 
 ner s, 88; Aldrich s, 104; Mrs. 
 Burnett s, 159; Kale s, 232. 
 
 Authors, the University of, 43 ; must 
 live, 78; rewards of, 169 ; versatility 
 of American, 230. 
 
 Bacon, an essayist, 95. 
 Balzac, u Comedie Humaine," 81. 
 Bancroft, labored history, 27. 
 Beaconsfield, Lord (Disraeli), defini 
 tion of a critic, 64 ; " Lothair," 
 
 153- 
 
 Beauty, relation to truth, 21. 
 Beecher, Henry Ward, 233. 
 Bellamy, Edward, 240. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Billings, Josh, see Shaw. 
 
 Blackmore, rhythmical prose, 20, 21. 
 
 Blavatsky, Madame, 143. 
 
 Blindness, Prescott s, 32 ; Parkman s 
 partial, ib. ; Milton s, 34. 
 
 Boston, Hale born in, 231; Henry 
 James tha idol of, 69. 
 
 Boswell, 141. 
 
 Boy, Mark Twain s knowledge of, 
 135 ; Fauntleroy too perfect a, 166. 
 
 Brooks, Phillips, 233. 
 
 Brown, John, Stedman s ballad on, 9. 
 
 Browning, dramatic effects, how pro 
 duced, 24; " Pippa," 246. 
 
 Bryant, British neglect of, 138. 
 
 Bunyan, prefers second part of " Pil 
 grim s Progress," 225. 
 
 BURNETT, FRANCES HODGSON, 
 English born, 159; precocity, ib. ; 
 autobiography, ib. ; discovered by 
 " Scribner s," 160; marries Dr. 
 Burnett, 161 ; " That Lass o 
 Lowrie s," ib. ; later novels, 162 ; 
 realist by instinct, ib. ; gift of 
 style, 163, 196; " Little Lord 
 Fauntleroy," 164-166; its fatal 
 defect, 165; other books for the 
 young, 167 ; dramatic success, 168 ; 
 its rewards, 169; ignoring of Ten 
 nessee, 170. 
 
 Burton, his ." Anatomy " quoted, 69. 
 
 Byron, lines on critics, 64 ; and Bret 
 Harte, 134; on Cervantes, 130; 
 sudden fame, 187 ; " The Ameri 
 can," 301. 
 
 CABLE, GEORGE WASHINGTON, rep 
 resentative Southern writer, 261 ; 
 political heresies, 262 ; birth, ib. ; 
 youth, 263; serves in Confederate 
 army, ib. ; journalism, 264 ; first 
 stories, ib. ; devotes himself to liter 
 ature, 266; Creole life in fiction, 
 264, 266; pioneer in dialect writing, 
 266 ; a great artist, 267 ; style, ib. ; 
 first novels, 268 ; later writings, 
 269 ; rare combination of endow 
 ments, 270; unpopularity in the 
 
 South, 271 ; courage, 272 ; Northern 
 residence, 125, 272, 273; books, 
 274. 
 
 California, Mark Twain s life in, 128 , 
 romantic history, 212; Argonauts, 
 213 ; Harte s picture of life in, 217- 
 221; dislike of Harte in, 229; how 
 named, 237. 
 
 Calvin, invalidism, 284 ; industry, ib. 
 
 Carlyle, prose. 20 ; confiscations of, 
 85 ; hatred of shams, 132. 
 
 " Century," publishes Eggleston s 
 novels, 254; "Life in the Thirteen 
 Colonies," 259. 
 
 Cervantes, 130. 
 
 Channing, 27. 
 
 Charm, necessary in poetry, 21 ; Mrs. 
 Burnett s, 163, 196. 
 
 Chautauqua, Hale s connection with, 
 242. 
 
 Cicero, 248. 
 
 Collins, Wilkie, short stories, 77; 
 plots, 295 ; style, 163. 
 
 Cosmopolitan, Howells s spirit, 48 ; 
 Henry James s American, 71-75. 
 
 CRADDOCK, CHARLES EGBERT, 
 (Mary Noailles Murfree), dis 
 covered by Aldrich, in ; first 
 story, 171; "In the Tennessee 
 Mountains," ib. ; mystery of the 
 authorship, 172; disclosed, 173; 
 lineage, 175; home at St. Louis, 
 ib. ; conscientious worker, 1 76 ; 
 thorough knowledge, 177; depth 
 of insight, ib. ; short stories, 1 78 ; 
 "Where the Battle was Fought," 
 179; other books, 180 ; plot, 182; 
 dialogue, ib. ; description, 183, 184 ; 
 style, 185 ; distinctively American, 
 186. 
 
