Literary Boston As I Knew It | Page 6

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