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 with the glow and thrill possible
only from very beautiful poetry； and which impart such an emotion as we
can feel only
〃When a great thought strikes along the brain
And flushes all the cheek。〃
When I had the fortune to meet him first； I suppose that in the employ of
the kindly house we were both so eager to serve； our dignities were about
the same； for if the 'Atlantic Monthly' was a somewhat prouder affair
than an eclectic weekly like 'Every Saturday'； he was supreme in his
place； and I was subordinate in mine。 The house was careful； in the
attitude of its senior partner； not to distinguish between us； and we
were not slow to perceive the tact used in managing us； we had our own
joke of it； we compared notes to find whether we were equally used in
this thing or that； and we promptly shared the fun of our discovery with
Fields himself。
We had another impartial friend （no less a friend of joy in the life
which seems to have been pretty nearly all joy； as I look back upon it）
in the partner who became afterwards the head of the house； and who
forecast in his bold enterprises the change from a New England to an
American literary situation。 In the end James R。 Osgood failed； though
all his enterprises succeeded。 The anomaly is sad； but it is not
infrequent。 They were greater than his powers and his means； and before
they could reach their full fruition； they had to be enlarged to men of
longer purse and longer patience。 He was singularly fitted both by
instinct and by education to become a great publisher； and he early
perceived that if a leading American house were to continue at Boston；
it must be hospitable to the talents of the whole country。 He founded
his future upon those generous lines； but he wanted the qualities as well
as the resources for rearing the superstructure。 Changes began to follow
each other rapidly after he came into control of the house。 Misfortune
reduced the size and number of its periodicals。 'The Young Folks' was
sold outright； and the 'North American Review' （long before Mr。 Rice
bought it and carried it to New York） was cut down one…half； so that
Aldrich said； it looked as if Destiny had sat upon it。 His own
periodical； 'Every Saturday'； was first enlarged to a stately quarto and
illustrated； and then； under stress of the calamities following the great
Boston fire； It collapsed to its former size。 Then both the 'Atlantic
Monthly' and 'Every Saturday' were sold away from their old ownership；
and 'Every Saturday' was suppressed altogether； and we two ceased to be
of the same employ。 There was some sort of evening rite （more funereal
than festive） the day after they were sold； and we followed Osgood away
from it； under the lamps。 We all knew that it was his necessity that had
caused him to part with the periodicals； but he professed that it was his
pleasure； and he said he had not felt so light…hearted since he was a
boy。 We asked him； How could he feel gay when he was no longer paying us
our salaries； and how could he justify it to his conscience？ He liked
our mocking； and limped away from us with a rheumatic easing of his
weight from one foot to another： a figure pathetic now that it has gone
the way to dusty death； and dear to memory through benefactions unalloyed
by one unkindness。
IV。
But when I came to Boston early in 1866； the 'Atlantic Monthly' and
'Harper's' then divided our magazine world between them； the 'North
American Review'； in the control of Lowell and Professor Norton； had
entered upon a new life； 'Every Saturday' was an instant success in the
charge of Mr。 Aldrich； who was by taste and training one of the best
editors； and 'Our Young Folks' had the field of juvenile periodical
literature to itself。
It was under the direction of Miss Lucy Larcom and of Mr。 J。 T。
Trowbridge； who had come from western New York； where he was born； and
must be noted as one of the first returners from the setting to the
rising sun。 He naturalized himself in Boston in his later boyhood； and
he still breathes Boston air； where he dwells in the street called
Pleasant； on the shore of Spy Pond； at Arlington； and still weaves the
magic web of his satisfying stories for boys。 He merges in their
popularity the fame of a poet which I do not think will always suffer
that eclipse； for his poems show him to have looked deeply into the heart
of common humanity； with a true and tender sense of it。
Miss Larcom scarcely seemed to change from date to date in the generation
that elapsed between the time I first saw her and the time I saw her
last； a year or two before her death。 A goodness looked out of her
comely face； which made me think of the Madonna's in Titian's
〃Assumption；〃 and her whole aspect expressed a mild and friendly spirit
which I find it hard to put in words。 She was never of the fine world of
literature； she dwelt where she was born； in that unfashionable Beverly
which is not Beverly Farms； and was of a simple； sea…faring； God…fearing
race； as she has told in one of the loveliest autobiographies I know；
〃A New England Girlhood。〃 She was the author of many poems； whose number
she constantly enlarged； but she was chiefly； and will be most lastingly；
famed for the one poem； 'Hannah Binding Shoes'； which years before my
days in Boston had made her so widely known。 She never again struck so
deep or so true a note； but if one has lodged such a note in the ear of
time； it is enough； and if we are to speak of eternity； one might very
well hold up one's head in the fields of asphodel； if one could say to
the great others there； 〃I wrote Hannah Binding Shoes。〃 Her poem is
very； very sad； as all who have read it will remember； but Miss Larcom
herself was above everything cheerful； and she had a laugh of mellow
richness which willingly made itself heard。 She was not only of true New
England stock； and a Boston author by right of race； but she came up to
that city every winter from her native town。
By the same right and on the same terms； another New England poetess；
whom I met those first days in Boston； was a Boston author。 When I saw
Celia Thaxter she was just beginning to make her effect with those poems
and sketches which the sea sings and flashes through as it sings and
flashes around the Isles of Shoals； her summer home； where her girlhood
had been passed in a freedom as wild as the curlew's。 She was a most
beautiful creature； still very young ； with a slender figure； and an
exquisite perfection of feature； she was in presence what her work was：
fine； frank； finished。 I do not know whether other witnesses of our
literary history feel that the public has failed to keep her as fully in
mind as her work merited； but I do not think there can be any doubt but
our literature would be sensibly the poorer without her work。 It is
interesting to remember how closely she kept to her native field； a