 Crawford, Thomas, 142. 
 
 CRAWFORD, FRANCIS MARION, 
 knowledge of Italy, 71; birth, 141; 
 not a mere dreamer, 142; enters 
 Harvard, ib. ; romantic career, 143 ; 
 journalist, ib.; "Mr. Isaacs," 143, 
 144 ; astonishingly prolific, 145 ; 
 neither realist nor romancer, 76, 
 
INDEX. 
 
 319 
 
 146; theory of fiction, 147, 154; 
 his romances, 148; his novels, 149; 
 two failures,: 50 ; the Saracinesca trio, 
 151-153; European reputation, 155 ; 
 prize from French Academy, 1 56 ; 
 his future, ib. 
 
 Creole in fiction, 264, 266, 268, 269. 
 
 Critic, Howells s quarrel with, 61 ; a 
 parasite, 62; rather a middleman, 
 ib. ; his right to exist, 63 ; not so 
 black as painted, 64 ; his true func 
 tion, 65 ; Disraeli s definition of, 64 ; 
 Byron s lines on, ib. 
 
 Criticism, an unprofitable sort of, 
 158 ; Joaquin Miller lacks self-, 
 312. 
 
 Curtis, George William, his "Easy 
 Chair," 90. 
 
 Cuttle, Captain, his famous observa 
 tion, 52. 
 
 Cynicism, vein of in Stedman, 13 ; 
 incompatible with poetry, 25; Aid- 
 rich s dash of, 1 1 8. 
 
 Daudet, Alphonse, his " Le Petit 
 Chose," 45. 
 
 Davis, Richard Harding, his Van 
 Bibber, 56, note. 
 
 Decameron, 76. 
 
 Defoe, verisimilitude, 244, 297. 
 
 De Quincy, prose, 20; essays, 95. 
 
 Description, Miss Murfree s, 183. 
 
 Dialect, Miss Murfree s, 185; Mrs. 
 Whitney s New England, 208 ; Ca 
 ble s, 266; "craze," ib. ; Stockton s, 
 296. 
 
 Dialogue, place in art of fiction, 181 ; 
 Miss Murfree s, 182. 
 
 Dickens, rythmical prose, 20 ; " Christ 
 mas Stories," 77 ; and the romantic 
 school. 100 ; Pickwick, 91 ; defi 
 cient in style, 163 ; sentimentality, 
 228 ; suspects George Eliot s dis 
 guise, 174; Stoddard s " Gadshill," 
 285. 
 
 Didacticism, excluded from poetry, 
 22 ; from fiction, 82 ; avoided by 
 
 Miss Phelps, 194 ; Hale teaches 
 
 without, 245. See Ethics. 
 Dodge, Miss (" Gail Hamilton "), on 
 
 woman question, 196. 
 Drama, purpose of, 68 ; Henry James s 
 
 successes, 83-85 ; Mrs. Burnett s 
 
 contribution to, 168-170. 
 Dumas, Alexandre plre, a romancer, 
 
 100. 
 
 EGGLESTON, EDWARD, youth, 249; 
 a circuit rider, ib. ; journalist, 251 ; 
 editor of the " Independent," ib. ; 
 pastor, 252; home, ib.; "The 
 Hoosier Schoolmaster," 253 ; other 
 books, 254 ; man greater than artist, 
 255; historian, 256; diligence in 
 research, 257; biographies, 258; 
 historian of the people, 259. 
 
 Eggleston, George Gary, " American 
 War Ballads and Lyrics," 14. 
 
 Eliot, George, and romantic school, 
 100; surpassed by Miss Murfree, 
 1 73 ; suspicions of Dickens and 
 others concerning, 174. 
 
 Essays, James s critical, 80 ; popular 
 ity of, 95 ; famous writers of, ib. ; 
 Warner s natural method of ex 
 pression, 96. 
 
 Ethics, not excluded from poetry, 
 22 ; in art, 195 ; Mrs. Whitney s 
 "preachy" tone, 209; Hale always 
 a preacher, 245. See Didacticism 
 and Morals. 
 
 Fashion, mutations of literary, 185. 
 
 Fecundity, literary, Parkman s, 30 ; 
 Howells s, 50; Crawford s, 145; 
 Miss Murfree s, 180; Mrs. Whit 
 ney s, 201 ; Hale s, 244 ; Calvin s, 
 248. See Industry. 
 
