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done； and I think it well to remind the reader that Boyesen； who died at
forty…eight； had written； besides articles； reviews； and lectures
unnumbered； four volumes of scholarly criticism on German and
Scandinavian literature； a volume of literary and social essays； a
popular history of Norway； a volume of poems； twelve volumes of fiction；
and four books for boys。
Boyesen's energies were inexhaustible。 He was not content to be merely a
scholar； merely an author； he wished to be an active citizen； to take his
part in honest politics； and to live for his day in things that most men
of letters shun。 His experience in them helped him to know American life
better and to appreciate it more justly； both in its good and its evil；
and as a matter of fact he knew us very well。 His acquaintance with us
had been wide and varied beyond that of most of our literary men； and
touched many aspects of our civilization which remain unknown to most
Americans。 When be died he had been a journalist in Chicago； and a
teacher in Ohio； he had been a professor in Cornell University and a
literary free lance in New York； and everywhere his eyes and ears had
kept themselves open。 As a teacher he learned to know the more fortunate
or the more ambitious of our youth； and as a lecturer his knowledge was
continually extending itself among all ages and classes of Americans。
He was through and through a Norseman； but he was none the less a very
American。 Between Norsk and Yankee there is an affinity of spirit more
intimate than the ties of race。 Both have the common…sense view of life；
both are unsentimental。 When Boyesen told me that among the Norwegians
men never kissed each other； as the Germans； and the Frenchmen； and the
Italians do； I perceived that we stood upon common ground。 When he
explained the democratic character of society in Norway； I could well
understand how he should find us a little behind his own countrymen in
the practice； if not the theory of equality； though they lived under a
king and we under a president。 But he was proud of his American
citizenship； he knew all that it meant； at its best； for humanity。 He
divined that the true expression of America was not civic； not social；
but domestic almost； and that the people in the simplest homes； or those
who remained in the tradition of a simple home life； were the true
Americans as yet； whatever the future Americans might be。
When I first knew him he was chafing with the impatience of youth and
ambition at what he thought his exile in the West。 There was； to be
sure； a difference between Urbana； Ohio； and Cambridge； Massachusetts；
and he realized the difference in the extreme and perhaps beyond it。
I tried to make him believe that if a man had one or two friends anywhere
who loved letters and sympathized with him in his literary attempts；
it was incentive enough； but of course he wished to be in the centres of
literature； as we all do； and he never was content until he had set his
face and his foot Eastward。 It was a great step for him from the
Swedenborgian school at Urbana to the young university at Ithaca； and I
remember his exultation in making it。 But he could not rest there； and
in a few years he resigned his professorship； and came to New York； where
he entered high…heartedly upon the struggle with fortune which ended in
his appointment in Columbia。
New York is a mart and not a capital； in literature as well as in other
things； and doubtless he increasingly felt this。 I know that there came
a time when he no longer thought the West must be exile for a literary
man； and his latest visits to its summer schools as a lecturer impressed
him with the genuineness of the interest felt there in culture of all
kinds。 He spoke of this； with a due sense of what was pathetic as well
as what was grotesque in some of its manifestations； and I think that in
reconciling himself to our popular crudeness for the sake of our popular
earnestness； he completed his naturalization； in the only sense in which
our citizenship is worth having。
I do not wish to imply that he forgot his native land； or ceased to love
it proudly and tenderly。 He kept for Norway the fondness which the man
sitting at his own hearth feels for the home of his boyhood。 He was of
good family； his people were people of substance and condition； and he
could have had an easier life there than here。 He could have won even
wider fame； and doubtless if he had remained in Norway； he would have
been one of that group of great Norwegians who have given their little
land renown surpassed by that of no other in the modern republic of
letters。 The name of Boyesen would have been set with the names of
Bjornson； of Ibsen； of Kielland； and of Lie。 But when once he had seen
America （at the wish of his father； who had visited the United States
before him）； he thought only of becoming an American。 When I first knew
him he was full of the poetry of his mother…land； his talk was of fjords
and glaciers； of firs and birches； of hulders and nixies； of housemen and
gaardsmen； but he was glad to be here； and I think he never regretted
that he had cast his lot with us。 Always； of course； he had the deepest
interest in his country and countrymen。 He stood the friend of every
Norwegian who came to him in want or trouble； and they； came to him
freely and frequently。 He sympathized strongly with Norway in her
quarrel with Sweden； and her wish for equality as well as autonomy； and
though he did not go all lengths with the national party； he was decided
in his feeling that Sweden was unjust to her sister kingdom； and
strenuous for the principles of the Norwegian leaders。
But； as I have said； poetry； was what his ardent spirit mainly meditated
in that hour when I first knew him in Cambridge； before we had either of
us grown old and sad； if not wise。 He overflowed with it； and he talked
as little as he dreamed of anything else in the vast half…summer we spent
together。 He was constantly at my house； where in an absence of my
family I was living bachelor； and where we sat indoors and talked； or
sauntered outdoors and talked； with our heads in a cloud of fancies； not
unmixed with the mosquitoes of Cambridge： if I could have back the
fancies； I would be willing to have the mosquitoes with them。 He looked
the poetry he lived： his eyes were the blue of sunlit fjords； his brown
silken hair was thick on the crown which it later abandoned to a
scholarly baldness； his soft； red lips half hid a boyish pout in the
youthful beard and mustache。 He was short of stature； but of a stalwart
breadth of frame； and his voice was of a peculiar and endearing quality；
indescribably mellow and tender when he read his verse。
I have hardly the right to dwell so long upon him here； for he was only a
sojourner in Cambridge； but the memory of that early intimacy is too much
for my sense of proportion。 As I have hinted； our intimacy was renewed
afterwards； when I too came to live in New York； where as long as he was
in this 'dolce lome'； he hardly let a week go by without passing a long
evening with me。 Our talk was still of literature and life； but more of
life than of literature； and we seldom spoke of those old times。 I still
found him true to the ideals which had clarified themselves to both of us
as the duty of unswerving fealty to the real thing in whatever we did。
This we felt； as we had felt it long before； to be the sole source of
beauty and of art； and we warmed ourselves at each other's hearts in our
devotion to it； amidst a misunderstanding environment which we did not
characterize by so mild an epithet。 Boyesen； indeed； out…realisted me；
in the polemics of our aesthetics； and sometimes when an unbeliever was
by； I willingly left to my friend the affirmation of our faith； not
without some quaking at his unsparing strenuousness in disciplining the
heretic。 But now that ardent and active soul is Elsewhere； and I have
ceased even to expect the ring； which； making itself heard at the late
hour of his coming； I knew always to be his and not another's。 That
mechanical expectation of those who will come no more is something
terrible； but when even that ceases； we know the irreparability of our
loss； and begin to realize how much of ourselves they have taken with
them。
IV。
It was some years before the Boyesen summer； which was the fourth or
fifth of our life in Cambridge； that I made the acquaintance of a man；
very much my senior； who remains one of the vividest personalities in my
recollection。 I speak of him in this order perhaps because of an obscure
association with Boyesen through their religious faith； which was also
mine。 But Henry James was incommensurably more Swedenborgian than either
of us： he lived and thought and felt Swedenborg with an entirety and
intensity far beyond the mere assent of other men。 He did not do this in
any stupidly exclusive way； but in the most luminously inclusive way；
with a constant reference of these vain mundane shadows to the spiritual
realities from which they project。 His piety； which sometimes expressed
itself in terms of alarming originality and freedom； was too large for
a