first visit to new england-第16部分

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the　honor　and　passion　of　literature；　and　not　a　mere　pose　of　the　literary
life；　and　the　world　knows　without　my　telling　how　true　he　has　been　to　his
ideal　of　it。　　His　earthly　mission　then　was　to　write　letters　from
Washington　for　the　New　York　World；　which　started　in　life　as　a　good　young
evening　paper；　with　a　decided　religious　tone；　so　that　the　Saturday　Press
could　call　it　the　Night…blooming　Serious。　　I　think　Mr。　Stedman　wrote　for
its　editorial　page　at　times；　and　his　relation　to　it　as　a　Washington
correspondent　had　an　authority　which　is　wanting　to　the　function　in　these
days　of　perfected　telegraphing。　　He　had　not　yet　achieved　that　seat　in　the
Stock　Exchange　whose　possession　has　justified　his　recourse　to　business；
and　has　helped　him　to　mean　something　more　single　in　literature　than　many
more　singly　devoted　to　it。　　I　used　sometimes　to　speak　about　that　with
another　eager　young　author　in　certain　middle　years　when　we　were　chafing
in　editorial　harness；　and　we　always　decided　that　Stedman　had　the　best　of
it　in　being　able　to　earn　his　living　in　a　sort　so　alien　to　literature　that
he　could　come　to　it　unjaded；　and　with　a　gust　unspoiled　by　kindred　savors。
But　no　man　shapes　his　own　life；　and　I　dare　say　that　Stedman　may　have　been
all　the　time　envying　us　our　tripods　from　his　high　place　in　the　Stock
Exchange。　　What　is　certain　is　that　he　has　come　to　stand　for　literature
and　to　embody　New　York　in　it　as　no　one　else　does。　　In　a　community　which
seems　never　to　have　had　a　conscious　relation　to　letters；　he　has　kept　the
faith　with　dignity　and　fought　the　fight　with　constant　courage。　　Scholar
and　poet　at　once；　he　has　spoken　to　his　generation　with　authority　which　we
can　forget　only　in　the　charm　which　makes　us　forget　everything　else。

But　his　fame　was　still　before　him　when　we　met；　and　I　could　bring　to　him
an　admiration　for　work　which　had　not　yet　made　itself　known　to　so　many；
but　any　admirer　was　welcome。　　We　talked　of　what　we　had　done；　and　each
said　how　much　he　liked　certain　thing　of　the　other's；　I　even　seized　my
advantage　of　his　helplessness　to　read　him　a　poem　of　mine　which　I　had　in
my　pocket；　he　advised　me　where　to　place　it；　and　if　the　reader　will　not
think　it　an　unfair　digression；　I　will　tell　here　what　became　of　that　poem；
for　I　think　its　varied　fortunes　were　amusing；　and　I　hope　my　own
sufferings　and　final　triumph　with　it　will　not　be　without　encouragement　to
the　young　literary　endeavorer。　　It　was　a　poem　called；　with　no　prophetic
sense　of　fitness；　〃Forlorn；〃　and　I　tried　it　first　with　the　'Atlantic
Monthly'；　which　would　not　have　it。　　Then　I　offered　it　in　person　to　a
former　editor　of　'Harper's　Monthly'；　but　he　could　not　see　his　advantage
in　it；　and　I　carried　it　overseas　to　Venice　with　me。　　From　that　point　I
sent　it　to　all　the　English　magazines　as　steadily　as　the　post　could　carry
it　away　and　bring　it　back。　　On　my　way　home；　four　years　later；　I　took　it
to　London　with　me；　where　a　friend　who　knew　Lewes；　then　just　beginning
with　the　'Fortnightly　Review'；　sent　it　to　him　for　me。　　It　was　promptly
returned；　with　a　letter　wholly　reserved　as　to　its　quality；　but　full　of　a
poetic　gratitude　for　my　wish　to　contribute　to　the　Fortnightly。　　Then　I
heard　that　a　certain　Mr。　Lucas　was　about　to　start　a　magazine；　and　I
offered　the　poem　to　him。　　The　kindest　letter　of　acceptance　followed　me　to
America；　and　I　counted　upon　fame　and　fortune　as　usual；　when　the　news　of
Mr。　Lucas's　death　came。　　I　will　not　poorly　joke　an　effect　from　my　poem　in
the　fact；　but　the　fact　remains。　　By　this　time　I　was　a　writer　in　the
office　of　the　'Nation'　newspaper；　and　after　I　left　this　place　to　be　Mr。
Fields's　assistant　on　the　Atlantic；　I　sent　my　poem　to　the　Nation；　where
it　was　printed　at　last。　　In　such　scant　measure　as　my　verses　have　pleased
it　has　found　rather　unusual　favor；　and　I　need　not　say　that　its
misfortunes　endeared　it　to　its　author。