 Fiction, Howells s theory of, 67 ; 
 Crawford s 147, 154; Warner s lack 
 of art in, 101 ; romantic school of, 
 100; indecency of French, 154; its 
 quasi- justification, 155; no excuse 
 
320 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 for indecency in American, ib. ; 
 
 children good judges of, 298 ; 
 
 Creole life in, 264, 266 ; artistic and 
 
 moral wedded in Cable s, 270. 
 France, James s knowledge of, 71. 
 Froude, a melancholy example, 35 ; on 
 
 literary wages, 275. 
 
 Genius, intuitions of, 20; Parkman a 
 man of, 30 ; not necessarily a fool, 
 138 ; Trollope s theory of, 146. 
 
 Gentlemen, English and French, 71, 
 72 ; American, 75. 
 
 George, Henry, 240. 
 
 Gibbon, rank as historian, 27; his 
 great work, 30 ; nobody to retell his 
 story, 35 ; militia service, 37. 
 
 Gladstone, a chopper of trees, 39. 
 
 Globe-trotter, American, 130. 
 
 " Godey s," part in literature, 107. 
 
 Greeley, Horace, 240. 
 
 Grotesque, its place in art, 53, 298. 
 
 Guiney, Louise Imogen, in. 
 
 Haggard, Rider, romances, 80, 100. 
 
 Hale, Nathan and Lucretia P., 231. 
 
 HALE, EDWARD EVERETT, versa 
 tility, 230; ancestry, 231 ; education, 
 232 ; preacher, ib., 245 ; pastor, 234 ; 
 his Philip Nolan, 234; verisimili 
 tude, 235, 297; novels, 236; histo 
 rian, 237 ; superficiality, 238 ; editor, 
 239 ; philanthropist, 240 ; Chautau- 
 qua work, 242 ; power, 244 ; volum- 
 inousness, 244 ; optimism, 246 ; 
 contrasted with Tolstoi, 247. 
 
 Hamilton College, Warner graduated 
 at, 89. 
 
 Hamilton, "Single-speech," 167. 
 
 Hamilton, Gail, see Dodge. 
 
 Hardy, Arthur Sherburne, in. 
 
 "Harper s Magazine," Howells s con 
 tributions to, 61 ; Warner s connec 
 tion with, 90. 
 
 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, British ad 
 miration of, 138; birth and boy 
 hood, 214; fails in mining, 215 
 
 303; first attempt at writing, 215 ; 
 compositor, 216; journalist, 217; 
 "Condensed Novels," ib , 153; 
 poems, 218; unpopularity in Cali 
 fornia, 219; editor of "The Over 
 land Monthly," 219; "The Luck 
 of Roaring Camp," 220; other tales 
 of California life, 134, 221, 268; 
 leaves California, 222 ; Bohemian- 
 ism, 223 ; goes abroad, ib. ; narrow 
 ness, 224; alleged immorality, 226; 
 sentimentality, 228 ; popularity 
 abroad, 229. 
 
 Hartford, famous authors of, 124. 
 
 Harvard, Parkman graduated at, 36, 
 and professor in, 39 : James law 
 student at, 70 ; Aldrich fails to 
 enter, 105 ; Crawford student at, 
 142 ; Hale graduated at, 232 ; Stod- 
 dard s poem at, 285. 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, Stedman s 
 poem on, 15 ; " Twice Told Tales," 
 77 ; James s biography of, 80 ; typi 
 cal romancer, 148 ; psychologic 
 rather than moral, 270 ; kindness to 
 Stoddard, 280; narrowness, 225. 
 
 Heptameron, 76. 
 
 Historian, the great, 27; Parkman as, 
 31-37; Hale a superficial, 238; 
 Eggleston as, 256-260. 
 
 Hobbes, 184. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, effervescing 
 wit, 26 ; one of the Brahmin caste, 
 27 ; and Howells, 47 ; humorist, 
 93; "Elsie Venner," 102; British 
 neglect of, 138; versatility, 230; 
 occasional poems, 286. 
 
 Homer, art of, 116. 
 
 Horticulture, Parkman s labors in, 39. 
 
 HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN, natu 
 rally a prose writer, 25 ; not college 
 bred, 43; descent, 44; "A Boy s 
 Town," 45 ; journalist, 46 ; " Poems 
 of Two Friends," ib. ; biography of 
 Lincoln, 47 ; consul at Venice, ib. ; 
 trip to Boston, ib. ; books of travel, 
 48 ; editor of Atlantic," 49 ; fe 
 cundity, 50 ; alleged pessimism, ib. ; 
 
INDEX. 
 
