first visit to new england-第11章

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！


not　unkindly　arch；　which　again　is　not　the　word。

It　was　his　great　fortune　to　have　been　mostly　misunderstood；　and　to　have
reached　the　dense　intelligence　of　his　fellow…men　after　a　whole　lifetime
of　perfectly　simple　and　lucid　appeal；　and　his　countenance　expressed　the
patience　and　forbearance　of　a　wise　man　content　to　bide　his　time。　　It
would　be　hard　to　persuade　people　now　that　Emerson　once　represented　to　the
popular　mind　all　that　was　most　hopelessly　impossible；　and　that　in　a
certain　sort　he　was　a　national　joke；　the　type　of　the　incomprehensible；
the　byword　of　the　poor　paragrapher。　　He　had　perhaps　disabused　the
community　somewhat　by　presenting　himself　here　and　there　as　a　lecturer；
and　talking　face　to　face　with　men　in　terms　which　they　could　not　refuse　to
find　as　clear　as　they　were　wise；　he　was　more　and　more　read；　by　certain
persons；　here　and　there；　but　we　are　still　so　far　behind　him　in　the　reach
of　his　far…thinking　that　it　need　not　be　matter　of　wonder　that　twenty
years　before　his　death　he　was　the　most　misunderstood　man　in　America。
Yet　in　that　twilight　where　he　dwelt　he　loomed　large　upon　the　imagination；
the　minds　that　could　not　conceive　him　were　still　aware　of　his　greatness。
I　myself　had　not　read　much　of　him；　but　I　knew　the　essays　he　was　printing
in　the　Atlantic；　and　I　knew　certain　of　his　poems；　though　by　no　means
many；　yet　I　had　this　sense　of　him；　that　he　was　somehow；　beyond　and　above
my　ken；　a　presence　of　force　and　beauty　and　wisdom；　uncompanioned　in　our
literature。　　He　had　lately　stooped　from　his　ethereal　heights　to　take　part
in　the　battle　of　humanity；　and　I　suppose　that　if　the　truth　were　told　he
was　more　to　my　young　fervor　because　he　had　said　that　John　Brown　had　made
the　gallows　glorious　like　the　cross；　than　because　he　had　uttered　all
those　truer　and　wiser　things　which　will　still　a　hundred　years　hence　be
leading　the　thought　of　the　world。

I　do　not　know　in　just　what　sort　he　made　me　welcome；　but　I　am　aware　of
sitting　with　him　in　his　study　or　library；　and　of　his　presently　speaking
of　Hawthorne；　whom　I　probably　celebrated　as　I　best　could；　and　whom　he
praised　for　his　personal　excellence；　and　for　his　fine　qualities　as　a
neighbor。　　〃But　his　last　book；〃　he　added；　reflectively；　〃is　a　mere　mush；〃
and　I　perceived　that　this　great　man　was　no　better　equipped　to　judge　an
artistic　fiction　than　the　groundlings　who　were　then　crying　out　upon　the
indefinite　close　of　the　Marble　Faun。　　Apparently　he　had　read　it；　as　they
had；　for　the　story；　but　it　seems　to　me　now；　if　it　did　not　seem　to　me
then；　that　as　far　as　the　problem　of　evil　was　involved；　the　book　must
leave　it　where　it　found　it。　　That　is　forever　insoluble；　and　it　was　rather
with　that　than　with　his　more　or　less　shadowy　people　that　the　romancer　was
concerned。　　Emerson　had；　in　fact；　a　defective　sense　as　to　specific　pieces
of　literature；　he　praised　extravagantly；　and　in　the　wrong　place；
especially　among　the　new　things；　and　he　failed　to　see　the　worth　of　much
that　was　fine　and　precious　beside　the　line　of　his　fancy。

He　began　to　ask　me　about　the　West；　and　about　some　unknown　man　in
Michigan；　who　had　been　sending　him　poems；　and　whom　he　seemed　to　think
very　promising；　though　he　has　not　apparently　kept　his　word　to　do　great
things。　　I　did　not　find　what　Emerson　had　to　say　of　my　section　very
accurate　or　important；　though　it　was　kindly　enough；　and　just　enough　as　to
what　the　West　ought　to　do　in　literature。　　He　thought　it　a　pity　that　a
literary　periodical　which　had　lately　been　started　in　Cincinnati　should　be
appealing　to　the　East　for　contributions；　instead　of　relying　upon　the
writers　nearer　home；　and　he　listened　with　what　patience　he　could　to　my
modest　opinion　that　we　had　not　the　writers　nearer　home。　　I　never　was　of
those　Westerners　who　believed　that　the　West　was　kept　out　of　literature　by
the　jealousy　of　the　East；　and　I　tried　to　explain　why　we　had　not　the　men
to　write　that　magazine　full　in　Ohio。　　He　alleged　the　man　in　Michigan　as
one　who　alone　could　do　much　to　fill　it　worthily；　and　again　I　had　to　say
that　I　had　never　heard　of　him。

