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from Newburyport to Boston for that first winter； and I remember that the
evening when we met he was talking of their some time going to Italy that
she might study for imaginative literature certain Italian cities he
named。 I have long since ceased to own those cities； but at the moment I
felt a pang of expropriation which I concealed as well as I could； and
now I heartily wish she could have fulfilled that purpose if it was a
purpose； or realized that dream if it was only a dream。 Perhaps；
however； that sumptuous and glowing fancy of hers； which had taken the
fancy of the young readers of that day； needed the cold New England
background to bring out all its intensities of tint； all its splendors of
light。 Its effects were such as could not last； or could not be farther
evolved； they were the expression of youth musing away from its
environment and smitten with the glories of a world afar and beyond； the
great world； the fine world； the impurpled world of romantic motives and
passions。 But for what they were； I can never think them other than what
they appeared： the emanations of a rarely gifted and singularly poetic
mind。 I feel better than I can say how necessarily they were the
emanations of a New England mind； and how to the subtler sense they must
impart the pathos of revolt from the colorless rigidities which are the
long result of puritanism in the physiognomy of New England life。
Their author afterwards gave herself to the stricter study of this life
in many tales and sketches which showed an increasing mastery； but they
could not have the flush； the surprise； the delight of a young talent
trying itself in a kind native and； so far as I know； peculiar to it。
From time to time I still come upon a poem of hers which recalls that
earlier strain of music； of color； and I am content to trust it for my
abiding faith in the charm of things I have not read for thirty years。
V。
I speak of this one and that； as it happens； and with no thought of
giving a complete prospect of literary Boston thirty years ago。 I am
aware that it will seem sparsely peopled in the effect I impart； and I
would have the reader always keep in mind the great fames at Cambridge
and at Concord； which formed so large a part of the celebrity of Boston。
I would also like him to think of it as still a great town； merely； where
every one knew every one else； and whose metropolitan liberation from
neighborhood was just begun。
Most distinctly of that yet uncitified Boston was the critic Edwin P。
Whipple； whose sympathies were indefinitely wider than his traditions。
He was a most generous lover of all that was excellent in literature； and
though I suppose we should call him an old…fashioned critic now； I
suspect it would be with no distinct sense of what is newer fashioned。
He was certainly as friendly to what promised well in the younger men as
he was to what was done well in their elders； and there was no one
writing in his day whose virtues failed of his recognition； though it
might happen that his foibles would escape Whipple's censure。 He wrote
strenuously and of course conscientiously； his point of view was solely
and always that which enabled him best to discern qualities。 I doubt if
he had any theory of criticism except to find out what was good in an
author and praise it； and he rather blamed what was ethically bad than
what was aesthetically bad。 In this he was strictly of New England； and
he was of New England in a certain general intelligence； which constantly
grew with an interrogative habit of mind。
He liked to talk to you of what he had found characteristic in your work；
to analyze you to yourself； and the very modesty of the man； which made
such a study impersonal as far as he was concerned； sometimes rendered
him insensible to the sufferings of his subject。 He had a keen
perception of humor in others； but he had very little humor； he had a
love of the beautiful in literature which was perhaps sometimes greater
than his sense of it。
I write from a cursory acquaintance with his work； not recently renewed。
Of the presence of the man I have a vivider remembrance： a slight； short；
ecclesiasticized figure in black； with a white neckcloth and a silk hat
of strict decorum； and between the two a square face with square
features； intensified in their regard by a pair of very large glasses；
and the prominent； myopic eyes staring through them。 He was a type of
out…dated New England scholarship in these aspects； but in the hospitable
qualities of his mind and heart； the sort of man to be kept fondly in the
memory of all who ever knew him。
Out of the vague of that far…off time another face and figure； as
essentially New En&land as this； and yet so different； relieve
themselves。 Charles F。 Browne； whose drollery wafted his pseudonym as
far as the English speech could carry laughter； was a Westernized Yankee。
He added an Ohio way of talking to the Maine way of thinking； and he so
became a literary product of a rarer and stranger sort than our
literature had otherwise known。 He had gone from Cleveland to London；
with intervals of New York and the lecture platform； four or five years
before I saw him in Boston； shortly after I went there。 We had met in
Ohio； and he had personally explained to me the ducatless well…meaning of
Vanity Fair in New York； but many men had since shaken the weary hand of
Artemus Ward when I grasped it one day in front of the Tremont Temple。
He did not recognize me； but he gave me at once a greeting of great
impersonal cordiality； with 〃How do you do？ When did you come？〃 and
other questions that had no concern in them； till I began to dawn upon
him through a cloud of other half remembered faces。 Then he seized my
hand and wrung it all over again； and repeated his friendly demands with
an intonation that was now 〃Why； how are you； how are you？〃 for me alone。
It was a bit of comedy； which had the fit pathetic relief of his
impending doom： this was already stamped upon his wasted face； and his
gay eyes had the death…look。 His large； loose mouth was drawn； for all
its laughter at the fact which he owned； his profile； which burlesqued。
an eagle's； was the profile of a drooping eagle； his lank length of limb
trembled away with him when we parted。 I did not see him again；
I scarcely heard of him till I heard of his death； and this sad image
remains with me of the humorist who first gave the world a taste of the
humor which characterizes the whole American people。
I was meeting all kinds of distinguished persons； in my relation to the
magazine； and early that winter I met one who remains in my mind above
all others a person of distinction。 He was scarcely a celebrity； but he
embodied certain social traits which were so characteristic of literary
Boston that it could not be approached without their recognition。
The Muses have often been acknowledged to be very nice young persons；
but in Boston they were really ladies； in Boston literature was of good
family and good society in a measure it has never been elsewhere。
It might be said even that reform was of good family in Boston；
and literature and reform equall