 321 
 
 admiration of Tolstoi, 51 ; artist, ib. ; 
 realism, 52 ; gospel of the trivial, 
 54 ; farce-comedies, 55 ; travesty of 
 American womanhood, 56 ; defence, 
 57 ; not a valid plea, 58 ;" World of 
 Chance," 59; Peace Hughes, 60; 
 critical writings, 61 ; theory of criti 
 cism, 62-66 ; faithful to his ideals, 
 67 ; knowledge of Europe, 70 ; keen 
 observation, 232. 
 
 Hughes, Peace, Howells s finest female 
 character, 59, 60. 
 
 Humor, American, 55, 136, 288 ; 
 Howells s, 55 ; Warner s, 92 ; 
 dangerous to an author, 93, 94; 
 exaggeration an element of, ib. ; 
 cheap, 137; Mark Twain s, ib., 
 288; electricity of literature, 137; 
 Lowell s urbane, 289 ; Mrs. Whit 
 ney s quiet, 208; Aldrich s, 232; 
 test of, 290 ; foreign critics of, 288 ; 
 Stockton s, 290, 295 j essence of, 
 296. 
 
 Hutchinson, Ellen M., "Library of 
 American Literature," 18. 
 
 Idaho, 303. 
 
 "Independent," Miss Phelps writes 
 
 for, 195 ; Eggleston editor of, 251. 
 Industry, Parkman s, 32; Howells s, 
 
 61 ; Miss Phelps s, 198; Eggleston s, 
 
 257. See Fecundity. 
 Irving, rank as historian, 27 ; short 
 
 stories, 77; humor, 92; Warner s 
 
 study of, 96. 
 
 Isocrates, advice to Demonicus, 69. 
 Italy, Crawford s knowledge of, 71. 
 
 James, Henry (senior), extraordinary 
 career, 70. 
 
 JAMES, HENRY (junior), Bayard 
 Taylor s high praise of, 69 ; birth 
 and education, 70 ; studies law at 
 Harvard, ib. ; knowledge of Europe, 
 ib. ; ignorance of America, 71 ; In 
 ternational Novels, ib.; " The 
 
 American," 72; "Daisy Miller," 
 73 ; half truths, ib. ; his missing 
 type, 74-76; theory of the ngvel, 
 76; short stories, 77-79; art me 
 chanical, 79 ; disciple of Balzac, 80 ; 
 critical essays, ib. ; theory of art, 81, 
 82 ; lacks courage of his theories, 
 82 ; plays, 83-85 ; style, 85, 113. 
 
 Janvier, Thomas A., 56. 
 
 Jewett, Sarah Orne, in. 
 
 Johnson, Samuel, essays, 95 ; parody, 
 141 ; foolish saying, 176. 
 
 Journalism, demands of, 6; Warner s, 
 89; Mark Twain s, 127, 128; Craw 
 ford s, 143 ; Harte s, 217, 219 ; 
 Horace Greeley school of, 240 ; 
 Eggleston s, 251 ; Cable s, 264 ; 
 Stockton s, 289; Miller s, 303. 
 
 Keats, prose version of, 21 ; Aldrich 
 imbibes his spirit, 118; Stoddard s 
 affinity with, 282. 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard, 80, 144. 
 
 " Knickerbocker s," Parkman s articles 
 in, 28 ; and American literature, 107. 
 
 Labor Question, Aldrich s treatment 
 
 of, 114. 
 Lamb, Charles, humor of, 92 ; essays, 
 
 95- 
 
 Landor, prose, 20. 
 
 Lang, Andrew, insularity, 122. 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham, Howells s biogra 
 phy of, 47; a Hoosier boy, 249; 
 Stoddard s ode on, 285. 
 
 Literature, crude workmanship of, 
 116; mutations of fashion in, 185 ; 
 collaboration in, 197; Scott s dictum 
 regarding, 275 ; curiosities of, 279 ; 
 puzzles of, 286 ; fame in, 291. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell, critic, 17 ; 
 luxuriant style, 26 ; Brahmin caste, 
 27 ; Howells makes acquaintance of, 
 47 ; British neglect for a time, 138 ; 
 " Hosea Biglow," 209 ; versatility, 
 230 ; urbane humor, 289 ; " Com 
 memoration Ode," 14, 285. 
 
