kely to endure, for Tennyson, who perhaps might not. The young American sees in London, to quote Willis again, whole shelves of his library walking about in coats and gowns, and they seem for the moment far more interesting than the similar shelves in home-made garments behind him. He is not cured until he is some day startled with the discovery that there are cultivated foreigners to whom his own world is foreign, and therefore fascinating; men who think the better of him for having known Mark Twain, and women who are unwearied in their curiosity about the personal ways of Longfellow.
Nay, when I once mentioned to that fine old Irish gentleman, the late Richard D. Webb, at his house in Dublin, that I had felt a thrill of pleasure on observing the street sign, denoting Fishamble Lane, at Cork, and recalling the ballad about Misthress Judy McCarty, of Fishamble Lane, he pleased me by saying that he had felt just so in New York, when he saw the name of Madison Square, and thought of Mi
s said, ever sold through so many American editions as Festus; nor was Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy far behind it. Translators and publishers quarrelled bitterly for the privilege of translating Frederika Bremer's novels; but our young people, who already stand for posterity, hardly recall her name.
I asked a Swedish commissioner at our Centennial Exhibition in 1876, Is Miss Bremer still read in Sweden?
He shook his head; and when I asked, Who has replaced her?
he said, Bret Harte and Mark Twain.
It seemed the irony of fame; and there is no guaranty that this reversed national compliment will, any more than our recognition of her, predict the judgment of the future.
If this uncertainty exists when the New World judges the Old, of which it knows something, the insecurity must be greater when the Old World judges the New, of which it knows next to nothing.
If the multiplicity of translations be any test, Mrs. Stowe's contemporary fame, the world over, has been unequalled in lit