But　all　this　is　rather　far　away　from　my　first　meeting　with　Stedman　in
Washington。　　Of　course　I　liked　him；　and　I　thought　him　very　handsome　and
fine；　with　a　full　beard　cut　in　the　fashion　he　has　always　worn　it；　and
with　poet's　eyes　lighting　an　aquiline　profile。　　Afterwards；　when　I　saw
him　afoot；　I　found　him　of　a　worldly　splendor　in　dress；　and　envied　him；
as　much　as　I　could　envy　him　anything；　the　New　York　tailor　whose　art　had
clothed　him：　I　had　a　New　York　tailor　too；　but　with　a　difference。　　He　had
a　worldly　dash　along　with　his　supermundane　gifts；　which　took　me　almost　as
much；　and　all　the　more　because　I　could　see　that　he　valued　himself　nothing
upon　it。　　He　was　all　for　literature；　and　for　literary　men　as　the
superiors　of　every　one。　　I　must　have　opened　my　heart　to　him　a　good　deal；
for　when　I　told　him　how　the　newspaper　I　had　written　for　from　Canada　and
New　England　had　ceased　to　print　my　letters；　he　said；　〃Think　of　a　man　like
sitting　in　judgment　on　a　man　like　you！〃　I　thought　of　it；　and　was　avenged
if　not　comforted；　and　at　any　rate　I　liked　Stedman's　standing　up　so
stiffly　for　the　honor　of　a　craft　that　is　rather　too　limp　in　some　of　its
votaries。

I　suppose　it　was　he　who　introduced　me　to　the　Stoddards；　whom　I　met　in　New
York　just　before　I　sailed；　and　who　were　then　in　the　glow　of　their　early
fame　as　poets。　　They　knew　about　my　poor　beginnings；　and　they　were　very；
very　good　to　me。　　Stoddard　went　with　me　to　Franklin　Square；　and　gave　the
sanction　of　his　presence　to　the　ineffectual　offer　of　my　poem　there。
But　what　I　relished　most　was　the　long　talks　I　had　with　them　both　about
authorship　in　all　its　phases；　and　the　exchange　of　delight　in　this　poem
and　that；　this　novel　and　that；　with　gay；　wilful　runs　away　to　make　some
wholly　irrelevant　joke；　or　fire　puns　into　the　air　at　no　mark　whatever。
Stoddard　had　then　a　fame；　with　the　sweetness　of　personal　affection　in　it；
from　the　lyrics　and　the　odes　that　will　perhaps　best　keep　him　known；　and
Mrs。　Stoddard　was　beginning　to　make　her　distinct　and　special　quality　felt
in　the　magazines；　in　verse　and　fiction。　　In　both　it　seems　to　me　that　she
has　failed　of　the　recognition　which　her　work　merits。　　Her　tales　and
novels　have　in　them　a　foretaste　of　realism；　which　was　too　strange　for　the
palate　of　their　day；　and　is　now　too　familiar；　perhaps。　　It　is　a　peculiar
fate；　and　would　form　the　scheme　of　a　pretty　study　in　the　history　of
literature。　　But　in　whatever　she　did　she　left　the　stamp　of　a　talent　like
no　other；　and　of　a　personality　disdainful　of　literary　environment。　　In　a
time　when　most　of　us　had　to　write　like　Tennyson；　or　Longfellow；　or
Browning；　she　never　would　write　like　any　one　but　herself。

I　remember　very　well　the　lodging　over　a　corner　of　Fourth　Avenue　and　some
downtown　street　where　I　visited　these　winning　and　gifted　people；　and
tasted　the　pleasure　of　their　racy　talk；　and　the　hospitality　of　their
good…will　toward　all　literature；　which　certainly　did　not　leave　me　out。
We　sat　before　their　grate　in　the　chill　of　the　last　October　days；　and　they
set　each　other　on　to　one　wild　flight　of　wit　after　another；　and　again　I
bathed　my　delighted　spirit　in　the　atmosphere　of　a　realm　where　for　the
time　at　least　no

