按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
to show behind the footlights； he dressed with artistic elegance。 He
was something between a remembrance of Count D'Orsay and an
anticipation of Oscar Wilde。 There used to be in the gallery of the
Luxembourg a picture of Hippolytus and Phxdra； in which the beautiful
young man； who had kindled a passion in the heart of his wicked step…
mother； always reminded me of Willis； in spite of the shortcomings of
the living face as compared with the ideal。 The painted youth is
still blooming on the canvas； but the fresh…cheecked； jaunty young
author of the year 1830 has long faded out of human sight。 I took
the leaves which lie before me at this moment； as I write； from his
coffin； as it lay just outside the door of Saint Paul's Church； on a
sad； overclouded winter's day； in the year 1867。 At that earlier
time； Willis was by far the most prominent young American author。
Cooper； Irving； Bryant； Dana； Halleck； Drake； had all done their best
work。 Longfellow was not yet conspicuous。 Lowell was a school…boy。
Emerson was unheard of。 Whittier was beginning to make his way
against the writers with better educational advantages whom he was
destined to outdo and to outlive。 Not one of the great histories；
which have done honor to our literature； had appeared。 Our school…
books depended； so far as American authors were concerned； on
extracts from the orations and speeches of Webster and Everett； on
Bryant's Thanatopsis； his lines To a Waterfowl； and the Death of the
Flowers； Halleck's Marco Bozzaris； Red Jacket； and Burns； on Drake's
American Flag； and Percival's Coral Grove； and his Genius Sleeping
and Genius Waking；and not getting very wide awake； either。 These
could be depended upon。 A few other copies of verses might be found；
but Dwight's 〃Columbia； Columbia；〃 and Pierpont's Airs of Palestine；
were already effaced； as many of the favorites of our own day and
generation must soon be； by the great wave which the near future will
pour over the sands in which they still are legible。
About this time； in the year 1832； came out a small volume entitled
〃Truth； a Gift for Scribblers；〃 which made some talk for a while； and
is now chiefly valuable as a kind of literary tombstone on which may
be read the names of many whose renown has been buried with their
bones。 The 〃London Athenaeum〃 spoke of it as having been described
as a 〃tomahawk sort of satire。〃 As the author had been a trapper in
Missouri； he was familiarly acquainted with that weapon and the
warfare of its owners。 Born in Boston； in 1804； the son of an army
officer； educated at West Point； he came back to his native city
about the year 1830。 He wrote an article on Bryant's Poems for the
〃North American Review；〃 and another on the famous Indian chief；
Black Hawk。 In this last…mentioned article he tells this story as
the great warrior told it himself。 It was an incident of a fight
with the Osages。
〃Standing by my father's side； I saw him kill his antagonist and tear
the scalp from his head。 Fired with valor and ambition； I rushed
furiously upon another； smote him to the earth with my tomahawk； ran
my lance through his body； took off his scalp； and returned in
triumph to my father。 He said nothing； but looked pleased。〃
This little red story describes very well Spelling's style of
literary warfare。 His handling of his most conspicuous victim；
Willis； was very much like Black Hawk's way of dealing with the
Osage。 He tomahawked him in heroics； ran him through in prose； and
scalped him in barbarous epigrams。 Bryant and Halleck were
abundantly praised； hardly any one else escaped。
If the reader wishes to see the bubbles of reputation that were
floating； some of them gay with prismatic colors； half a century ago；
he will find in the pages of 〃Truth〃 a long catalogue of celebrities
he never heard of。 I recognize only three names； of all which are
mentioned in the little book； as belonging to persons still living；
but as I have not read the obituaries of all the others； some of them
may be still flourishing in spite of Mr。 Spelling's exterminating
onslaught。 Time dealt as hardly with poor Spelling； who was not
without talent and instruction； as he had dealt with our authors。 I
think he found shelter at last under a roof which held numerous
inmates； some of whom had seen better and many of whom had known
worse days than those which they were passing within its friendly and
not exclusive precincts。 Such； at least； was the story I heard after
he disappeared from general observation。
That was the day of Souvenirs； Tokens； Forget…me…nots； Bijous； and
all that class of showy annuals。 Short stories； slender poems； steel
engravings； on a level with the common fashion…plates of advertising
establishments； gilt edges； resplendent binding；to manifestations
of this sort our lighter literature had very largely run for some
years。 The 〃Scarlet Letter〃 was an unhinted possibility。 The
〃Voices of the Night 〃 had not stirred the brooding silence； the
Concord seer was still in the lonely desert； most of the contributors
to those yearly volumes； which took up such pretentious positions on
the centre table； have shrunk into entire oblivion； or； at best； hold
their place in literature by a scrap or two in some omnivorous
collection。
What dreadful work Spelling made among those slight reputations；
floating in swollen tenuity on the surface of the stream； and
mirroring each other in reciprocal reflections！ Violent； abusive as
he was； unjust to any against whom he happened to have a prejudice；
his castigation of the small litterateurs of that day was not
harmful； but rather of use。 His attack on Willis very probably did
him good； he needed a little discipline； and though he got it too
unsparingly； some cautions came with it which were worth the stripes
he had to smart under。 One noble writer Spelling treated with
rudeness； probably from some accidental pique； or equally
insignificant reason。 I myself； one of the three survivors before
referred to； escaped with a love…pat； as the youngest son of the
Muse。 Longfellow gets a brief nod of acknowledgment。 Bailey； an
American writer； 〃who made long since a happy snatch at fame；〃 which
must have been snatched away from him by envious time； for I cannot
identify him； Thatcher； who died early； leaving one poem； The Last
Request； not wholly unremembered； Miss Hannah F。 Gould； a very
bright and agreeable writer of light verse；all these are commended
to the keeping of that venerable public carrier； who finds his scythe
and hour…glass such a load that he generally drops the burdens
committed to his charge； after making a show of paying every possible
attention to them so long as he is kept in sight。
It was a good time to open a portfolio。 But my old one had boyhood
written on every page。 A single passionate outcry when the old
warship I had read about in the broadsides that were a part of our
kitchen literature； and in the 〃 Naval Monument；〃 was threatened with
demolition； a few verses suggested by the sight of old Major Melville
in his cocked hat and breeches； were the best scraps that came out of
that first Portfolio； which was soon closed that it should not
interfere with the duties of a profession authorized to claim all the
time and thought which would have been otherwise expended in filling
it。
During a quarter of a century the first Portfolio remained closed for
the greater part of the time。 Only now and then it would be taken up
and opened； and something drawn from it for a special occasion； more
particularly for the annual reunions of a certain class of which I
was a member。
In the year 1857； towards its close； the 〃Atlantic Monthly；〃 which I
had the honor of naming； was started by the enterprising firm of
Phillips & Sampson； under the editorship of Mr。 James Russell Lowell。
He thought that I might bring something out of my old Portfolio which
would be not unacceptable in the new magazine。 I looked at the poor
old receptacle； which； partly from use and partly from neglect； had
lost its freshness； and seemed hardly presentable to the new company
expected to welcome the new…comer in the literary world of Boston；
the least provincial of American centres of learning and letters。
The gilded covering where the emblems of hope and aspiration had
looked so bright had faded； not wholly； perhaps； but how was the gold
become dim！…how was the most fine gold changed！ Long devotion to
other pursuits had left little time for literature； and the waifs and
strays gathered from the old Portfolio had done little more than keep
alive the memory that such a source of supply was still in existence。
I looked at the old Portfolio； and said to myself； 〃Too late！ too
late。 This tarnished gold will never brighten； these battered covers
will stand no more wear and tear； close them； and leave them to the
spider and the book…worm。〃
I