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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 surpassed him。 Yet he was a man grown when he began to
speak and to write English； though I believe he studied it somewhat in
Norway before he came to America。 What English he knew he learned the
use of here； and in the measure of its idiomatic vigor we may be proud of
it as Americans。
He had least of his native grace； I think； in his criticism； and yet as a
critic he had qualities of rare temperance； acuteness； and knowledge。
He had very decided convictions in literary art； one kind of thing he
believed was good and all other kinds less good down to what was bad； but
he was not a bigot； and he made allowances for art…in…error。 His hand
fell heavy only upon those heretics who not merely denied the faith but
pretended that artifice was better than nature； that decoration was more
than structure； that make…believe was something you could live by as you
live by truth。 He was not strongest； however； in damnatory criticism。
His spirit was too large； too generous to dwell in that； and it rose
rather to its full height in his appreciations of the great authors whom
he loved； and whom he commented from the plenitude of his scholarship as
well as from his delighted sense of their grandeur。 Here he was almost
as fine as in his poetry； and only less fine than in his more fortunate
essays in fiction。
After Gunnar he was a long while in striking another note so true。 He
did not strike it again till he wrote 'The Mammon of Unrighteousness'；
and after that he was sometimes of a wandering and uncertain touch。
There are certain stories of his which I cannot read without a painful
sense of their inequality not only to his talent； but to his knowledge of
human nature； and of American character。 He understood our character
quite as well as he understood our language； but at times he seemed not
to do so。 I think these were the times when he was overworked； and ought
to have been resting instead of writing。 In such fatigue one loses
command of alien words； alien situations； and in estimating Boyesen's
achievements we must never forget that he was born strange to our
language and to our life。 In 'Gunnar' he handled the one with grace and
charm； in his great novel he handled both with masterly strength。 I call
'The Mammon of Unrighteousness' a great novel； and I am quite willing to
say that I know few novels by born Americans that surpass it in dealing
with American types and conditions。 It has the vast horizon of the
masterpieces of fictions； its meanings are not for its characters alone；
but for every reader of it； when you close the book the story is not at
an end。
I have a pang in praising it； for I remember that my praise cannot please
him any more。 But it was a book worthy the powers which could have given
us yet greater things if they had not been spent on lesser things。
Boyesen could 〃toil terribly；〃 but for his fame he did not always toil
wisely； though he gave himself as utterly in his unwise work as in his
best； it was always the best he could do。 Several years after our first
meeting in Cambridge； he went to live in New York； a city where money
counts for more and goes for less than in any other city of the world；
and he could not resist the temptation to write more and more when he
should have written less and less。 He never wrote anything that was not
worth reading； but he wrote too much for one who was giving himself with
all his conscience to his academic work in the university honored by his
gifts and his attainments； and was lecturing far and near in the
vacations which should have been days and weeks and months of leisure。
The wonder is that even such a stock of health as his could stand the
strain so long； but he had no vices； and his only excesses were in the
direction of the work which he loved so well。 When a man adds to his
achievements every year； we are apt to forget the things he has already
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； a