 21 
 
322 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Macaulay, opinion of prize poems, 8 ; 
 rank as historian, 27 ; his history, 
 30 ; robustness, 33 ; almost a novel 
 ist, 41 ; essays, 95 ; glitter and glow 
 of, 85. 
 
 Malory, " Morte d Arthur," 132, 133. 
 
 Massachusetts, plain living and high 
 thinking in, 87. 
 
 Matthews, Brander, strictures on Brit 
 ish insularity, 121, 122. 
 
 " Mercedes," plot of Aldrich s drama, 
 119-121. 
 
 Michael Angelo, 157. 
 
 MILLER, JOAQUIN (Cincinnatus 
 Hiner), 301 ; his vogue in England, 
 ib. ; sudden fame, 302 ; complete 
 oblivion, ib. ; birth and education, 
 ib. ; journalistic experience, 303 ; 
 practices law, ib. ; first writings, 
 304; visit to England, 305 ; "Songs 
 of the Sierras," ib.; British admira 
 tion of, 138, 301, 306; lack of art, 
 307 ; second volume of verse, 310 ; 
 lacks critical faculty, 312. 
 
 Miller, Daisy, story, 73 ; drama, 84. 
 
 Milton, " Mute inglorious," 4, 265 ; 
 prose, 20; on poetic expression, 
 24; blindness and " Paradise Lost," 
 34 ; Addison s paper on, 63 ; his 
 spirit in Aldrich, 118; prefers his 
 "Paradise Regained," 225. 
 
 Mining, Mark Twain s experience in, 
 127; Bret Harte s, 215, 303. 
 
 Mississippi, Mark Twain a pilot on, 
 127; his knowledge of the region, 
 
 134- 
 
 Moliere, 134. 
 " Moral," of the " Blameless Prince," 
 
 3- 
 
 Morals in Art, 22, 53, 82, 226, 228. 
 See Ethics and Didacticism. 
 
 Motley, John Lothrop, rank as histo 
 rian, 27. 
 
 Murfree, Mary Noailles, see Crad- 
 dock. 
 
 Murray, " Adirondack," 233. 
 
 Musset, Alfredde, James s essay on,8o. 
 
 Mysticism, Mrs. Whitney s, 210. 
 
 Nation," the, Howells a writer for, 
 4 8. 
 
 New England, Miss Phelps s knowl 
 edge of , 193; Mrs. Whitney s, 208 ; 
 village life, 297. 
 
 New York, little impression on Aid- 
 rich, 109; Crawford s ignorance of, 
 150. 
 
 Nolan, Philip, not a real person, 
 
 234- 
 
 Novelist, Parkman nearly one, 40 ; 
 versus historian, 41 ; Macaulay 
 shows gifts of, 41 ; Scott as, ib. 
 
 Novel, Howells s theory of, 52 ; 
 James s theory of, 76, 81 ; James s 
 International, 71 ; the typical 
 French, 83; Stockton s failures in 
 writing, 295 ; Mrs. Stoddard s meri 
 torious, 279 ; every woman can 
 write one, 99; defined, 147; the 
 ideal, 153; the makings of a, 182; 
 constructive power necessary to 
 writing, 268. 
 
 Ohio, usurps Virginia s function, 87. 
 Optimism, Kale s, 246. 
 Originality, Parkman s, 32 ; Warner s, 
 97 ; Stockton s, 294. 
 
 PARKMAN, FRANCIS, rank among 
 historians, 27 ; his family, 28 ; grad 
 uated at Harvard, ib. ; studies law, 
 ib. ; in the Great West, ib. ; The 
 California and Oregon Trail," 29 ; 
 his histories, ib. ; a " self-made man," 
 30 ; abundant labors, 31, 248 ; origi 
 nality, 32 ; researches, 33 ; almost 
 blind, ib. ; style, 35 ; a realist, 36 ; 
 picturesqueness, ib. ; praised by 
 " Saturday Review," ib. ; recognition 
 abroad, 37 ; a man of the world, ib. ; 
 his play, 38 ; horticultural pursuits, 
 39 ; " Book of Roses," 40 ; pro 
 fessor of horticulture, ib. ; " Vassall 
 Morton," ib. ; death, 42. 
 
 Palmerston, a rider to hounds, 39. 
 
 Pater, 270. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 323 
 
 Pessimism, Howells s alleged, 50 ; 
 incompatible with poetry, 25. 
 
 Phelps, Austin, 188. 
 
 PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART, sud 
 den fame, 187 ; a born author, 188 ; 
 parentage, ib. ; short tales, 193 ; 
 message, 194; philanthropy, 195; 
 style, ib. ; marries Mr. Ward, 197 ; 
 industry, 198 ; " Swedenborgianism," 
 191 ; knowledge of human nature, 
 193 ; verse, 199. 
 
 Philanthropist, Dr. Hale a, 240-243 ; 
 Eggleston, 255. 
 
 Philip of Spain, 287. 
 
 Philistine, Mark Twain too frank a, 
 
 Piatt, John J., literary partnership 
 with Howells, 46. 
 
 Picturesqueness, Parkman s, 36 ; era 
 of in California, 213. 
 
 Play, its value, 38 ; Parkman s, 39 ; 
 Gladstone s, ib. ; Palmerston s, ib. 
 
 Plots, place of in novel, 52; Miss 
 Murfree s, 182 ; Miss Phelps s, 193. 
 
 Poe, short stories, 77; narrowness 
 225. 
 
 Poet, a prophet, 24 ; Howells a pre 
 cocious, 45 ; America s lack of great 
 3; scant rewards of, 4, 280. 
 
 Poetry, Macaulay s opinion of prize 
 8 ; Stedman s lectures on, 19 ; de 
 fined, ib. ; differentiated from prose 
 20 ; how it becomes effective, 21 
 beauty its chief element, 20 ; in 
 eludes ethics, 22; has a religiou 
 basis, 23 ; quality of its expression 
 24 ; pessimism incompatible with, 
 25 ; Aldrich s cameo-like verse, 1 1 5 ; 
 unprofitable merchandise, 117; 
 Miss Phelps s, 199; Mrs. Whit 
 ney s, 203-205 ; characteristics of 
 Stoddard s, 282, 283 ; British criti 
 cism of American, 308 ; art of, 310. 
 Pope, " Essay on Man," 22. 
 Poverty, bracing qualities of, 30. 
 Precocity, Howells s, 45; Mrs. Bur 
 nett s, 159 ; Bret Harte s, 215. 
 Prescott, rank as historian, 27; blind- 
 
 ness, 33; "Conquest of Mexico," 
 ib. 
 
 rose, how differing from poetry, 20, 
 21 ; Lander s, 20; Milton s, ib.; De 
 Quincey s, ib. ; Carlyle s, ib. ; Dick 
 ens s and Blackmore s rhythmical, 
 ib. 
 
 Putnam s" and American authors, 
 107. 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 237. 
 
 Reade, Charles, short stories, 77; 
 
 style, 163. 
 Realism, Parkman s, 36; its canon, 
 
 52; true and false, 53; Howells s, 
 
 52 ; James s, 80 ; Mark Twain s 
 
 unconscious, 134 ; Mrs. Burnett s 
 
 instinctive, 162. 
 Realist, Parkman a historical, 36 ; 
 
 Warner no, 100; Crawford not a, 
 
 146. 
 Rhythm, relation to poetry, 19, 20; 
 
 prose, 21. 
 Romance, denned, 147; schools in 
 
 fiction, 100 ; Hawthorne s typical, 
 
 148. 
 Rousseau, 240. 
 
 St. Botolph s Club, Parkman presi 
 dent of, 38. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve, James a disciple of, 80. 
 " St. Nicholas," 166, 251, 290. 
 Sappho, lyrics, 116. 
 ;t Saturday Review," praises Park 
 man, 36. 
 
 Saxe, John G., a humorist, 93. 
 Scott, Sir Walter, romances in verse, 
 ii ; his novels and their value, 41 ; 
 unable to write short stories, 77; 
 a romancer, 100; lies about Wav- 
 erley, 174 ; gift as story teller, 207 ; 
 dictum on literature, 275. 
 " Scribner s Magazine," 159, 160, 264, 
 
 268, 290. 
 Seneca, 276. 
 Sentiment, Harte s not true, 228; 
 
324 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Dickens s becomes sentimentality 
 ib. 
 
 Shaw, Henry W. ("Josh Billings"), 
 as a humorist, 94. 
 
 Shelley, reminiscences of in Stedman s , 
 poetry, 9; influence on Stoddard, : 
 283 ; fame inferior to Southey s, ! 
 286. 
 
 Short story, famous authors and the, 
 77 ; requirements of, 78 ; excellence 
 of Henry James s, 79 ; Mark 
 Twain s, 135 ; Miss Murfree s, 
 178 ; Miss Phelps s, 193 ; how it 
 differs from the novel, 236; Bret 
 Harte s, 268 ; Stockton s, 292. 
 
