cared to see-leaving out of consideration official
dignitaries, whose temporary importance makes them objects of
curiosity--were seated at that board. But the club did not yet exist, and
the "Atlantic Monthly" was an experiment. There had already been
several monthly periodicals, more or less successful and permanent,
among which "Putnam's Magazine" was conspicuous, owing its success
largely to the contributions of that very accomplished and delightful
writer, Mr. George William Curtis. That magazine, after a somewhat
prolonged and very honorable existence, had gone where all periodicals
go when they die, into the archives of the deaf, dumb, and blind
recording angel whose name is Oblivion. It had so well deserved to live
that its death was a surprise and a source of regret. Could another
monthly take its place and keep it when that, with all its attractions and
excellences, had died out, and left a blank in our periodical literature
which it would be very hard to fill as well as that had filled it?
This was the experiment which the enterprising publishers ventured
upon, and I, who felt myself outside of the charmed circle drawn
around the scholars and poets of Cambridge and Concord, having given
myself to other studies and duties, wondered somewhat when Mr.
Lowell insisted upon my becoming a contributor. And so, yielding to a
pressure which I could not understand, and yet found myself unable to
resist, I promised to take a part in the new venture, as an occasional
writer in the columns of the new magazine.
That was the way in which the second Portfolio found its way to my
table, and was there opened in the autumn of the year 1857. I was
already at least
'Nel mezzo del cammin di mia, vita,'
when I risked myself, with many misgivings, in little-tried paths of
what looked at first like a wilderness, a selva oscura, where, if I did not
meet the lion or the wolf, I should be sure to find the critic, the most
dangerous of the carnivores, waiting to welcome me after his own
fashion.
The second Portfolio is closed and laid away. Perhaps it was hardly
worth while to provide and open a new one; but here it lies before me,
and I hope I may find something between its covers which will justify
me in coming once more before my old friends. But before I open it I
want to claim a little further indulgence.
There is a subject of profound interest to almost every writer, I might
say to almost every human being. No matter what his culture or
ignorance, no matter what his pursuit, no matter what his character, the
subject I refer to is one of which he rarely ceases to think, and, if
opportunity is offered, to talk. On this he is eloquent, if on nothing else.
The slow of speech becomes fluent; the torpid listener becomes electric
with vivacity, and alive all over with interest.
The sagacious reader knows well what is coming after this prelude. He
is accustomed to the phrases with which the plausible visitor, who has a
subscription book in his pocket, prepares his victim for the depressing
disclosure of his real errand. He is not unacquainted with the
conversational amenities of the cordial and interesting stranger, who,
having had the misfortune of leaving his carpet-bag in the cars, or of
having his pocket picked at the station, finds himself without the means
of reaching that distant home where affluence waits for him with its
luxurious welcome, but to whom for the moment the loan of some five
and twenty dollars would be a convenience and a favor for which his
heart would ache with gratitude during the brief interval between the
loan and its repayment.
I wish to say a few words in my own person relating to some passages
in my own history, and more especially to some of the recent
experiences through which I have been passing.
What can justify one in addressing himself to the general public as if it
were his private correspondent? There are at least three sufficient
reasons: first, if he has a story to tell that everybody wants to hear,--if
he has been shipwrecked, or has been in a battle, or has witnessed any
interesting event, and can tell anything new about it; secondly, if he can
put in fitting words any common experiences not already well told, so
that readers will say, "Why, yes! I have had that sensation, thought,
emotion, a hundred times, but I never heard it spoken of before, and I
never saw any mention of it in print;" and thirdly, anything one likes,
provided he can so tell it as to make it interesting.
I have no story to tell in this Introduction which can of itself claim
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