I　felt　rather　guilty　in　my　ignorance；　and　I　had　a　notion　that　it　did　not
commend　me；　but　happily　at　this　moment　Mr。　Emerson　was　called　to　dinner；
and　he　asked　me　to　come　with　him。　　After　dinner　we　walked　about　in　his
〃pleached　garden〃　a　little；　and　then　we　came　again　into　his　library；
where　I　meant　to　linger　only　till　I　could　fitly　get　away。　　He　questioned
me　about　what　I　had　seen　of　Concord；　and　whom　besides　Hawthorne　I　had
met；　and　when　I　told　him　only　Thoreau；　he　asked　me　if　I　knew　the　poems　of
Mr。　William　Ellery　Channing。　　I　have　known　them　since；　and　felt　their
quality；　which　I　have　gladly　owned　a　genuine　and　original　poetry；　but　I
answered　then　truly　that　I　knew　them　only　from　Poe's　criticisms：　cruel
and　spiteful　things　which　I　should　be　ashamed　of　enjoying　as　I　once　did。

〃Whose　criticisms？〃　asked　Emerson。

〃Poe's；〃　I　said　again。

〃Oh；〃　he　cried　out；　after　a　moment；　as　if　he　had　returned　from　a　far
search　for　my　meaning；　〃you　mean　the　jingle…man！〃

I　do　not　know　why　this　should　have　put　me　to　such　confusion；　but　if　I　had
written　the　criticisms　myself　I　do　not　think　I　could　have　been　more
abashed。　　Perhaps　I　felt　an　edge　of　reproof；　of　admonition；　in　a
characterization　of　Poe　which　the　world　will　hardly　agree　with；　though　I
do　not　agree　with　the　world　about　him；　myself；　in　its　admiration。　　At　any
rate；　it　made　an　end　of　me　for　the　time；　and　I　remained　as　if　already
absent；　while　Emerson　questioned　me　as　to　what　I　had　written　in　the
Atlantic　Monthly。　　He　had　evidently　read　none　of　my　contributions；　for　he
looked　at　them；　in　the　bound　volume　of　the　magazine　which　he　got　down；
with　the　effect　of　being　wholly　strange　to　them；　and　then　gravely　affixed
my　initials　to　each。　　He　followed　me　to　the　door；　still　speaking　of
poetry；　and　as　he　took　a　kindly　enough　leave　of　me；　he　said　one　might
very　well　give　a　pleasant　hour　to　it　now　and　then。

A　pleasant　hour　to　poetry！　　I　was　meaning　to　give　all　time　and　all
eternity　to　poetry；　and　I　should　by　no　means　have　wished　to　find　pleasure
in　it；　I　should　have　thought　that　a　proof　of　inferior　quality　in　the
work；　I　should　have　preferred　anxiety；　anguish　even；　to　pleasure。　　But　if
Emerson　thought　from　the　glance　he　gave　my　verses　that　I　had　better　not
lavish　myself　upon　that　kind　of　thing；　unless　there　was　a　great　deal　more
of　me　than　I　could　have　made　apparent　in　our　meeting；　no　doubt　he　was
right。　　I　was　only　too　painfully　aware　of　my　shortcoming；　but　I　felt　that
it　was　shorter…coming　than　it　need　have　been。　　I　had　somehow　not
prospered　in　my　visit　to　Emerson　as　I　had　with　Hawthorne；　and　I　came　away
wondering　in　what　sort　I　had　gone　wrong。　　I　was　not　a　forth…putting
youth；　and　I　could　not　blame　myself　for　anything　in　my　approaches　that
merited　withholding；　indeed；　I　made　no　approaches；　but　as　I　must　needs
blame　myself　for　something；　I　fell　upon　the　fact　that　in　my　confused
retreat　from　Emerson's　presence　I　had　failed　in　a　certain　slight　point　of
ceremony；　and　I　magnified　this　into　an　offence　of　capital　importance。
I　went　home　to　my　hotel；　and　passed　the　afternoon　in　pure　misery。　　I　had
moments　of　wild　question　when　I　debated　whether　it　would　be　better　to　go
back　and　own　my　error；　or　whether　it　would　be　better　to　write　him　a　note；
and　try　to　set　myself　right　in　that　way。　　But　in　the　end　I　did　neither；
and　I　have　since　survived　my　mortal　shame　some　forty　years　or　more。　　But
at　the　time　it　did　not　seem　possible　that　I　should　live　through　the　day
with　it；　and　I　thought　that　I　ought　at　least　to　go　and　confess　it　to
Hawthorne；　and　let；　him　disown　the　wretch　who　had　so　poorly　repaid　the
kindness　of　his　introduction　by　such　misbehavior。　　I　did　indeed　walk　down
by　the　Wayside；　in　the　cool　of　the　evening；　and　there　I　saw　Hawthorne　for
the　last　time。　　He　was　sitting　on　one　of　the　timbers　beside　his　cottage；
and　smoking　with　an　air　of　friendly　calm。　　I　had　got　on　very　well　with
him；　and　I　longed　to　go　in；　and　tell　him　how　ill　I　had　got　on　with
Emerson；　I　believed　that　though　he　cast　me　off；　he　would　understand　me；
and　would　perhaps　see　some　hope　for　me　in　another　world；　though　there
could　be　none　in　this。

