first visit to new england-第16章

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LITERARY　FRIENDS　AND　ACQUAINTANCESFirst　Impressions　of　Literary　New　York

by　William　Dean　Howells



FIRST　IMPRESSIONS　OF　LITERARY　NEW　YORK

It　was　by　boat　that　I　arrived　from　Boston；　on　an　August　morning　of　1860；
which　was　probably　of　the　same　quality　as　an　August　morning　of　1900。
I　used　not　to　mind　the　weather　much　in　those　days；　it　was　hot　or　it　was
cold；　it　was　wet　or　it　was　dry；　but　it　was　not　my　affair；　and　I　suppose
that　I　sweltered　about　the　strange　city；　with　no　sense　of　anything　very
personal　in　the　temperature；　until　nightfall。　　What　I　remember　is　being
high　up　in　a　hotel　long　since　laid　low；　listening　in　the　summer　dark；
after　the　long　day　was　done；　to　the　Niagara　roar　of　the　omnibuses　whose
tide　then　swept　Broadway　from　curb　to　curb；　for　all　the　miles　of　its
length。　　At　that　hour　the　other　city　noises　were　stilled；　or　lost　in　this
vaster　volume　of　sound；　which　seemed　to　fill　the　whole　night。　　It　had　a
solemnity　which　the　modern　comer　to　New　York　will　hardly　imagine；　for
that　tide　of　omnibuses　has　long　since　ebbed　away；　and　has　left　the　air　to
the　strident　discords　of　the　elevated　trains　and　the　irregular　alarum　of
the　grip…car　gongs；　which　blend　to　no　such　harmonious　thunder　as　rose
from　the　procession　of　those　ponderous　and　innumerable　vans。　　There　was　a
sort　of　inner　quiet　in　the　sound；　and　when　I　chose　I　slept　off　to　it；　and
woke　to　it　in　the　morning　refreshed　and　strengthened　to　explore　the
literary　situation　in　the　metropolis。




I。

Not　that　I　think　I　left　this　to　the　second　day。　　Very　probably　I　lost　no
time　in　going　to　the　office　of　the　Saturday　Press；　as　soon　as　I　had　my
breakfast　after　arriving；　and　I　have　a　dim　impression　of　anticipating　the
earliest　of　the　Bohemians；　whose　gay　theory　of　life　obliged　them　to　a
good　many　hardships　in　lying　down　early　in　the　morning；　and　rising　up
late　in　the　day。　　If　it　was　the　office…boy　who　bore　me　company　during　the
first　hour　of　my　visit；　by…and…by　the　editors　and　contributors　actually
began　to　come　in。　　I　would　not　be　very　specific　about　them　if　I　could；
for　since　that　Bohemia　has　faded　from　the　map　of　the　republic　of　letters；
it　has　grown　more　and　more　difficult　to　trace　its　citizenship　to　any
certain　writer。　　There　are　some　living　who　knew　the　Bohemians　and　even
loved　them；　but　there　are　increasingly　few　who　were　of　them；　even　in　the
fond　retrospect　of　youthful　follies　and　errors。　　It　was　in　fact　but　a
sickly　colony；　transplanted　from　the　mother　asphalt　of　Paris；　and　never
really　striking　root　in　the　pavements　of　New　York；　it　was　a　colony　of
ideas；　of　theories；　which　had　perhaps　never　had　any　deep　root　anywhere。
What　these　ideas；　these　theories；　were　in　art　and　in　life；　it　would　not
be　very　easy　to　say；　but　in　the　Saturday　Press　they　came　to　violent
expression；　not　to　say　explosion；　against　all　existing　forms　of
respectability。　　If　respectability　was　your　'bete　noire'；　then　you　were　a
Bohemian；　and　if　you　were　in　the　habit　of　rendering　yourself　in　prose；
then　you　necessarily　shredded　your　prose　into　very　fine　paragraphs　of　a
sentence　each；　or　of　a　very　few　words；　or　even　of　one　word。　　I　believe
this　fashion　prevailed　till　very　lately　with　some　of　the　dramatic
critics；　who　thought　that　it　gave　a　quality　of　epigram　to　the　style；　and
I　suppose　it　was　borrowed　from　the　more　spasmodic　moments　of　Victor　Hugo
by　the　editor　of　the　Press。　　He　brought　it　back　with　him　when　he　came
home　from　one　of　those　sojourns　in　Paris　which　possess　one　of　the　French
accent　rather　than　the　French　language；　I　long　desired　to　write　in　that
fashion　myself；　but　I　had　not　the　courage。