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃rumor　of　oppression　or　defeat；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Of　unsuccessful　or　successful　war；〃

could　penetrate。　　I　liked　the　Stoddards　because　they　were　frankly　not　of
that　Bohemia　which　I　disliked　so　much；　and　thought　it　of　no　promise　or
validity；　and　because　I　was　fond　of　their　poetry　and　found　them　in　it。
I　liked　the　absolutely　literary　keeping　of　their　lives。　　He　had　then；
and　for　long　after；　a　place　in　the　Custom　house；　but　he　was　no　more　of
that　than　Lamb　was　of　India　House。　　He　belonged　to　that　better　world
where　there　is　no　interest　but　letters；　and　which　was　as　much　like　heaven
for　me　as　anything　I　could　think　of。

The　meetings　with　the　Stoddards　repeated　themselves　when　I　came　back　to
sail　from　New　York；　early　in　November。　　Mixed　up　with　the　cordial
pleasure　of　them　in　my　memory　is　a　sense　of　the　cold　and　wet　outdoors；
and　the　misery　of　being　in　those　infamous　New　York　streets；　then　as　for
long　afterwards　the　squalidest　in　the　world。　　The　last　night　I　saw　my
friends　they　told　me　of　the　tragedy　which　had　just　happened　at　the　camp
in　the　City　Hall　Park。　　Fitz　James　O'Brien；　the　brilliant　young　Irishman
who　had　dazzled　us　with　his　story　of　〃The　Diamond　Lens；〃　and　frozen　our
blood　with　his　ingenious　tale　of　a　ghost〃What　was　It〃a　ghost　that
could　be　felt　and　heard；　but　not　seenhad　enlisted　for　the　war；　and
risen　to　be　an　officer　with　the　swift　process　of　the　first　days　of　it。
In　that　camp　he　had　just　then　shot　and　killed　a　man　for　some　infraction
of　discipline；　and　it　was　uncertain　what　the　end　would　be。　　He　was
acquitted；　however；　and　it　is　known　how　he　afterwards　died　of　lockjaw
from　a　wound　received　in　battle。




VI。

Before　this　last　visit　in　New　York　there　was　a　second　visit　to　Boston；
which　I　need　not　dwell　upon；　because　it　was　chiefly　a　revival　of　the
impressions　of　the　first。　　Again　I　saw　the　Fieldses　in　their　home；　again
the　Autocrat　in　his；　and　Lowell　now　beneath　his　own　roof；　beside　the
study　fire　where　I　was　so　often　to　sit　with　him　in　coming　years。　　At
dinner　（which　we　had　at　two　o'clock）　the　talk　turned　upon　my　appointment；
and　he　said　of　me　to　his　wife：　〃Think　of　his　having　got　Stillman's　place！
We　ought　to　put　poison　in　his　wine；〃　and　he　told　me　of　the　wish　the
painter　had　to　go　to　Venice　and　follow　up　Ruskin's　work　there　in　a　book
of　his　own。　　But　he　would　not　let　me　feel　very　guilty；　and　I　will　not
pretend　that　I　had　any　personal　regret　for　my　good　fortune。

The　place　was　given　me　perhaps　because　I　had　not　nearly　so　many　other
gifts　as　he　who　lost　it；　and　who　was　at　once　artist；　critic；　journalist；
traveller；　and　eminently　each。　　I　met　him　afterwards　in　Rome；　which　the
powers　bestowed　upon　him　instead　of　Venice；　and　he　forgave　me；　though　I
do　not　know　whether　he　forgave　the　powers。　　We　walked　far　and　long　over
the　Campagna；　and　I　felt　the　charm　of　a　most　uncommon　mind　in　talk　which
came　out　richest　and　fullest　in　the　presence　of　the　wild　nature　which　he
loved　and　knew　so　much　better　than　most　other　men。　　I　think　that　the　book
he　would　have　written　about　Venice　is　forever　to　be　regretted；　and　I　do
not　at　all　console　myself　for　its　loss　with　the　book　I　have　written
myself。

At　Lowell's　table　that　day　they　spoke