GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-1892) With Curtis we have, as in the case of Bryant, a New Englander transplanted to New York. He was born in Providence, R. I., and lived there until he was fifteen. Moving then with his parents to New York City, he served for a time as a clerk in a mercantile establishment, entered at the age of eighteen the Brook Farm Community in the capacity of a pupil, experienced every part of the famous experiment, and after its failure lingered about Concord for a time to be near Emerson, and then in 1846 went abroad to be gone four years. Returning in 1850, he published Nile Notes of a Howadji, 1851, The Howadji in Syria, 1852, and settled into what was to be his life-work. He was connected editorially first with The Tribune, then with Putnam's Magazine, and finally with the Harper's publications. In 1854 he took charge of The Easy Chair' Department which had been started four years earlier by D. G. Mitchell in Harper's Magazine, and during the next forty years made it a running commentary on American manners and American thought and life. After his death the department was suspended for eight years, but in 1900 was reëstablished by William Dean Howells. Curtis wrote much and in many varieties. His Thackeray-like sketches, the Potiphar Papers, 1853, and Prue and I, 1856, are still readable, but the literary product that will preserve his name the longest is to be found in those easy, gossipy, delightful papers, the best of which have been republished in three series as Essays from the Easy Chair. In his later years Curtis became widely known as a finished orator and was greatly in demand. He became, too, a force in the political life of the times. His editorship of Harper's Weekly was distinctive and influential. Always was he in the forefront of all reforms and always was he a molder of public opinion in the direction of the highest ideals. DICKENS READING [1867] 1 When, hereafter, some chance traveler picks up this odd number of an old magazine and opens to this very page, let him 5 know that the evening of Dickens's first reading in New York was bright with moonlight veiled in a soft gray snowcloud. The crowd at the entrance was not large. The speculators in tickets 10 were not troublesome, because all the tickets had been long sold. The police, as usual, were polite and efficient; and going up the steep staircase, and passing through the single door, we were all 15 quietly and pleasantly seated by eight o'clock. The floor of Steinway Hall is level, so that the audience is lost to itself; but it was easy for all of us to perceive, by scanning our neighbors, that 20 we were a very fine body of people. At least everybody who was present said so. We all remarked that the intelligence and distinction of the city were present, and that it must be extremely gratifying to 25 1 The selections from George William Curtis in this collection are published by special arrangement with Harper & Brothers, owners of the copyright. Mr. Dickens to be welcomed by the most intellectual and appreciative audience that could be assembled in New York. The details of the arrangement upon the platform, the screen behind, the hidden lights above and below, and the stiff little table with the water-bottle, are familiar. But as we all sat looking at them, and at the variously splendid toilets that rustled in, and fluttered, and finally settled, it was not possible to escape the great thought that in a few moments we should see at that queer, stiff table the creator of Sam Weller, and Oliver Twist, and Micawber, and Dick Swiveller, and the rest of the endless, marvelous company the greatest story-teller since Scott, one of the most famous names in literature since Fielding. When he was here before Carlyle growled in Past and Present about Schnuspel, the distinguished novelist,' and there were some who laughed. But the laugh was passed by.- Look! There is a man, who looks like somebody's own man,' who scuffles across the stage and turns up a burner or two; and he is scarcely out of the way wher - there he comes, rapidly, in full evening dress, with a heavy watch-chain, and a nosegay in his button-hole, the world's own man. when a wet sponge is passed over an old picture. Scrooge, and Tiny Tim, and Sam Weller and his wonderful father, and Sergeant Buzfuz, and Justice Stare5 leigh have an intenser reality and vitality than before. As the reading advances the spell becomes more entrancing. The mind and heart answer instantly to every tone and look of the reader. In a passionate outburst, as in Bob Cratchit's wail for his lost little boy, or in Scrooge's prayer to be allowed to repent, the whole scene lives and throbs before