 Slavery, 262, 270, 271. 
 
 Smith, Sydney, too funny by far, 94. I 
 
 Smollett, and Bret Harte, 134. 
 
 South, the, 99, 261, 263, 270, 271, 272, 
 
 273- 
 
 Southey, 286. 
 
 Spoils system, fruits of, 48. 
 
 Stage, not so bad as represented, 
 169. 
 
 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE, 
 mother, 5 ; early aptitude for litera 
 ture, ib. ; suspended from college, 
 ib. ; tries journalism, 6 ; becomes 
 stock-broker, ib. ; good fortune, 7 ; 
 unconscious imitation, 8 ; John 
 Brown ballad, 9; "Alice of Mon- 
 mouth," ii ; "Cavalry Song," not 
 an independent lyric, 12 ; " The 
 Blameless Prince," 13; "Haw 
 thorne and other Poems," 15 ; care 
 ful workmanship, ib. ; equipment as 
 a critic, 17; limitations, 18; " Li 
 brary of American Literature," ib. 
 " Nature and Elements of Poetry, 
 19; arrested development of, 25 
 artist in verse, not in prose, ib. 
 place in American literature, 26 
 Aldrich s friendship with, 108 
 Stoddard s, 277. 
 
 Steele, Str Richard, humor of, 92. 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis, his novels, 
 100. 
 
 STOCKTON, FRANCIS RICHARD, 288; 
 
 birth, 289 education, ib. ; journa 
 lism, ib. ; assistant editor of " St. 
 Nicholas," 290 ; " Rudder Grange," 
 ib. ; writer of short stories, 292 ; 
 " Lady and Tiger," 112, 291 ; rank 
 among American story writers, ib. ; 
 method, vindicated by success, 292, 
 293; style, 112, 294 ; originality, ib. ; 
 novels failures, 295 ; humor, ib. ; 
 local color and dialect, ib. ; novel 
 ettes, 297 ; favorite with children, 
 298 ; no signs of exhaustion, 299. 
 
 Stoddard, Elizabeth Barstow, 279 ; 
 marriage, ib. ; literary work, ib. 
 
 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY, 275 ; 
 birth and early years, 276; educa 
 tion, ib. ; slight encouragement. 277; 
 friendship with Aldrich, 108 ; with 
 Taylor, 278 ; " Footprints," ib. ; 
 marriage, 279 ; first success in lit 
 erature, 280 ; second volume of 
 verse, ib. ; clerkship in Custom 
 House, ib. ; hack work, ib. ; prose, 
 281 ; verse, 282 ; characteristics, ib. ; 
 prodigal fancy, 283 ; taste, ib. ; later 
 poems, 284, 285 ; popular ignorance 
 of his poetry, 286 ; devotion to art, 
 287. 
 
 Story-telling, Scott s gift of, 207 ; 
 Mrs. Whitney s, 207 ; Hale s, 235. 
 
 Stowe, Mrs. Harriett Beecher, 124, 
 125. 
 
 Stuart, Elizabeth, 188 ; Moses, ib. 
 
 Style, Stedman s prose, 25 ; Lowell s 
 luxuriant, 26 ; Parkman s, 35 ; 
 Henry James s, 85 ; Macaulay s, 
 ib. ; Warner s, 96; Aldrich s, 112; 
 Charles Reade s, 163 ; Mrs. Bur 
 nett s, ib., 196; Miss Murfree s, 
 185 ; Miss Phelps s, 195 ; Mrs. 
 Whitney s, 208 ; Cable s, 267 ; 
 Stockton s, 294 ; Hale s verisimili 
 tude, 244. See Workmanship. 
 
 Swedenborg, the elder Howells a 
 follower of, 44 ; alleged influence 
 on Miss Phelps, 191 ; influence on 
 Mrs. Whitney, 210. 
 
 Swift, his perilous repute as a wit, 94. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 325 
 
 Talleyrand, 78. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard, praises Henry James, 
 69; his "Story of Kennett," 102; 
 friendship with Aldrich, 100 ; with 
 Stoddard, 278 ; work on the Trib 
 une, ib. ; death, ib. 
 
 Tennessee, Mrs. Burnett ignores, 170; 
 Miss Murfree s knowledge of, 177, 
 185. 
 
 Tennyson, " Locksley Hall," 8 ; 
 "Timbuctoo," ib. ; debt to The 
 ocritus, 15; "In Memoriam," 22; 
 "Idylls of the King," 132, 133; 
 perversity, 225. 
 