But　I　had　not　the　courage　to　speak　of　the　affair　to　any　one　but　Fields；
to　whom　I　unpacked　my　heart　when　I　got　back　to　Boston；　and　he　asked　me
about　my　adventures　in　Concord。　　By　this　time　I　could　see　it　in　a
humorous　light；　and　I　did　not　much　mind　his　lying　back　in　his　chair　and
laughing　and　laughing；　till　I　thought　he　would　roll　out　of　it。　　He
perfectly　conceived　the　situation；　and　got　an　amusement　from　it　that　I
could　get　only　through　sympathy　with　him。　　But　I　thought　it　a　favorable
moment　to　propose　myself　as　the　assistant　editor　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly；
which　I　had　the　belief　I　could　very　well　become；　with　advantage　to　myself
if　not　to　the　magazine。　　He　seemed　to　think　so　too；　he　said　that　if　the
place　had　not　just　been　filled；　I　should　certainly　have　had　it；　and　it
was　to　his　recollection　of　this　prompt　ambition　of　mine　that　I　suppose
I　may　have　owed　my　succession　to　a　like　vacancy　some　four　years　later。
He　was　charmingly　kind；　he　entered　with　the　sweetest　interest　into　the
story　of　my　economic　life；　which　had　been　full　of　changes　and　chances
already。　　But　when　I　said　very　seriously　that　now　I　was　tired　of　these
fortuities；　and　would　like　to　be　settled　in　something；　he　asked；　with
dancing　eyes；

〃Why；　how　old　are　you？〃

〃I　am　twenty…three；〃　I　answered；　and　then　the　laughing　fit　took　him
again。

〃Well；〃　he　said；　〃you　begin　young；　out　there！〃

In　my　heart　I　did　not　think　that　twenty…three　was　so　very　young；　but
perhaps　it　was；　and　if　any　one　were　to　say　that　I　had　been　portraying
here　a　youth　whose　aims　were　certainly　beyond　his　achievements；　who　was
morbidly　sensitive；　and　if　not　conceited　was　intolerably　conscious；　who
had　met　with　incredible　kindness；　and　had　suffered　no　more　than　was　good
for　him；　though　he　might　not　have　merited　his　pain　any　more　than　his　joy；
I　do　not　know　that　I　should　gainsay　him；　for　I　am　not　at　all　sure　that　I
was　not　just　that　kind　of　youth　when　I　paid　my　first　visit　to　New
England。






LITERARY　FRIENDS　AND　ACQUAINTANCESFirst　Impressions　of　Literary　New　York

by　William　Dean　Howells



FIRST　IMPRESSIONS　OF　LITERARY　NEW　YORK

It　was　by　boat　that　I　arrived　from　Boston；　on　an　August　morning　of　1860；
which　was　probably　of　the　same　quality　as　an　August　morning　of　1900。
I　used　not　to　mind　the　weather　much　in　those　days；　it　was　hot　or　it　was
cold；　it　was　wet　or　it　was　dry；　but　it　was　not　my　affair；　and　I　suppose
that　I　sweltered　about　the　strange　city；　with　no　sense　of　anything　very
personal　in　the　temperature；　until　nightfall。　　What　I　remember　is　being
high　up　in　a　hotel　long　since　laid　low；　listening　in　the　summer　dark；
after　the　long　day　was　done；　to　the　Niagara　roar　of　the　omnibuses　whose
tide　then　swept　Broadway　from　curb　to　curb；　for　all　the　miles　of　its
length。　　At　that　hour　the　other　city　noises　were　stilled；　or　lost　in　this
vaster　volume　of　sound；　which　seemed　to　fill　the　whole　night。　　It　had　a
solemnity　which　the　modern　comer　to　New　York　will　hardly　imagine；　for
that　tide　of　omnibuses　has　long　since　ebbed　away；　and　has　left　the　air　to
the　strident　discord