you. And when, in the great trial of Bardell against Pickwick, the thick, fat voice of the elder Weller wheezes from the gallery, 'Put id down with a wee, me Lerd, put id down with a wee,' you turn to look for the gallery and behold the benevolent 20 parent. His reception was sober. The whole audience clapped its gloved hands. Not a heel, not a cane, mingled with the sound, not a solitary voice. It was a very muffled cordiality, an enthusiasm in kid gloves. The Easy Chair, for one, longed to rise and shout. Heaven has given us voices, brethren, with which to welcome and salute our friends, and if ever a long, long cheer should have rung from the heart, it was when the man who has done so much for all of us stood be- 15 fore us. But it was useless. The steady clapping was prolonged, and Dickens stood calmly, bowing easily once or twice, and waiting with the air of one ready to begin business. The instant there was silence he did begin: Ladies and gentlemen, I am to have the honor of reading to you this evening the trial-scene from Pickwick, and a Christmas Carol in a prelude and 25 three scenes. Scene first, Marley's Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead, to begin with.' These words, or words very similar, were spoken in a husky voice, not remarkable in any way, and with the English cadence 30 in articulation, a rising inflection at the end of every few words. They were spoken with perfect simplicity, and the introductory description was read with good sense, and conveyed a fine relish 35 upon the reader's part of the things described. There was nothing formal, no effort of any kind. The left hand held the book, the right hand moved continually, slightly indicating the action de- 40 scribed, as of putting on a muffler, or whatever it might be. But the moment Scrooge spoke the drama began. Every character was individualized by the voice and by a slight change of ex- 45 pression. But the reader stood perfectly still, and the instant transition of the voice from the dramatic to the descriptive tone was unfailing and extraordinary. This was perfection of art. Nor was the 50 evenness of the variety less striking. Every character was indicated with the same felicity. Of course the previous image in the hearer's mind must be considered in estimating the effect. The 55 reader does not create the character, the writer has done that; and now he refreshes it into unwonted vividness, as Through all there is a striking sense of reserved power, and of absolute mastery of the art. There is no straining for points, no exaggeration, no extravagance, but an instinctive and adequate outlay of means for every effect, and a complete preservation of personal dignity throughout. The enjoyment is sincere and unique; and when the young gentleman before us remarks to the flossy young woman at his side that any clever actor can do the thing as well,' we congratulate him inwardly upon his experience of the theater. Perhaps, also, the flossy young woman is of opinion that any clever author can write as well as this reader. There is a serious drawback to this first evening's enjoyment, however, and that is that fully a third of those present hear very imperfectly. Nothing can surpass the air of mingled indignation, chagrin, and disappointment with which a severe lady just behind declares that she did not hear a word, and adds, caustically, that the spectacle alone is hardly worth the money. Not worth the money? Dear Madam, the Easy Chair would willingly pay more than the price of admission merely to see him. And just as he is thinking so another friend leans forward and says, in a decided tone of utter disappointment, Just let me take your glass, will you? I can't hear a word, but I should like to see how the man looks. As the Easy Chair passes out of the door he encounters Mr. and Mrs. Sealskin, sailing smoothly and silently out. 'How delightful!' exclaims the inno cent and unwary Chair. 'Didn't hear But let them feel as they may, those 30 The interest was unabated to the end, and under the personal spell of the enchanter that old ill-feeling towards the author of American Notes and the cre- 50 ator of Chuzzlewit melted away. And why not? Do we not all know our Yankee brother of whom Dickens told us, who has a huge note of interrogation in each eye, and can we blame the Eng- 55 lishman for using his own eyes? Is not that silent traveler whom he saw still to be seen in every train sucking the great ivory head of his cane and taking it out occasionally and looking at it to see how it is getting on? If we had been a little angry with Lemuel Gulliver 5 or Robinson Crusoe, could our anger have survived hearing one of them tell his story of Liliput, or the other the