 Thackeray, philosophy of life, 7; in 
 feriority of his short stories, 77 ; 
 belongs to romantic school, 100 ; 
 typical novelist, 148 ; cynical by 
 play, 149; his complaint, 154; pen 
 etrates George Eliot s disguise, 174; 
 poem on death of, 285. 
 
 Theology, and Poetry, 23. 
 
 Tilton, Theodore, 251. 
 
 Tolstoi, admiration of Howells for, 51 ; 
 contrasted with Hale, 247. 
 
 Tragedy, in Aldrich s " Mercedes," 120. 
 
 " Tribune," New York, Stedman and, 
 6 ; Howells a writer for, 48 ; 
 Bayard Taylor s work for, 278. 
 
 Trollope, theory of the seat of genius, 
 146. 
 
 Truth, relation to beauty, 21. 
 
 TWAIN, MARK (Samud Langhorne 
 Clemens), "Prince and Pauper," 
 94, 131; popularity, 94; home in 
 Hartford, 124 ; a Missouri boy, 125 ; 
 journeyman printer, 126 ; Missis 
 sippi pilot, 127; tries mining, ib. ; 
 journalism, ib. ; in California, 128 ; 
 "Jumping Frog," and "Innocents 
 Abroad," ib. ; settles in Hartford, 
 ib. ; other books, 129; a hater of 
 shams, 130; a Philistine, 131 ; two 
 English tales, ib. ; a lover of liberty, 
 133; his realism, 134; study of the 
 American boy, 135 ; short stories, ib.; 
 English appreciation of his humor, 
 I 3&i I 37> 288 ; business sagacity, 139. 
 
 Vallandigham, 303. 
 
 Venice, Howells is consul at, 47 ; his 
 book about, 48. 
 
 Verisimilitude, Hale s, 234, 238 ; De 
 foe s, 235 ; Stockton s, 297. 
 
 Versatility of American authors, 230. 
 
 Vile, not proper subject for art, 53. 
 
 Villain in fiction, Howells s, 54 ; 
 Harte s, 226. 
 
 Virginia, mother of statesmen, 87. 
 
 Voluminousness, see Fecundity. 
 
 Ward, Herbert D., 197; Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ward s collaboration, ib. 
 
 Ward, Artemus, his feeling remark, 
 58 ; broad humor, 288. 
 
 WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY, birth 
 and breeding, 88 ; " Being a Boy," 
 ib.; college career, 89; becomes a 
 journalist, 89; his department in 
 " Harper s Magazine," 90 ; first trip 
 abroad, and " Saunterings," ib. ; 
 " My Summer in a Garden," 91 ; 
 "Backlog Studies," ib. ; danger 
 ous reputation, 92 ; not a mere 
 joker, 93 ; makes the public take 
 him seriously, 94 ; essentially an 
 essayist, 95 ; his study of Irving, 
 96; originality, 97; independence, 
 98; "On Horseback through the 
 South," ib.; his novels, 99, 100 ; 
 lack technical skill, 101; his ripest 
 fruit to come, 102, 103 ; home in 
 
 Hartford, 124 ; humor, 232, 289. 
 
 Waverley novels, value of, 41. 
 
 Wealth, obstacles of, 30. 
 
 Webster, Professor, 28. 
 
 Whitney, Seth D., 202. 
 
 WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T., brief 
 biography of, 202 ; sister of George 
 Francis Train, ib.; marries Seth D. 
 Whitney, ib.; poems, 203; "Mother 
 Goose," 204; later poems, 205; 
 finds her vocation, 206 ; a story 
 teller, 207; style, 208; humor, ib.; 
 religious tone, 209; mysticism, 210; 
 growing power, 211. 
 
326 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Wilde, Oscar, his canon of art, 22, 
 270. 
 
 Winsor, Justin, 237. 
 
 Womanhood, Howells s representation 
 of, 56, and treason against, 58. 
 
 Woman question, Miss Phelps on, 196, 
 197. 
 
 Workmanship, Stedman s conscien 
 tious, 15; Howells s, 51; James s, 
 59; crude, the fault of American 
 
 literature, 116; Miss Mur free s, 176; 
 Miss Phelps s, 193; Joaquin Mil 
 ler s bad, 307. See Style. 
 
 Yale, Stedman s career at, 5. 
 
 Zeruiah, sons of, critics, 63. 
 Zola, read in a corner, 82. 
 
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