按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
a fantasy as Judd's Margaret。 The only New…Englander who has attempted
the novel on a scale proportioned to the work of the New…Englanders in
philosophy； in poetry； in romance； is Mr。 De Forest； who is of New Haven；
and not of Boston。 I do not forget the fictions of Doctor Holmes； or the
vivid inventions of Doctor Hale； but I do not call them novels； and I do
not forget the exquisitely realistic art of Miss Jewett or Miss Wilkins；
which is free from the ethicism of the great New England group； but which
has hardly the novelists's scope。 New England； in Hawthorne's work；
achieved supremacy in romance； but the romance is always an allegory；
and the novel is a picture in which the truth to life is suffered to do
its unsermonized office for conduct； and New England yet lacks her
novelist； because it was her instinct and her conscience in fiction to be
true to an ideal of life rather than to life itself。
Even when we come to the exception that proves the rule； even to such a
signal exception as 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'； I think that what I say holds
true。 That is almost the greatest work of imagination that we have
produced in prose； and it is the work of a New England woman； writing
from all the inspirations and traditions of New England。 It is like
begging the question to say that I do not call it a novel； however； but
really； is it a novel； in the sense that 'War and Peace' is a novel； or
'Madame Flaubert'； or 'L'Assommoir'； or 'Phineas Finn'； or 'Dona
Perfecta'； or 'Esther Waters'； or 'Marta y Maria'； or 'The Return of the
Native'； or 'Virgin Soil'； or 'David Grieve'？ In a certain way it is
greater than any of these except the first； but its chief virtue； or its
prime virtue； is in its address to the conscience； and not its address to
the taste； to the ethical sense； not the aesthetical sense。
This does not quite say the thing； but it suggests it； and I should be
sorry if it conveyed to any reader a sense of slight； for I believe no
one has felt more deeply than myself the value of New England in
literature。 The comparison of the literary situation at Boston to the
literary situation at Edinburgh in the times of the reviewers has never
seemed to me accurate or adequate； and it holds chiefly in the fact that
both seem to be of the past。 Certainly New York is yet no London in
literature； and I think Boston was once vastly more than Edinburgh ever
was； at least in quality。 The Scotch literature of the palmy days was
not wholly Scotch； and even when it was rooted in Scotch soil it flowered
in the air of an alien speech。 But the New England literature of the
great day was the blossom of a New England root； and the language which
the Bostonians wrote was the native English of scholars fitly the heirs
of those who had brought the learning of the universities to
Massachusetts Bay two hundred years before； and was of as pure a lineage
as the English of the mother…country。
III。
The literary situation which confronted me when I came to Boston was；
then； as native as could well be； and whatever value I may be able to
give a personal study of it will be from the effect it made upon me as
one strange in everything but sympathy。 I will not pretend that I saw it
in its entirety； and I have no hope of presenting anything like a
kinetoscopic impression of it。 What I can do is to give here and there a
glimpse of it； and I shall wish the reader to keep in mind the fact that
it was in a 〃state of transition；〃 as everything is always and
everywhere。 It was no sooner recognizably native than it ceased to be
fully so； and I became a witness of it after the change had begun。 The
publishing house which so long embodied New England literature was
already attempting enterprises out of the line of its traditions； and one
of these had brought Mr。 T。 B。 Aldrich from New York； a few weeks before
I arrived upon the scene in that dramatic quality which I think never
impressed any one but Mr。 Bowles。 Mr。 Aldrich was the editor of 'Every
Saturday' when I came to be assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly。
We were of nearly the same age； but he had a distinct and distinguished
priority of reputation； insomuch that in my Western remoteness I had
always ranged him with such elders and betters of mine as Holmes and
Lowell； and never imagined him the blond； slight youth I found him； with
every imaginable charm of contemporaneity。 It is no part of the office
which I have intended for these slight and sufficiently wandering
glimpses of the past to show any writer in his final place； and above all
I do not presume to assign any living man his rank or station。 But I
should be false to my own grateful sense of beauty in the work of this
poet if I did not at all times recognize his constancy to an ideal which
his name stands for。 He is known in several kinds； but to my thinking he
is best in a certain nobler kind of poetry； a serious sort in which the
thought holds him above the scrupulosities of the art he loves and honors
so much。 Sometimes the file slips in his hold； as the file must and
will； it is but an instrument at the best； but there is no mistouch in
the hand that lays itself upon the reader's heart with the pulse of the
poet's heart quick and true in it。 There are sonnets of his； grave； and
simple； and lofty； which I think of with the glow and thrill possible
only from very beautiful poetry； and which impart such an emotion as we
can feel only
〃When a great thought strikes along the brain
And flushes all the cheek。〃
When I had the fortune to meet him first； I suppose that in the employ of
the kindly house we were both so eager to serve； our dignities were about
the same； for if the 'Atlantic Monthly' was a somewhat prouder affair
than an eclectic weekly like 'Every Saturday'； he was supreme in his
place； and I was subordinate in mine。 The house was careful； in the
attitude of its senior partner； not to distinguish between us； and we
were not slow to perceive the tact used in managing us； we had our own
joke of it； we compared notes to find whether we were equally used in
this thing or that； and we promptly shared the fun of our discovery with
Fields himself。
We had another impartial friend （no less a friend of joy in the life
which seems to have been pretty nearly all joy； as I look back upon it）
in the partner who became afterwards the head of the house； and who
forecast in his bold enterprises the change from a New England to an
American literary situation。 In the end James R。 Osgood failed； though
all his enterprises succeeded。 The anomaly is sad； but it is not
infrequent。 They were greater than his powers and his means； and before
they could reach their full fruition； they had to be enlarged to men of
longer purse and longer patience。 He was singularly fitted both by
instinct and by education to become a great publisher； and he early
perceived that if a leading American house were to continue at Boston；
it must be hospitable to the talents of the whole country。 He founded
his future upon those generous lines； but he wanted the qualities as well
as the resources for rearing the superstructure。 Changes began to follow
each other rapidly after he came into control of the house。 Misfortune
reduced the size and number of its periodicals。 'The Young Folks' was
sold outright； and the 'North American Review' （long before Mr。 Rice
bought it and carried it to New York） was cut down one…half； so that
Aldrich said； it looked as if Destiny had sat upon it。 His own
periodical； 'Every Saturday'； was first enlarged to a stately quarto and
illustrated； and then； under stress of the calamities following the great
Boston fire； It collapsed to its former size。 Then both the 'Atlantic
Monthly' and 'Every Saturday' were sold away from their old ownership；
and 'Every Saturday' was suppressed altogether； and we two ceased to be
of the same employ。 There was some sort of evening rite （more funereal
than festive） the day after they were sold； and we followed Osgood away
from it； under the lamps。 We all knew that it was his necessity that had
caused him to part with the periodicals； but he professed t