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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