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English）； he had a critical sense as sound as it was subtle in all
literature； and whatever he wrote he imbued with the charm of a style
finely personal to himself。 His learning in the line of his Harvard
teaching included an early English scholarship unrivalled in his time；
and his researches in ballad literature left no corner of it untouched。
I fancy this part of his study was peculiarly pleasant to him； for he
loved simple and natural things； and the beauty which he found nearest
life。 At least he scorned the pedantic affectations of literary
superiority； and he used to quote with joyous laughter the swelling
exclamation of an Italian critic who proposed to leave the summits of
polite learning for a moment； with the cry； 〃Scendiamo fra il popolo！〃
（Let us go down among the people。）
II。
Of course it was only so hard worked a man who could take thought and
trouble for another。 He once took thought for me at a time when it was
very important to me； and when he took the trouble to secure for me an
engagement to deliver that course of Lowell lectures in Boston； which I
have said Lowell had the courage to go in town to hear。 I do not
remember whether Professor Child was equal to so much； but he would have
been if it were necessary； and I rather rejoice now in the belief that he
did not seek quite that martyrdom。
He had done more than enough for me； but he had done only what he was
always willing to do for others。 In the form of a favor to himself he
brought into my fife the great happiness of intimately knowing Hjalmar
Hjorth Boyesen； whom he had found one summer day among the shelves in the
Harvard library； and found to be a poet and an intending novelist。 I do
not remember now just how this fact imparted itself to the professor； but
literature is of easily cultivated confidence in youth； and possibly the
revelation was spontaneous。 At any rate； as a susceptible young editor；
I was asked to meet my potential contributor at the professor's two
o'clock dinner； and when we came to coffee in the study； Boyesen took
from the pocket nearest his heart a chapter of 'Gunnar'； and read it to
us。
Perhaps the good professor who brought us together had plotted to have
both novel and novelist make their impression at once upon the youthful
sub…editor； but at any rate they did not fail of an effect。 I believe it
was that chapter where Gunnar and Ragnhild dance and sing a 'stev'
together； for I associate with that far happy time the rich mellow tones
of the poet's voice in the poet's verse。 These were most characteristic
of him； and it is as if I might put my ear against the ethereal wall
beyond which he is rapt and hear them yet。
Our meeting was on a lovely afternoon of summer； and the odor of the
professor's roses stole in at the open windows； and became part of the
gentle event。 Boyesen walked home with me； and for a fortnight after I
think we parted only to dream of the literature which we poured out upon
each other in every waking moment。 I had just learned to know Bjornson's
stories； and Boyesen told me of his poetry and of his drama； which in
even measure embodied the great Norse literary movement； and filled me
with the wonder and delight of that noble revolt against convention； that
brave return to nature and the springs of poetry in the heart and the
speech of the common people。 Literature was Boyesen's religion more than
the Swedenborgian philosophy in which we had both been spiritually
nurtured； and at every step of our mounting friendship we found ourselves
on common ground in our worship of it。 I was a decade his senior； but at
thirty…five I was not yet so stricken in years as not to be able fully to
rejoice in the ardor which fused his whole being in an incandescent
poetic mass。 I have known no man who loved poetry more generously and
passionately； and I think he was above all things a poet。 His work took
the shape of scholarship； fiction； criticism； but poetry gave it all a
touch of grace and beauty。 Some years after this first meeting of ours I
remember a pathetic moment with him； when I asked him why he had not
written any verse of late； and he answered； as if still in sad
astonishment at the fact； that he had found life was not all poetry。 In
those earlier days I believe he really thought it was！
Perhaps it really is； and certainly in the course of a life that
stretched almost to half a century Boyesen learned more and more to see
the poetry of the everyday world at least as the material of art。 He did
battle valiantly for that belief in many polemics； which I suppose gave
people a sufficiently false notion of him； and he showed his faith by
works in fiction which better illustrated his motive。 Gunnar stands at
the beginning of these works； and at the farthest remove from it in
matter and method stands 'The Mammon of Unrighteousness'。 The lovely
idyl won him fame and friendship； and the great novel added neither to
him； though he had put the experience and the observation of his ripened
life into it。 Whether it is too late or too early for it to win the
place in literature which it merits I do not know； but it always seemed
to me the very spite of fate that it should have failed of popular
effect。 Yet I must own that it has so failed； and I own this without
bitterness towards Gunnar； which embalmed the spirit of his youth as
'The Mammon of Unrighteousness' embodied the thought of his manhood。
III。
It was my pleasure； my privilege； to bring Gunnar before the public as
editor of the Atlantic Monthly； and to second the author in many a
struggle with the strange idiom he had cast the story in。 The proofs
went back and forth between us till the author had profited by every hint
and suggestion of the editor。 He was quick to profit by any hint； and he
never made the same mistake twice。 He lived his English as fast as he
learned it； the right word became part of him； and he put away the wrong
word with instant and final rejection。 He had not learned American
English without learning newspaper English； but if one touched a phrase
of it in his work； he felt in his nerves； which are the ultimate arbiters
in such matters； its difference from true American and true English。
It was wonderful how apt and how elect his diction was in those days；
it seemed as if his thought clothed itself in the fittest phrase without
his choosing。 In his poetry he had extraordinary good fortune from the
first； his mind had an apparent affinity with what was most native； most
racy in our speech； and I have just been looking over Gunnar and
marvelling anew at the felicity and the beauty of his phrasing。
I do not know whether those who read his books stop much to consider how
rare his achievement was in the mere means of expression。 Our speech is
rather more hospitable than most； and yet I can remember but five other
writers born to different languages who have handled English with
anything like his mastery。 Two Italians； Ruffini； the novelist； and
Gallenga； the journalist； two Germans； Carl Schurz and Carl Hillebrand；
and the Dutch novelist Maarten Maartens； have some of them equalled but
none of them