tale of the solitary island? After his little winter tour Dickens returned to New York to take leave of the American public. On the Saturday evening before the final reading the newspaper fraternity gave him a dinner at Delmonico's, which was then at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, formerly the hospitable house of Moses H. Grinnell. At this dinner Mr. Greeley presided, and that the bland and eccentric teetotaler, who was not supposed to be versed in what Carlyle called the 'Tea-table proprieties,' should take the chair at a dinner to so roistering a blade within discreet limits--and so skilled an artist of all kinds of beverages as Dickens, was a stroke of extravaganza in his own way. The dinner was in every way memorable and delightful, but the enjoyment was sobered by the illness of the guest from one of the attacks which, as was known soon afterwards, foretold the speedy end. It was, indeed, doubtful if he could appear, but after an hour he came limping slowly into the room on the arm of Mr. Greeley. In his speech, with great delicacy and feeling, Dickens alluded to some possible misunderstanding, now forever vanished, between him and his hosts, and declared his purpose of publicly recognizing that fact in future editions of his works. His words were greeted with great enthusiasm, and on the following Monday evening he read, at Steinway Hall, for the last time in this country, and sailed on Wednesday. He was still very lame, but he read with unusual vigor, and with deep feeling. As he ended, and slowly limped away, the applause was prodigious, and the whole audience rose and stood waiting. Reaching the steps of the platform he paused, and turned towards the hall; then, after a moment, he came slowly and painfully back again, and with a pale face and evidently profoundly moved, he gazed at the vast audience. The hall was hushed, and in a voice firm, but full of pathos, he spoke a few words of farewell. 'I shall never recall you,' he said, 'as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of personal friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and consideration. God bless you, and God bless the land in which I leave you!' The great audience waited respectfully, wistfully watching him as he slowly withdrew. The faithful Dolby, his friend and manager, helped him down the steps. For a moment he turned and looked at 10 The house had been darkened, and as the gree that the Easy Chair feared to hear the appalling "sh! 'sh!' of the disturbed neighbors; it is a grossly immoral spectacle, and the subtler and more 5 fascinating the genius of Mr. Jefferson in the representation, the more deadly is the effect.' The drop had just fallen, and the scene on the mountains was about to open. clear, quiet, unforced tone of Rip, yielding, not remonstrating, to the doom that we all knew and he did not, fell upon the hushed audience, the eyes of men and the crowded hall. It was full of hearts responding to his own. There was a common consciousness that it was a last parting, and his fervid benediction was silently reciprocated. Then the door 15 women were full of tears; while the orclosed behind him. Going the other evening to see Rip Van Winkle, the old question of its moral naturally came up, and Portia warmly asserted that it was shameful to bring 25 young children to see a play in which the exquisite skill of Jefferson threw a glamor upon the sorriest vice. See,' she said, 'the earnest, tearful interest with which these boys and girls 30 near us hang upon the story. The charm to them of the scene and of the acting is indescribable. Do you suppose they can escape the effect? All their sympathy is kindled for the good-natured and 35 good-for-nothing reprobate, and when Gretchen turns him out into the night and the storm, they cannot help feeling that it is she, not he, who has ruined the home, and that the drunken vaga- 40 bond, who has just made his endearments the cover of deception, is really the victim of a virago. And when he returns, old and decrepit, and. we might hope, purged of that fatal appetite which 45 has worked all the woe, it is his old victim, the woman whose youth his evil habits ruined, and who, in consequence of those habits was driven into the power of the tormentor, Derrick von Beekman, 50 who hands him the cup that shall be death in tasting," as if it were she, and not he, who had been properly chastened and converted from the fatal error of supposing that drunkenness is not a good 55 thing. 