This　editor　was　a　man　of　such　open　and　avowed　cynicism　that　he　may　have
been；　for　all　I　know；　a　kindly　optimist　at　heart；　some　say；　however；　that
he　had　really　talked　himself　into　being　what　he　seemed。　　I　only　know　that
his　talk；　the　first　day　I　saw　him；　was　of　such　a　sort　that　if　he　was　half
as　bad；　he　would　have　been　too　bad　to　be。　　He　walked　up　and　down　his　room
saying　what　lurid　things　he　would　directly　do　if　any　one　accused　him　of
respectability；　so　that　he　might　disabuse　the　minds　of　all　witnesses。
There　were　four　or　five　of　his　assistants　and　contributors　listening　to
the　dreadful　threats；　which　did　not　deceive　even　so　great　innocence　as
mine；　but　I　do　not　know　whether　they　found　it　the　sorry　farce　that　I　did。
They　probably　felt　the　fascination　for　him　which　I　could　not　disown；
in　spite　of　my　inner　disgust；　and　were　watchful　at　the　same　time　for　the
effect　of　his　words　with　one　who　was　confessedly　fresh　from　Boston；
and　was　full　of　delight　in　the　people　he　had　seen　there。　　It　appeared；
with　him；　to　be　proof　of　the　inferiority　of　Boston　that　if　you　passed
down　Washington　Street；　half　a　dozen　men　in　the　crowd　would　know　you　were
Holmes；　or　Lowell；　or　Longfellow；　or　Wendell　Phillips；　but　in　Broadway　no
one　would　know　who　you　were；　or　care　to　the　measure　of　his　smallest
blasphemy。　　I　have　since　heard　this　more　than　once　urged　as　a　signal
advantage　of　New　York　for　the　aesthetic　inhabitant；　but　I　am　not　sure；
yet；　that　it　is　so。　　The　unrecognized　celebrity　probably　has　his　mind
quite　as　much　upon　himself　as　if　some　one　pointed　him　out；　and　otherwise
I　cannot　think　that　the　sense　of　neighborhood　is　such　a　bad　thing　for　the
artist　in　any　sort。　　It　involves　the　sense　of　responsibility；　which
cannot　be　too　constant　or　too　keen。　　If　it　narrows；　it　deepens；　and　this
may　be　the　secret　of　Boston。




II。

It　would　not　be　easy　to　say　just　why　the　Bohemian　group　represented　New
York　literature　to　my　imagination；　for　I　certainly　associated　other　names
with　its　best　work；　but　perhaps　it　was　because　I　had　written　for　the
Saturday　Press　myself；　and　had　my　pride　in　it；　and　perhaps　it　was　because
that　paper　really　embodied　the　new　literary　life　of　the　city。　　It　was
clever；　and　full　of　the　wit　that　tries　its　teeth　upon　everything。　　It
attacked　all　literary　shams　but　its　own；　and　it　made　itself　felt　and
feared。　　The　young　writers　throughout　the　country　were　ambitious　to　be
seen　in　it；　and　they　gave　their　best　to　it；　they　gave　literally；　for　the
Saturday　Press　never　paid　in　anything　but　hopes　of　paying；　vaguer　even
than　promises。　　It　is　not　too　much　to　say　that　it　was　very　nearly　as　well
for　one　to　be　accepted　by　the　Press　as　to　be　accepted　by　the　Atlantic；
and　for　the　time　there　was　no　other　literary　comparison。　　To　be　in　it　was
to　be　in　the　company　of　Fitz　James　O'Brien；　Fitzhugh　Ludlow；　Mr。　Aldrich；
Mr。　Stedman；　and　whoever　else　was　liveliest　in　prose　or　loveliest　in
verse　at　that　day　in　New　York。　　It　was　a　power；　and　although　it　is　true
that；　as　Henry　Giles　said　of　it；　〃Man　cannot　live　by　snapping…turtle
alone；〃　the　Press　was　very　good　snapping…turtle。　　Or；　it　seemed　so　then；
I　should　be　almost　afraid　to　test　it　now；　for　I　do　not　like　snapping…
turtle　so　much　as　I　once　did；　and　I　have　grown　nicer　in　my　taste；　and
want　my　snapping…turtle　of　the　very　best。　　What　is　certain　is　that　I　went
to　the　office　of　the　Saturday　Press　in　New　York　with　much　the　same　sort
of　feeling　I　had　in　going　to　the　office　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly　in
Boston；　but　I　came　away　with　a　very　different　feeling。　　I　had　found　there
a　bitterness　against　Boston　as　great　as　the　bitterness　against
respectability；　and　as　Boston　was　then　rapidly　becoming　my　second
country；　I　could　not　join　in　the　scorn　thought　of　her　and　said　of　her　by
the　Bohemians。　　I　fancied　a　conspiracy　among　them　to　shock　the　literary
pilgrim；　and　to　minify　the　precious　emotions　he　had　experienced　in
visiting　other　shrines；　but　I　found　no　harm　in　that；　for　I　knew　just　how
much　to　be　shocked；　and　I　thought　I　knew　better　how　to　value　certain
things　of　the　soul　than　they。　　Yet　when　their　chief　asked　me　how　I　got　on
with　Hawthorne；　and　I　began　to　say　that　he　was　very　shy　and　I　was　rather
shy；　and　the　king　of　Bohemia　took　his　pipe　out　to　break　in　upon　me　with
〃Oh；　a　couple　of　shysters！〃　and　the　rest　laughed；　I　was　abashed　all　they
could　have　wished；　and　was　not　restored　to　myself　till　one　of　them　said
that　the　thought　of　Boston　made　him　as　ugly　as　sin；　then　I　began　to　hope
again　that　men　who　took　themselves　so　seriously　as　that　need　not　be　taken
very　seriously　by　me