66 'No, no,' said Portia, indignantly and eloquently, raising her voice to that de chestra murmured, mezzo voce, during the storm within and without the house, the tenderly pathetic melody of the 'Lorelei: ' 'I know not what it presages, That will not from my thought.' This It was not easy to find in the emotion of that moment a response to Portia's accusation of gross immorality. There was but a poetic figure in the mind-the sweet-natured, weak-willed, simple-hearted vagabond of the village and the mountain touching the heart with pity, and, in the drunken scene, with sorrow. figure excludes all the rest. Its symmetry and charm are the triumph of the play as acted. Now the immorality can not lie in the kindly feeling for the tippling vagabond, for that is natural and universal. Indeed, the same kind of weakness that leads to a habit of tippling belongs often to the most charming and attractive natures, and the representation of the fact upon the stage is not in itself immoral. The immorality must be found, if anywhere, as Portia insisted, in the charm with which vice is invested. But is it so invested in this play? It used to be urged against Bulwer's early novels that they made scoundrels fascinating, and that boys after reading them would prefer rascals to honest men. If that had been the fact, the novels would have been justly open to that censure. But, tried by this standard, Rip Van Winkle, as Mr. Jefferson plays it, is far from an immoral play. The picture as he paints it is moral in the same sense that nature is moral. No man, shiftless, idle, and drunken, afraid to go home, 5 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 'The beauty of Israel has fallen in its high place,' said the voice of Emerson's friend and neighbor, Judge Hoar, trembling and almost hushed in emotion, and everybody who heard felt the singular felicity of the words. The plain little 10 country church was crowded, and a vast throng stood outside in the peaceful April sunshine. Before the pulpit - the eyes forever closed, the voice forever silent lay the man whose aspect of sweet and majestic serenity Death had not touched, and which recalled his own words: 'Even the corpse that has lain in the chambers has added a solemn ornament to the house.' It was the man who was beloved of his neighbors and honored by the world, whose modest counsel in grave affairs guided the village, and whose thought led the thought of Christendom. 'He belonged to all men, but he is peculiarly ours,' said Judge Hoar truly, speaking for the quiet historic town of which Emerson's grand-father had been the minister, and in which he lived during the larger part of his life, and to which his memory will lend an imperishable charm. By the most prosaic standards this should not seem to adorn vice with attraction. It is true that the spectator is 25 more interested in Rip than in his wife, and that she is made a virago. But it is not his drunkenness that charms, and her virtue is at least severe. Indeed, if this performance is to be tried by this stand- 30 ard, the play must be regarded as a temperance mission. For temperance is to be inculcated upon the youthful spectators who sit near us not so much by stories and pictures of the furious brute 35 who drives wife and children from a home made desolate by him, and who fly from him as from a demon, as by this simple, faithful showing of the kindhearted loiterer who makes wretched a 40 wife who yet loves him, and who denounces himself to the child that he loves. This is the fair view of it as a picture of ordinary human life. But, as we look, the low wail of the 45 sad music is in our ears, the scene changes to a weird world of faery, the story merges in a dream, and Rip Van Winkle smiles at us from a realm beyond the diocese of conscience. If conscience, in- 50 deed, will obtrude, conscience shall be satisfied. It is a sermon if you will, but if you will, also, it is a poem. Harper's Magazine, April, 1875 Concord when he first knew it was already famous. A hundred years ago, at the bridge over the placid river, the Middlesex farmers, hastening as minute men from all the neighboring country, had obeyed the first military summons to fire upon the king's regulars; and the redcoated regulars, turning, had begun, amid the blazing patriot volley of twenty miles, their long retreat to Yorktown and over the sea. At the point where the highway by which the soldiers marched enters the village, under the hill along whose ridge the hurrying countrymen pressed to cut off the soldiers' retreat, lived for more than forty years the scholar who belongs to Concord as Shakespeare belongs to Stratford. 'Nature,' said Emerson in his first book, written in the old Manse at Concord, which Hawthorne afterwards inhabited, and which he has so beautifully commemorated Nature stretcheth out her 55 arms to embrace man: only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur |